brilliant

she was picking out paper lanterns
carefully
choosing the perfect shades
for them to sway beneath
thinking quietly of
his palm pressed in the
small of her back
when she realized
he may not even call
or
be there at the evening's end
exhaling
she realized it seemed
silly to feel hollow
over these mundane possibilities
when she remembered
there was somalia
tethered wild colts
the young mama that just died
and
the lonely friend
that kept denying himself warmth
but
he was the only one
that had believed she was really
a mermaid
and
like her, he saw
old ladies praying in the clouds
some fools never learn

what happened aphrodite?

today
i feel stone
nothing
not even restlessness
a cautious break
from usual angst
a bit like
the little boy
in the gilded red fez
near a crowded
moroccan market
monkey on his shoulder
catatonically turning
the small tin box
a dance
he is deaf to
wafting above
the persimmons and pomegranates
i tried
coffee
a book
hot shower
old photographs
the news
i’ve one last ploy
i’m leaving this warmth
straddling
the winter grass
palms up
bare body
beneath freezin’ rain
to see if
i am still
capable of cold
then
i’ll know
if
today
you won -
but
just today

the blue one

i searched frantically
through
this scattered chaos
that is my domesticity
for the
blue one
cornflower
it matches my eyes
gathers gracefully around
the ankles
caps perfectly
these mountainous
breasts.
there i sat
quietly
serenely
waiting patiently
neck scented
hair tied
- but no you.
blessed perhaps
had you been here
with
the blue
you'd want
to name
your next ship
after me,
when you stare
at the midnight sky
from the bottom
of a wide canyon
you would swear
the stars spelled
my name
and
on cold winter twilights
you
would ask your memory
a thousand
different ways
were they
hyacinth
azure
robin’s egg
or
royal?
it was
a near miss
of cosmic cravings
capable of
catatonic collisions
count your lucky stars
the gods
of vulnerability
have spared
you
yet again

undressed

she needed to be
treated tenderly,
reminded
that there were
emotions
other than indifference,
expectations
besides society’s
and
warmth worth
anticipating
instead of the
solitude
of flannel sheets
but
that would
involve
unbuttoning
carefully fastened places
and
allowing
her dressed up
emotions
to
fall softly
around
her
ankles of apathy

is there balsam in gilead?

you called today
fervently
about nothing
radishes
i think
that’s what we discussed
insignificant adieus were bid
we reminded me
of a story
about a girl and her raven
“i let him run free
he explored the gutters
picked at some stray leaves…
always he returned.
i knew i was as
necessary to him
as he was to me.”
i suppose
when we have
outlived beauty
and are
richly upholstered by life
we can finally recline
upon the divan of each other
i familiar with the color
of all your stray leaves
and
you always on my pillows
at ease

just mamas

i can see
by the
quiet hesitation
of your handshake
that you think
i don’t get it

i’m the white girl
in the black suit
behind the large desk
in a tall chair

you’re the single mom
with
five to feed
that he left
with no time
or money to spare

i promise though
we’re really not
that different
you and i

we hug our kids
each night
say a silent prayer
wait ‘til we reach
our pillow to cry
hope
the bills will get paid
things will be better for them
maybe one day
love’ll find us again
and
in the meantime
that they suffer no harm

i’m sure you’d
be surprised to know
it’s 3 a.m.
and i’m wonderin’
if your warm

i disagree kabir

stirring dinner
with little arms
around my knees
i think of
kabir’s ancient poem
“the fish in the water
that is thirsty
needs
serious professional counseling”

i have known much
wealth, poverty
guilt, innocence
unconditional love, undeserved rage
sunset from mountaintops, sunrise by the sea
a baby inside of me, a lover beneath me
inconsolable hurt, unmeasurable ecstasy
even after all of this
my lips
are still parched
i’m sorry kabir
despite your mighty mystics
i have to disagree
i refuse to believe
this insatiable thirst means
i’m ill -
instead, human
a
fragile
spinning
delicious
ablaze
human

in bed

there’s a loud concert
tonight
just outside the window
cicadas have gathered
in the camellia bush
singing loudly
to the moon
maybe
they’re telling her
how we sounded
the rainy nights
we left the window open
or
it could be
that they are complaining
i’ve been neglectin’ them
for
secret swappin’
with the fireflies
whatever it is
if the raucous doesn’t cease
i’ll have to take
my confessions elsewhere
- i am
considering
the silent
moth

