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.