Wanna Rochambeau?

Like a street performer, like a trouper, (street: trouper)
I do my act if no one is watching,
                                       juggling my choices.
Mainly for free, or some pennies
                                       the Change not wanted.
With sleight of hand and plenty of practice, (hands: practice)
                                       it doesn't look like I try
Making Magic.
I am ambidextrous.
I am a woman.
                                      (they are one and the same)
                                      (Mother: Medusa)
Not every woman knows what's in her bag or how to use her
                                      Tricks
or treats themselves good.
                                     
It's dangerous to perform for others,
                                       without total trust in your skill.
In one hand I hold
                                       a folded blanket
to wrap around like hugs, a shield of
                                       warm love.
In the other hand
                                      I conceal a knife-
an appropriate protection,
for self-defense and public assault.
It scares people when I show the sharp blade(s)
                                      so I often keep it sheathed
its appointed place, razored edges inside.

I pulled it out of my heart one day,
                                      as only I could do,
wedged though it were,
                                      still dripping with gilt.
I am not a bull fighter.
I am a peaceful cow.
                                      (matador:grazer)
I do not run with scissors.
My blanket is a cape.
I am always begging for Change
                                        (performance : art)
From the stone that was my heart;
                                        I pivot,
                                        I spin,
                                        I begin,
again, two out of three.
                                       (the best of me)
The blanket as thin as a sheet.
The sword as sharp as scissors.
The rock that is my heart,
I ro-sham-bo,
(rock: paper: scissors)
(ching: chang: walla)
(ick: ack: ock)
leaving nothing to chance.
A woman will always win.



Image of living statue Kate Mior, performing as Angel of Good Fortune, Ontario Canada. 

12 Haiku for the Graduating You

I.

A graduation,

means two hands for beginners

starts all over again.

II.

A walk down the aisle

a cause for trepidation-

unless it's only you.

III.

Cap, gown and tassel

garb for the graduating-

leaving naked.

IV.

Lunchbox and recess

healthy lessons learned in school

useful blocks of time.

V.

The school house was not

your permanent residence

it is half way home.

VI.

Clique's are sticky groups

like fly traps, tarpits, quicksand

loiterers in life.

VII.

High school-That was it?

All that insecurity 

was not about you.

VIII.

Fear and loathing wait

outside the high school iron gate

I'll still protect you.

IX.

Twelve years gone so fast

tying shoes to getting gas

your childhood was such a blast!

X.

Over a decade 

of homework and studying

just the lesson plan?

XI.

The mirror becomes 

your friend again, instead of 

one you pretend not to know.

XII.

A proud mom, I beam

rays of opportunity

basking in your glow.

Image credit:By English Sgt. Ray Lewis [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A Bowl of Gigot

Excerpt from an Interview by Paris Review with Lawrence Durrell (1912-1990)

“I simply approached the three sides of space and one of time as a cook will open a recipe book and say ‘Let’s cook this gigot.’I had no idea what sort of gigot was going to come out of it…sometimes you have to take these colossal chances when you see a ray of light that beckons you particularly.”

A Bowl of Gigot
East meets West-
in this eclectic sweet and sour dish,
with an aftertaste that's beyond delish!

A meal cooked up,
stirred around slowly, boiled down,
its base flavor in the addition of the rue,

that pinch, an herb-of-grace,
mixed with a metaphysical lace,
depending on the chef's preference.

Secret sauces that stew,
Einstein's elan and Jung's Hindu.
It takes no energy to make, nor does it matter-

The way your soup comes out,
with more science than philosophy or art,
its all a matter of personal taste.

A confluence at a continuum-stop-where does it start?
Where Confucianism bumped into Foccault's pendulum.
Food for the soul.




Image of Indonesian soup bowl, By Taken by fir0002 | flagstaffotos.com.au Canon 20D + Tamron 28-75mm f/2.8 (Own work) [GFDL 1.2 (http://www.gnu.org/licenses/old-licenses/fdl-1.2.html)], via Wikimedia Commons.

Only the devil-may-care

Why Lie about it?

I am the devils' advocate.