determined

she was unsure
if it was the
earthy undertones
of the patchouli & citrus
sprayed carelessly on winter breasts
the whiskey & laughter pheromones
still bubbling from
last night’s reunion
or the
warm vibrating hum
of her boot’s zipper
but
the screen door
slammed behind her
as if declaring to
the crepe myrtles and the bees
she is here
not dismayed
ready for it
turquoise on black
white hair on orange sun
red lips on white skin
quietly screaming
‘Universe
you will acknowledge me
and
applaud my existence’

sunday mornin'

i am no Galileo
but I have
counted stars on my ceiling
while
i held the universe
in my arms
my folks were commoners
but i have danced
in the kitchen
with royalty
on the front porch
to the creakin’
of an old swing
in a simple language
with a soft twang
i have remedied
a few psychosis
without a pill, Freud, or alcohol
a babies hands on my knees
a shower in an old bath
a silent prayer by the clothesline
all reminders
i have known
more wealth than Solomon
in this
cathedral of holiness
that is
home

lunch

i have been
in the stiletto version
of where you are
so,
i offer my eyes
hand under chin
rapt attention
reassurance that
yes,
it will rearrange you
and
my mutual laughter
at the fragments
you will reassemble
to become
a tall tower
of steely soulfulness
that finds it
difficult to believe
a word
anyone says
especially when
their sentences contain
a bitter word like “love”
but,
i hope you believe me
when i say to you
here
by this wide window
in the crowded noise
your eyes are
the exact shade of amber
that i remember
shining
in your mother’s kitchen window
when
we were four

sometime around december

mama tried
to kill herself
24 years ago
this week
used to be
i thought about it
everyday
even after
i was grown
but here
this winter morning
buried below
creamy velux
curtain pulled tight
blocking morning sun
i realize
i hadn’t remembered
for a while
made me think
of some
other sadnesses i’d forgotten -
the way grandma cried
when they found
my cousin dead,
sylvia’s daughter
her name now escapes me
after sylvia’s man killed her
i thought of that little girl
every night at sunset,
sprawling cracks
in green concrete
spread beneath
as he came to say
goodbye,
the indignity of a slap,
the blur of trees rushing by
after days of
rape and silence,
the nauseating knot
of knowing
what others don’t -
in all this
ache of remembering
what time had been generous
enough to allow
me to forget
lies
a sweet satisfaction
an eager epiphany –
there
will come a day
when
a thought of you
will not cross
my
petal strewn
path

"'your clever mind will lead you"

think i’m gonna
go to the chinese place
for lunch
the turquoise one
down the block
with the
bad curtains
and
the good beans
get a fortune cookie
break it open
i need a new tao
a fresh perspective
maybe
i’ll pass the
homeless guy
that always suns
on the corner of
jackson and broad
and all the cosmos
will align again
to remind me
how lucky i am
for
breath, sight, home
when we walk
through the back alley
my friend’ll slip
his arm in mine
and remind me
that i am still touchable
perhaps
the owner’s daughter
will pat me on the thigh
with sticky little hands
like she did
when i took her photograph
in the spring
and
i’ll know
there’s still magic
buried beneath me
he and i will
laugh
swap stories
kiss on the cheek
finally
i’ll break open the crispness
carefully read
my six word future
ignoring the numbers
and
laugh at
my sloth like crawl
away from you

k's

wine
art
coffee
god
graciousness
death
diligence
basil
summer tomatoes
there is no menu
we can’t open our legs to
wrap our arms around
moan from the delight
of its flavors
and the company of one another
- finally
a sunday toast
in winter snow
to past life,
future lovers,
the despair they’ll take from our eyes
that is not yet there
and the indelible impressions
we left in their minds
a thank you
for the universe
that is our footstool
when together we sit
and
the wind that
sings to us of each other
when we are apart

epiphany

i’m no good
at mediocrity
finally
i admit it
after years
of
carefully avoiding
collisions with complacency
and
the roaring hiss
of those
with less
rigid requirements
i sit
contentedly
with the allure
of singularity
in the
quiet blue
of stillness
steadily
anticipating, seeking
recognizing, welcoming
amazingness

black pearls

i put them
on today
though mine
for years
i lacked the courage
to wear them
i always wondered
after
my enlightment
if you bought them
before
the whores
in shanghai
or after
if
they had been
a gift of
love
or
a token of
recompense
makes no matter now
on this winter morning
the ebony goes
perfectly
against my
ivory lobe
if she were here
i’d prepare her
a pot of jasmine tea
serve her
in my best jade cups
afford her some dignity
tell her
you named our
daughter
after her motherland
kiss each cheek
and
softly whisper
‘thank you

