Drafts May Appear...

Dear blog friends,

From now on, I've decided my blog will be a work in progress.  The luxury of not being published is that I have the option to revisit my poems; which is actually quite nice, because occassionally I think they are better for it.

So, for the multiudes who visit this blog (all 2 or 3 of you, and yes, I'm smiling) from this point forward, let it be known that I shall identify work in draft format.  Comments are welcome, always.

This decree is dedicated to me in the hope that I will more actively pursue editing, adding, and crafting these poems.  Thanks for stopping by. ;>

Going About it the Wrong Way

Love presented meager; 

small bills peeled 

from thick rolls

rubber-band protected

the reticent benevolence, 

gracious granting favor; 

double-standard disapproval, 

disciplinary withholding

a short attention span 

consistent, predictable; 

disregard for

genetic, familial

cause for provocation; 

our frenetic dance of 

perseverance and sabotage

totemic behavior 

vested more in self than other; 

the return on investment, 

coffers rich with fear 

:hrr 081609

Memory Indulges

hands at 10 and 12

her bare knees small

to one amused;

love-drunk as

13-year locusts

singing on the windshield

the yellow suit strap,

damp, twisted;

her sanded shoulder

apricot-round on

flattened grass,

lips like sleepy

curled leaves

a nocturnal chit-chat

of insects, other mammals;

the wind-swept water slap

at fevered limbs,

hungry fish nibbles

like skeletons scratching ankles

press of teeth to throat,

the fragrant skin smile;

an empty window witness

to their bright embrace

not meant to last;

memory indulges

an indifferent end to,

the intoxication of firsts;

reality a sooty, metallic

screen left hanging at

summer's end

Upside Down

snowballs drop from
curled leaves, budded branches
rapid-fire, round, whole;
an upside-down battle
done by unseen hands

he finds reason not to
this unusual morning

across snow-filled streets
her white shoulders slope,
drop disappointment

the struggle ensues;
logic falls dogged and persistent,
visible to her as breath on
windows watching snow

:hrr 031509

What do you know? I am reading an extraordinary book and witnessed something today that prompted me to write. I think Elizabeth Gilbert's "TED Talk" did me some good as well.

Oh, the book I am reading is called "The History of Love" by Nicole Krauss. Beautiful quote from the book re: being human: "At that moment, overcome with the tender brutality of physical existence with 'the insoluble contradiction of being animals cursed with self-reflection, and moral beings cursed with animal instincts' - Jacob launches into a lament..."

I'm going to start showing up. ;>

Remove Her

let her do it;
it will be easy

her deft hands hide
curled in pockets
deep with secrets

trust, she has the
tools necessary

scissors gleam
apparent, you may
believe she smiles

bits of her will
fall from you,
her flashing teeth
clamped on memories

no scar visible;
let her do it

Battered

pale fingers push
towhead strands

she avoids eye contact;
preoccupied with
everything other than
what she might see in mine

above her luminescent,
lovely cheek, blood
beneath the surface
marks the spot where
he loves her best

her beauty is wasted;
i wish she knew

Poppies

poppies nod

brave morning

they unfurl 

trusting light 

tangerine crepe

tissue-paper thin 

their core

darkness 

exposed

to heal 

beneath 

brilliance 

:hrr

Later

twist in the grass
curves, angles tight

damp earth beneath
sky flickers light

she's like a chigger
evil little mite

takes a piece of you
one sweet bite

hrr 072708

What It Is

leaving the bathroom this morning
I saw covers pulled over his shoulders;
he wants to sleep a little longer

up early, I need solitude,
coffee and frequently a pen and paper;
there are things to sort

this morning I dreamt of you,
I have for years and
sometimes they've come true;
it worries and astounds me

he says it's indicative
of how much time
I spend on others;
too much, he says,
it isn't healthy
in the dream, you talked
from the opposite end of
a rotary telephone,
the hard black receiver
cupped your face like a hand

I sensed it was mine and
listened because its what I do;
you always have a lot to say
even in my dreams

you posed a jumbled question,
something that I couldn't hear;
while the line was still
I answered - unable to stop

words tumbled out like
the black numbers printed
on a dial plate, 1, 3, 7, 9

I looked down; the cloth
handset cord hung mid-air,
frayed and disconnected
like some discarded toy
children use for make-believe

indicative of
what it is

hrr 072608

Grief

in the curled photograph
she stands beside a waterfall,
supple brown as a sapling
pulling forward from
his outstretched hand

she smiles joy, her eyes
a brilliant echo of
forest's endless green

his face reflects hers;
light ricochets between
like sun through leaves

hope visible as
dark stone shining
wet beneath their feet

grief arrives this morning;
three years, five months late

she leans into the sorrow
of things missed;
the man in the photograph
gone before she was
able to remember

it is the saddest part
of losing him

Dance of Intention

belly softens
undulation exorcises
undigested sorrow

she sweats soul,
breathes pulse

happy beats
wave inward
expand out

soles seek earth
hands grasp stars
sacred hips spin

darkness to light

On Track

predictable
weak days

lines dead
and timely

through
motions
i navigate

repetitious,
sure; on track

round-trips
comfortable,
blurred

days
off-rail
frighten

internal
wheels
seize

a landscape
unknown;
possible

Mourn

oh, how long
history lasts

passed

shame literal
as eye color

folklore like
a birthmark

if-this, then-that

i turned
out inside
the self
that is my

layered flesh
like safety

curved smile
of female hidden,
unadored

the artifact
buried,
neglected

my sad loss;
reason to

For some reason tonight, putting my clothes away, I felt compelled to write what the poem above is about. I have more clothes than I think I do; when I've done all of my wash, I'm surprised. I usually end up feeling I'm wasteful and have a sense that each item is an attempt to cover, disguise, and hide "me."

The poem above is about women. Our strength has been wasted on survival, which takes a toll. It's hard to go along, to avoid, to keep peace, and sometimes, to remain safe and to be protective.

The lesson was passed on that our bodies were something to fear; our power was denied or we handed it over, our beauty too risky, and our desire for love, acceptance, and respect, selfish and unwomanly. We tend to be fairly good mothers; but we can't mother ourselves. In doing that, we do fail as mothers. Many of us have been abused, punished, neglected, and abandoned. We've repeated cycles that we didn't even know existed, and have had almost identical experiences generations apart. Our stories are not unlike so many other women - past and present.

This poem is one attempt to mourn the loss of the beautiful female; and an attempt to rediscover and celebrate her. The weight I've learned to carry is the weight of our collective sadness. It no longer serves me - it's "reason to."