His veiled language occupies me.

And I find comfort in hiding behind the blinds,

velveteen drapes are just overkill.

I made my bed,

built these worlds in my head,

for Him to roam. As his advocate,

I make room, rearranging if I have to.

How hospitable, how despicable of me.

He’s a master weaver like the arachnid,

who cross stitches the eyes of my soul-

shut tight, like the dead, with X’s for eyes.

I hang on these invisible threads,

they are the fibers of my Being.

As though I needed Him as an ally

just to get by. Triumph, I will never win.

He’s louder than me in volume.

And voluminous, illuminous He appears

to me, to Be, eternally.

Thou shall not deny or preach,

the other side- Lies-in all of us-

the devil knows

whose side we are on.

Did you hear His solicitous speech?

Image of painting by Santiago Rusiñol [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, c. 1890's Figure Study.

What to do with a flower

He said no women ever walk with flowers anymore.

He was from a land far away,

the Motherland, the Moon.

How exotic, I thought...

And while adding this meaningless task

to some To Do list or other,

I sensed

How tragic,

to be strolling along

whilst this beauteous thing,

dies in the clutches of my sweaty palms;

strangled and spent,

plucked and perished,

wilted while walking...

And I remember,

I smiled wide,

at this vainglorious vision,

thinking all the while, 

Boris, what a meaningful, exquisitely beautiful thing.

*Boris Pasternak, who noted in an informal/formal interview published in “The Paris Review Interviews series Writers at Work, 2nd series” the first line in this poem as a casual observation whilst walking with the interviewer/writer Olga Annenkov.

Image credit By Florida Memory [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Splashing the Page with White #FFFFFF

“You did it”- may be

the most beautiful three

words to an artist.

He called it “A Triumph-

(of beautifying the vileness

of the stark white pallid page,

perhaps)”-

I have won the battle with me,

'twas said by the Socratic referee.

What was thought could only hide-,

in the dark recesses of the mind, 

now Outside,

of Self,

for all to See,

and breathe on its own a-chord

I hope-

is struck.

See-

Poetry is Pleasure, it’s sensuous he says.

Who else can stop and savor

the moments the infatuated way 

of the artist outside on a clear day-

pushing clouds with eyelids away,

strobes that penetrate the stratosphere,

with noses like bloodhounds,

driven by the scent, like life-

to try and die anyway, coming and going,

something to live for, 

because without it I would die, mused

the sensual Nin, whose romantic endings become

Beginnings, 

all anew.

Like childhood magic is artistic inspiration, 

I made myself believe in fairytales,

and storybook endings.

Old mossy castles surrounded by fog,

turrets of ideas poking through.

Atop blooming mountains where one can go

Dancing to the music at the great

Balls for the Brain;

Libraries, lullabies and lovely lyrics,

how lovely to lose you in the song 

on the page, or public stage.

Art takes nerve, letting some stranger,

whisper sweet unintelligible
nothings

in your ear.

So, an artist tells you what they hear,
or tries-(facing fear)

the best way they know how.

Spilling ink, blood, tears, sand, oil, sweat, 

love, pain, hope, desire, fear and regret,

Yet-

most people prefer the color of 

Perception or commonly called white

(allowing for muted undertones).

White is a color, the perception of which is evoked by light that stimulates all three types of color sensitive cone cells in the human eye in equal amounts and with high brightness compared to the surroundings. A white visual stimulation will be void of hue and grayness. White is the lightest possible color.Defined as: #FFFFFF

Image By Mlaoxve [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Oil painting palette.

Chasing our tails

The problem with the pursuit of happiness
                                     is that it is;
                                     a toil ridden sweaty hot pursuit,
                                     a source-less slippery stench,
One that chases after happiness forgot it's too fast to catch.

Instead we chase our tails, catching a whiff
of a finish line reminiscent of balderdash.

As school children, we are taught in P.E.
                                    that running is healthy,
being faster is better, stronger and longer are nonpareil-
                                    little champions know about the first loser.
While perfecting running on empty in inalienable circles-
                                   where spirals suck you in.
The starting line begins,
                                    when we race time.
We play tag, choosing the easiest one to get,
                                    then let the others worry about “It”.
When we graduate into adulthood,
                                    recess and foot races are no longer requisite,
we only exercise our volition
                                    when we are being chased, 
as the object of hot pursuit.