de pintar un cuadro

there was
wine
opulence
books -
of course,
no you
i carried on
anyway
lotioned
my ample breasts,
polished
my toes.
i know you well,
had you been here
you would have
offered to help
with the lotion
we’d have laughed
about
your generous nature
thumbing
the pages
i thought
how much you’d have
hated her -
kahlo
the vulgarity
of her honesty,
refusal to conform
to your feminine
ideals
wouldn’t settle well
we’d argue
as i straddled you
beneath the canopy
your palms
sleeping flat
atop my thighs
i’d remind you
she wore roses
in her braids
always returned
to a cad
that couldn’t commit
for no reason
other than love
and
finally
her art
came from pain -
you would roll
your eyes
in
a diego like fashion
swear
she was genius
smother me
with silent lips
and
exhale
as
the angels
grew jealous
over
our frantic
exchanges

ridiculousness

she said that
her dinner guests
had remember me as
‘the really beautiful one’
Mama mentioned that
he could never recall
any unkindness
being uttered from my lips
and you,
when you called today
remembered the places
we had been
the things spoken there
the tone of the clouds
so clearly-
someone less demanding
would be pleased with
with such pleasantries
but
who gives a damn
about being remembered?
i
long for
immediate consumption
an
inhaling of my here and now
each line read ravenously
breaths consumed rapidly
so
that you are too fatigued
for the mundaneness
of memories

grumpy

i’m sick of
finding
positive reinforcement
in pains
learning the valuable
lessons of heartache
valuing all the virtues
of endurance
dancing along wildly
with determination
always setting
a stellar example
of what one can do
if they make up
their mind
to hell with it
i want to roll about
in discontentment
sulk a bit
while someone notices
whine
into an empathetic ear
this morning
i will frolick
in the bitterness
of being
where i am
by noon
i promise
a steadfast return
to the
heady ideals
of hardship

now would be fine

the moon’s been
very patient
waiting
quietly, radiantly
every night
beneath my window
the cicadas sing
about you
the poppies are beginning
to grow weary
this is distracting
from their
red radiance
when the wind blows
the maple leafs
tell the moon our story
the rain has
cooperated
oh so generously
and
kept my lips moist
even
the quiet moth
is becoming impatient,
threatening
to leave this earthly realm
light a lunar fire
see if she can move
things along
so,
would you
for the sake of
them all
hurry up
and
kiss me
damnit

grateful

breathtaking
how could
one
hope
for another thing
after
i’ve seen this
but
i’m hungry
never satisfied
always seeking
i want
mama to quit crying
the checkbook to balance
my brother
to see
it’s no one’s fault
but his own
the plumbing to be fixed
her cancer to go away
and
to be loved
like the girl
in the old
tattered collection of poems
quietly sitting
on the bottom back shelf
of mr. worthington’s bookshop
not
the cheaply drawn blonde
in the
brightly colored blocks
of those graphic comics
disdainful
a blind man
would be content
with just my
morning view
humans
always seeking
never
content
thank you god
for making
my children
1/2
fairy

friday in winter

it snowed
for the first time
in her
adult life
she wanted to telephone
someone
but
her girlfriends
all had new lovers
her old lovers
all had new girlfriends
her potential lovers
all had wives
she opted
to buy groceries
instead
fulfill
her family’s needs
maybe
the produce guy
would once again
smile quietly
heavy with intent
while
she wandered
aimlessly
pondering
the futility
of self preservation
squeezin’ peaches
sniffin’ basil
samplin’ honey
dreamin’ of marigolds
and
hopin’ for spring’s
possibilities

anatomy

cardamon
that is the flavor
that my lips
cannot forget
as i sit here
head in hand
palms over eyes
comma in my throat
recalling the meal
we prepared together
you stirred
i poured
we laughed
at the wine's illustration
still
on a tuesday
all this time later
i'm tryin to figure out
from which part
of our body
betrayal comes
not our hands
i'm certain
they are for writing odes
to love
holding desire near
nor our hearts
that sacred dwelling
for all that
is divine
not our shoulders
they are for leaning
upon
the closes i can surmise
is our knees
for
they are the halfway point
between our thighs
that cavernous
palace for all that is tender
and
our feet
coarse
from walking away

travelin'

