Archives for the month of: August, 2013

the wild climb

the climb
is never straight, never planned,
never smooth enough to prevent a fall

and fall, you did
into the abyss of infatuation
tripping over your two left feet into a crevice of despair
and getting trapped, watching the seasons change above you
fourteen times

you reprimand yourself for ignoring that whisper in your right ear
on the first night you fell
“if you dare to climb
know the journey will not be taken without bruises,
my love,
nor broken limbs and vertigo”
but you thought you were too smart for this folly
you declared you were beyond the wisdom
to wonder if it’s all just a bit too crazy,
even for you and your wireframe heart

shine on me

As the blue moon slides into the envelope of darkness
a fleck of moonbeam
bounces off my shoulder
and up into the oak tree outside my window
where the magpies tease
and taunt the city squirrels every morning
as I dry my hair and paint my face
for the beauty pagent, the war, the popularity contest

I think about how fickle our desires are
One minute thin thighs, the next freckles,
a gap between front teeth
or a balloon-like bottom to even out
the grapefruits we lug around in holsters on our chest
Is this the what they see in me?
random selections thrown together to work in unison

On the last twinkling star above, I wish for more
More than just appearance
More than just sex drive,
homeowner status, passport stamps or pairs of shoes
I wish for contentment with blue moonbeams, oak trees and magpies

magic door

Remind me,
when you shut the door
behind you
for the last time,
that the best way to mend
this broken heart
is to stand in a far corner
and with precision and Buddhist-like
attention
clean the space.

There is no before, only now
and the random possibility of tomorrow.

fit to be tied

o, how I fought for it
my countless attempts
tangling these heartlines into maritime knots
o, and only after it ends
did those knots unveil the truth unexpected

it never fit at all

the voice, silent for all these years
defiant
in the face of my insistence to force
this four-cornered heart
into what the coroner would determine to be
a conventional round hole

Rundetårn 2

All the poems left to linger
on the shelf of my ancient closet.
Tucked beneath boxes of courage
are the coiled ribbons of misery, the pocketbooks of desire, and a wardrobe
jammed to the edge
with the gowns of women I’ll never be.
Crinolen, lace, tulle; a blue garter for luck.

I stand, looking forward. Look behind.

Is this the end of the fairy tale or my first shaky, barefooted steps home?