So many wonder if they chose the wrong path that leads
                                     to a dead-end having no thru exit.
All of our roads are dead-ends.
So many are sick and tired 
                                     of being sad and fat.
Anchored with obesity to our happy oblivion,
                                     sedentary, leaden with obligation,
dwellers in the city of Circumstance,
                                     in slums with condemned hearts-
they should move-
                                     but are often frozen in icy ennui.
One must be cold before searching for fire.
Burning bridges from Discontent on the way out,
                                      a one-way ticket is the only available option-
blurring what's left of a vacant vista, right-
                                      no longer
where you left it.
The right of hot pursuit,
                                       is just an alternate route.
You must know what you seek,
before Happiness gives you a peak.


Image of painting by Giulio Romano [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Mars chasing Adonis from Venus's Pavillion.

No time for your rhyme

There once was a lyrical poet who rhymed,

intrigued by this technique he was so inclined,

to share his lovely rhymed verse-

now a decrepit olden time curse,

considered both uncouth and passé.

He continued to muse anyway,

and quietly pray that one day

someone will say, “Today, a rhyme is ok-

for children, but is certainly no Monet.”

But he won’t hear that last part,

believing his poetry is truly fine art.

His inspired poetic zeal,

lacked serious public appeal.

Born in the wrong time,

for silly old rhyme, 

not one publication with any imagination

gave a standing ovation-overall his narration,

they judged unscholarly and just juvenile-

mockingly, shockingly, straight into the slush pile.

All adverbs aside, this method of poetry he tried

and plied, still too proud for his own pride. 

All the while-

that he strung those rhymes in denial,

he believed his old poetry was in style.

Until one day, the rejections too many

more than the poems. So with his last penny,

he thought and bought a last wish at a fountain,

“If from rhymes I must abstain, making my poetry plain,

Instead,

I'd rather be dead."

And without any further adieu

his last dying wish came true. 

Image by Friedrich von Amerling [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Las Olas para dias...

Way way

d

o

w

n

South                             West

Perhaps we are un poco loco

As Latin lingo-goes

Spanglish by the seashore

Where-Donde

Las Olas-The Waves

peel like Naranjos

Nobody I know though

peddles oranges under freeways

These days

D

o

w

n

Here, where El Sol, warms the soul

holding sway

in the Santa Ana way,

winds                                Offshore

salt air beckons to play

Building castles made of sand

stuck on Land

Breaking-Ruptura

frothing white mane in charge

liquid glass breaks at my feet

but See, the Sea, El Mar-La Mer-Las Olas,

-faces holding-                           Up

     o      l      n        along,

R       l     i       g

settingtogether  a  l  o  n  g

-Venus and her Sun-

hugging our vast horizon.

Composed 5/21/15.

I come bearing water

I need not see to believe-
this presence of Ganymede.
We were led to learn,
our blue planet Earth-
was alone soaking in saltwater.

But you showed yourself-
Ganymede.

I rose early too, like those stargazers,
eager to see what they wanted us to believe
was a Blood Moon-
but she was just blushing,
rosy from her fullness.

Like Eos at Dawn,
there you were again,
in the company of dead poets,
attending the school of contemplation.

Rising first, in rings around dreams,
taking lullaby swings, at gravity-
Who thinks nobody is looking-
thirsting for Truth.

Fixing the future, diving into their divinity,
stuck swimming in the stars;
unable to reconcile, to beguile or even manage
a simple smile to reconcile but choose denial,
Ganymede.

Composed 5/21/15.

Image By NASA/JPL (http://photojournal.jpl.nasa.gov/catalog/PIA02278) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Ganymede from Voyager 1, March 1979.