tightening her robe

against december’s chill

she counts out all her morning pills

at 35

two strokes

a career

two failed marriages

critically ill babies

a dead lover

an old house

on the edge of

a dying town

she’d done alotta living

by local standards

but

she’d yet

to see the sun in patagonia

have a stew in ireland

dance beneath the moon

on a paris side street

or

that ultimate destination

love

she’d yet to be really loved

a silent vow

then and there

given the chance

to make that journey

she’d pack lightly

all excess baggage left behind

bringing

only roses

for her hair

all that glitters ain't gold

this wasn’t what

i had dreamed of

there is no glamour here

other than

a few gilded pieces strewn about

i was

going to marry

the man in the moon

or

grow up to be

that glittering mermaid

on the summer billboard

outside Homosassa Springs

I realize now

that my celestial casanova

would’ve found the color of my hair common

my shoulders too broad –

been bored with

the roundness of my cheeks

it was

probably that mermaids

second job

the one she needed

as she raised her kids alone

in the trailer park

just beyond the orange grove

off Highway 19

but herein this

chaotic simpledom

you think my shoulders

the perfect width for nappin’

my hair ideal for plaiting

and

honeysuckle vines

make savory wreaths

for springtime mermaids

down at the river

I wrote this about a month ago. Most of the things I write, I never share with anyone that exists in my "real world". Rarely, if ever. A couple of weeks ago, after much pleading from my family, I decided to branch outside of my usual hermithood and go to a dear friends party. My girls were thrilled.

We were going to be princesses for the evening. Cloak ourselves in finery, perfume and our finest manners. As I dressed for the party, lamplight low, old perfume bottles on the vanity, I slowed down to inhale and enjoy the process. My girls sat in the middle of my large bed and watched me starry eyed. When I finally slipped on my shoes and clipped on the last rhinestone, my daughter clasped her hands together, inhaled and said "Mooommmyyy!!!! You look like a sparkly mermaid!!!".

What sweetness. I laughed quietly to myself and thought of this poem I had written just a few weeks prior. I was reminded by the universe once again to 'slow down, pay attention, inhale, look about' - fulfilled dreams are all around us. We just have to be awake to notice them.

"What we see depends mainly on what we look for...."

is another version of my favorite quote "we don't see things as they are, we see them as we are...". The older I get, the more I live, the more people I encounter, the more I recognize the profoundness of this quote, and the chord it strikes within me.

Another favorite quote of mine is “Something is always born of excess: great art was born of great terror, great loneliness, great inhibitions, instabilities, and it always balances them.” As one who has only come to painting in the last year and a half, I still feel there is a universe of knowledge and insight for me to acquire with galaxies and galaxies of enchantment floating within that universe. But, one thing that I have learned for sure is that art is born of terror, loneliness, inhibitions, and yes, it does balance them in a beautiful, beautiful way.

I didn't begin painting to accomplish anything other than peace of mind. But, a few brushstrokes into my first painting, I knew that I was hooked. It became a way for me to take very painful experiences, and release them in a way that was not angry, bitter, or brutal - but instead, beautiful to some degree, however, elementary that degree may be.

My art has been criticized. Accused of bordering pornography. I've been called an unfit mother because of it, and my character desecrated. I think the most prolific criticisms stem from my painting above - one titled "Can You Read Between the Lines" ...... Often, when we meet someone, there is so much more to them than meets the eye. I believe that each of us holds a profound story within. We are each a legend, and each a legend worth hearing. No matter your race, your social class, where you live in this world, or what tragedies have befallen you, you are worthy of being heard.

Sadly, in many parts of the world, despite the advancements of the 21st Century, women are still viewed as second rate, worthy of less than humane treatment, deserving of abuse, and often that treatment is common in countries where gold, henna, and the adornment of women are so prominent. Despite the golds that are more brilliant than most we have seen here in the Western world, and the beautiful silks, the dangling bangles, and the beautiful lines of henna - there are often many, many untold and unacknowledged stories between all of those lines.

That is all this image says.

No innuendos in the placement of her hand, no pornographic intent. But a saying of "here I am, bare before you, I have these lines, this gilded adornment - but can you read between these lines?"

I am a mother of future women. I am a woman. I am the daughter of a woman. I am the granddaughter of a woman. I am the employee of a woman. I am the close friend of women. What is there that is unfit about a woman?

home

bound words

with bent pages

cover every surface

water colored memories

splashed

across heavy linen paper

fill all the corners

(i've determined those memories are kept best there)

i've got

poems on the walls,

colored glass praying

in the western windows,

stars on the ceilings

and wishes screamed

into heavy silk pillows

you see,

i've been searching

for a place

large enough to contain

all of my teeming,

mismatched parts

but

small enough

to hear

my silent

'thank yous'

in all this seeking

I wondered

how you felt

about wide open spaces

in an overcrowded heart?