"O Radiant Dark of Shallow Day"

Are you the Pitch

that chases me down

Intoxicating night

Are you made of Tar

a molten menace of martyr

in a Pilgrims' plight

O Holes in haloed glow

the other side of Man

Lunar eclipse

Am I now Prey

stalked in marshy fear

Fight or Flight

Am I Bound

leaden in black

Blind sighted

O Past the meridian

shrouded We rest

sleeping Tight

The insatiable appetite

Whet by Moon Shine

"The night walked down the sky with the moon in her hand."-Frederick L. Knowles

The title of this poem is a fragmented quote extracted from George Elliot (a.k.a. Mary Anne Cross) "The Spanish Gypsy", 1864-1868.

Image taken by Jon Sullivan, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Nov. 2002, "Some sort of moon like thing".

Desert jungle oasis

Those giant birds of this paradise,
un-avian but drop their crap from above
just the same, in blotched sidewalk sticky stains.

Cropped up next to the potted ficus tree,
standing stunted and crouched, growing secrets,
roots rumpling the road, the earthworm escapes.

Under a coup of crows a murderous decree,
griping at gardeners, doing it wrong, in screams-not in song;
debating from up the pine tree, deciding fate over me.

Street-side Mexican fan palms, loitering all lined up,
doing the parka wave in the warm Santa Ana wind-
their ponytail fronds off to the side, flowing with Latina pride.

The asparagus fern wrapping around the bamboo reed
reminds me of a skinny girl, with a boa around her neck,
vegetating in creepy anonymity, slowly, in sensual proximity.

The mix and match, flourishing in this desert soiled patch-
strung along the same line as glorious grapes-the passion fruit vine,
takes over-zealous, rebellious wrath, where the wine was to grow.

All entwined, they never mind forced artistry molded in clay.
Sharing the little that is there, absorbing the disarray
that makes chaos, bloom better than any gardener could plot.


Image By Hardyplants at English Wikipedia (Own work) [Public domain], Giant Bird of Paradise via Wikimedia Commons.

A Ladies Little Toolbox

Screw it.
I will open that can of worms
and nail him to the wall!
                               But I should get hammered first.

No-Stop-Safety (pins) first!
Goggles, masks, closed toed shoes-I mean
steel toed boots-
not for kickin' it-get with it.
Smooth like ultra fine paper with carbine thousand grit
sides, kept in vice grips, to wrench the ruler,
usurp and pry
hinging on spring loaded braces, it snaps back
Watch your digits!
He thinks I'm nuts already,
and will likely bolt anyway,
                               whose to say, I'll be level-
headed, flat out about it,
not Phillips, no need to needle-
nose, double plying, retrying,
rocking the ratchet in need of repair-
what a pair-
the dynamic duo of Lieutenant Duct Tape and
senior sidekick Sgt. Major Super Glue,
which will work just as darn
goody goody two shoes,
whichever tool
you choose to use.



Image By M338 (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

From Mo Money to No Money

Every time I peer
                                        deep into the chasm
                                        of raw dead skin in leather folds,
the vacuum issues a harsh scold,
                                        demanding my attention,
                                        ordering my devotion!

I only consent to exhale marked with a scowl-
                                        in private resignation,
                                        abetting the crime
followed by a hollow growl.

Puppet masters play heart strings-
                                        hear the beat, bass tone of guilt.
The tempo tells, chanting, incanting, vexing
                                        your blind habits,
will fall into place.

Stringing us along as though
                                         it knew the way to love yet gives
nothing in return.

Keep the change.

Forget counting all the beans.

What does money have to do with
                                         ways and means?
                                         It buys excuses.
Material dreams are for oxymorons.

What I've found in that narrow slit of wallet-
                                          where the green flags marked camp,
are unopened drawers, little opportune doors, windows cracked by the panes
                                           so the air can return,
                                           recirculating the wealth.
Who knew?
I'd be richer without you.



Image By Unknown or not provided (U.S. National Archives and Records Administration) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

May-be a storms a passin'

The way the sky hangs,
on every note between birds,
pending with tension that is thunder.
A surge of need rides the backs,
rallies the clouds around,
now surrounded and we are small,
audible with weakness, loudness,
madness amplified.
And with a warm breath,
the sky relents with rain,
a sweet sigh, cleanses in resilience,
brilliance.
Miasmic mists that appear
thick with self,
but calm all along,
the bird holds its song,
while the storm subsides,
in mutual mercy of May.




Image By User:Imagaril (Own photo) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A crappy map is a happy map

A map is handy
for some...
Still-just rendering space
this here: that there
(imagining is not knowing beyond
what is not seen).

This world is flat,
trapped in a map,
cornered in labels and confined in lines,
open to borders-crossing...
Still-it plans
for speculation.

I drew a map,
of no place I know-
but discovered it anyway,
and I know
my way around this place
of space, like the back of my red hand

measured by my means, not in factors of feet
walking the picket. I had to draw it before I saw
it, a map of me in this place, no free-handed trace
left to write what else
could not fit-
why did I quit?

I'm at the edge of the world.
Peering over, dripping down,
chilling off,  the trail simply stopped
mid-sentence, where the directions
should have shown, I should have known
without                           trespassing past the limits of Doubt.



Image By http://www.geographicus.com/mm5/cartographers/schoolgirl.txt [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, c. 1810 described as schoolgirl whimsical Hartshorn map of Newfoundland.

The answer to my prayers

A year ago this May,
in fact, upon this same very grey day-
something came over me I found could say,
in no other way but to portray, as I still do today-            jotting, plotting, jolting, revolting

my madness as some sort of poetic art-
which is why I decided I had to start,
listening to my heart,
and do my part-                                                                  despite not making the cut

by un-bardly and barbarously writing this blog,
Captain's log, composing                                                    my maniacal inner dialogue-
which is more of a moonstruck monologue,
as a way to clear the hazy daze of a mental fog.

It has been like a wild child,
often haphazardly styled,
but mainly harmless and mild,
like those old pictures                                                          of frozen smiles filed

away for another day, in a chronicle or journal thing-
that sometimes may happen sing, or carry a certain catchy ring-
whispering words watching my darkness
led to the pot of gold,                                                           heavy and enlightening

in view, which I always knew-
but fear too frozen to pursue,

that terror all told, it may be true-
that this is the best I can do.

Looking back at my utter lack
of skill or talent-I gave it a whack, took an honest crack-
yet this jumpy soundtrack blares-I have no knack
for poems or neat nifty nick knacks like paddy whacks   -nor any patience for yackety yaks.

But what do I care. I will likely still dare-
since no one is even aware that I blare-or knows it is there-
or here, (hear) this little voice from somewhere-dark
musing and muttering about idle cares and personal affairs,
                                                                                            has answered my unphrased prayers.

Doing the math

A good belly laugh adds a minute.
A warm embrace, easily a whole day.
TV wastes years, so do tears.
Alcohol, cigarettes, digesting
things we can't pronounce, revenge and regret,
their price-I forget.

A day to do nothing but play, just wishes and kisses.
A few minutes with a poem, Hi-ho-Hum.
Working at Someones Expectations Inc.
(offers no benefits or retirement).

The sun.
The ocean.
Negative people.
Settling or stagnancy.

Let's see...
Plus or minus, more or less,
Failure, I mean Opportunity
I'm about even with karmic destiny.

This is totally life.


Image By Bhakti Ziek (provided by the author) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

Smoke inhalation

Desire

is a fire

that goes out

when it's not stoked.

Man

started fire.

A fire

does require

your full attention once lit.

Flare-ups. Smoke signals. Errant sparks.

Women 

tend the fire.

Desire 

is combustible

unless retardant is applied.

Burned. Back-fired. Scorched.

A fire

Does indeed need both fuel and freedom and air.

As lightning steals its rightful thunder

We extinguish

Without an ignition point.

Image by Carl Svante Hallbeck, (1826-1897) of Sweden [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Wet Dreams

I have been sleeping with the devil, I think.
Those that love me, tell me I'm sick.
I know they are right no matter how hard I try to fight,
to untangle the snarled lines that implicate
the heat of day and deep chasm of night,
He lives there.
At first I wasn't sure it was Him-
being so dark- you know.
After arousing amid a wet,
slimy, stone cold pillow,
my hair plastered to my neck-
strangling me-
two swollen and asphyxiated eyes
on a greenish white face looking at me
in the bathroom mirror,
confirms my satanic suspicions.

The furniture looks the same-set in its ways.
My leaden limbs ache- relentlessly shivering in quakes.
Did the dresser see me
dancing in my delirium-
must have been a dream,
since the coffee table
pleads the fifth, cowering
when asked about the black and blue
marks, bruises on my shins
it lies. No burning desire,
I shiver in icy aloneness,
tossing aside those awake-
turning down and still- not dreaming
while I burned, I feel-
He stares at me lovingly, and I know,
I have been sleeping with the devil.



Image by Henry Fuseli (1741-1825), The Nightmare [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Audubons Avian Apology

Upon landing
on a jutting branch of discourse,
detailing drawn conclusions
about the man Audubon,
whose prayers for atonement
have been answered by History.
Poised on perches of frozen time,
not Alive
but trapped in the net of your aim, in-site-
full in vibrant colors, beyond the pale
page, he breathes Life back
as a meticulous Apology.
Focused in on the bird of your prey,
the hunters ring goes unanswered.
Only your breathe from breast
rises and falls,
occupying the empty space
where song climbed the trees
to view against the stoic creamy white
of fantasy, belief must be made,
making believe those shiny black beads
a birds eye view.
Can see you too, it doesn't fly away
choosing to pose and stay anyway-birdbrain;
choosing to fight or take flight-a man-of-kind.

It was proposed in some sacred text,
birds are the messengers of god(s),
while we're down here pushing,
bumping into each other, invading
our shrinking space, while up high
in the sky a letter forms
in the shape of peace.
V is for victory, not peace.
A thousand winged unit of velocity.
We are all going the same place-
says the pastoral preacher from his
High chair.
There-Those are our gifts to share,
in this righteous affair where
carrier pigeons take note-yet
the message was lost in translation.
We are just learning the sign of a circle,
showing us where water and meat reside,
hiding from hunters, take cover
the raptor hovers, screaming for you, Audubon,
to look up at the heavens,
blinded by the light, cocked-eyed
with a loaded gun.

Image of John James Audubon featured in The Popular Science Monthly, September 1887, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Feature Image (top) By James Audubon [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The sound of light

What do you want from me?

                                                                                               I want to ask-

                                                                                               but don't want to hear

                                                                                               a reply

This is my friend bearing gifts-

                                                                                               she won't stop offering,

I cannot accept-                                                                      is she senile?

Is it the same thing over and over again?

                                                                                                That would be nagging.

No, I don't know where you're from

and cannot tell by your accent                                                If I could guess,

                                                                                                I'd say Light-

I'd be a slight right.

In the dark you're so loud!

                                                                                                There's more room to stretch,

                                                                                                 and stand out.

Will it ever stop?                                                                     Brightly, 

                                                                                                                I hope not.

Image By Love Krittaya (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

What's the Matter

I am an unstable lepton seeking opposition.

I had a chance to be an undiscovered pentaquark.

And, like you, I prefer symmetry in my fractals.

And am particularly attracted to magnets.

What's the matter then?

Gravity bums me out.

It’s constantly micromanaging, like Time itself-

read on the face, I've seen the circle of life,

but I prefer triangles.

I think wealth should be calculated

by Karmic Score divided by Faith.

The way it looks,

I will get to watch

two Haley's comets pass, elapse

(in my little blinking life).

I used to live at the seashore,

where there are 1,440 waves

that break every single day.

And even though I move around,

(often in circles)

and am not there to see the crash,

I know those waves are still

breaking

(without me).

Nobody can remember what it is to be an American anymore.

America isn't even 500.

Didn’t we manufacture ancient history (yet)?

Monsters make earthquakes.

Geologists think about flatware.

Their i's bigger than their plates-

the I in inertia, that is.

And anthropologists are making strides,

measuring footprints in lieu of the gait.

I never want to grow out of my imagination,

I'm waiting for flood pants to be back in style.

I've accepted my death is nothing personal.

I am not sorry,

(anymore).