Compost Studios

she sits on the patio and smokes

inhaling and exhaling     with deliberation

remembering that summer

savoring the taste     of  it      of  him

stirring      her feelings

turning over    and sparking

like the embers     smoldering      in the fire pit

like the diamond ring      winking in the fading light.

dusk slips quietly toward night

the mosquitoes are out     for blood

but as her cigarette traces

arcs of loneliness      in the dark

her eyes are on the fireflies

twinkling in the deep green     shadows

signaling to the world

they are looking for love.

June 19, 2008

At night when the house is silent

Dreams slide by

Like the trains

Carrying lives and luggage

To a new destination.

The engineers

Blow the horns

The soundtrack

Behind my quiet life

The music of arrivals and departures.

The passengers

Pass by

Glimpsing backyards and clothes lines

Graffiti and bridges

White clapboard houses

With black shutters.

They see the shape of my life

While I sleep behind locked doors

Dreaming of departures

And homecomings

And arms that circle tight 

The rumbling journey ahead.

April 22, 2008

I like to think

I was your favorite

mistake.

We only had silver--

never gold.

Diamonds were too hard

the cost too high--

We chose onyx and turquoise instead.

Today all I see is black and blue--

All our bruises

Still tender

After all these years.

We never stopped

circling each other.

Another round and

I'm dizzy wondering

When will this end?

I am done with rings.

I  am turning--

Searching for hands

reaching out

holding on

steadying me

while the world tilts and spins.

April 11, 2008

On the other side of this door

Is a woman

Unpacking a life

Feeling the weight

Of all that is coiled tight

And bound together

The space too small

The time too short

The years and boxes

Too heavy

Next to the window

Is this woman

Unpacking her self

Bent in two

Reaching and stretching

Searching for what is precious

Believing it has been pushed

To the bottom of a box

Lost in layers and layers

Of crumpled beige paper

Clouds sweep the sky

The light shifts

Sun and shadow dance

Across her face

She stands upright

The past in her hands.

Surrounded by sheet after sheet

Of blank paper

She pauses to rest

And imagine

The colors, the words, the feel

Of a spirit

Unboxed.

March 28, 2008

Four forks

Four spoons

Four dull knives

Four white plates

Four shallow bowls

Four folded napkins

Four empty glasses

Waiting to be filled

Four chairs around

A square table

Four of us with appetites

Waiting to be satisfied

Four pairs of shoes by the door

Four jackets on hooks

Four packed bags

Heavy with expectations

This is the tidy life we built,

But

I will not be bound

By its straight lines

I will not be square

I will not be boxed

I will go off on tangents

Embrace blind curves

I will dare

To throw my life off balance

I will

Make it odd

Not even

I will

Answer the knock

At the door

Add more plates

To the table

Pour the wine

Toast the future

Celebrate

The expanding

And ever changing shape

Of my universe

March 10, 2008

I’m an old dog on the porch

Who should be guarding

The house

Assessing the threat posed

By strangers and strays

Sounding an alarm and

Threatening to attack

When boundaries are breached.

Instead

When someone approaches

The gate

I leap to my feet:

If hope is a thing with feathers

I’m a hound in perfect point.

Still.

Expectant.

When the gate latch

Is lifted

Affection not caution

Is unleashed.

I bound forward

Ready to receive

Whatever

Is tossed my way.

Content with leftovers

Bare bones

A few words

A moment of being seen.

It’s what

I love most about myself.

And it’s what I despise.

Perhaps I’m wise

To be open

To every face

That smiles from the gate

But often I feel

I’m just a fool

Welcoming plunderers.

February 29, 2008

“There are things to be said, I think, but it’s not yet the time to say them.”

— letter from a friend

This is why

I bottle my words

And wait to uncork them:

Timing is everything

Sometimes the urge

To spill words

Is as potent

And regrettable

As a crimson stain

Spreading across a white cloth.

Words released

At the wrong moment

Will be tinged with anger

And leave a bitter aftertaste,

Or be too sweet

With apologies and forgiveness

Flavors that mask the complexity

Of the Truth.

So I take my words

To the cellar of my subconscious

Lie on my side in the dark

And keep my cool

While my thoughts

Ferment and change

Bubble and become.

Careful

I am

A bottle set on edge

That can easily shatter

Or explode under pressure.

We could both be hurt.

I am

Waiting

For the right moment

To come into the light,

Open up,

Lean forward, and

Pour out my words

For you.

Words that have aged

Become

All I aspire to be:

Mature yet colorful

Flavorful and complex

Intoxicating and memorable.

Full of clarity

Full of grace.

The perfect beginning

The perfect ending.

February 25, 2008

A glimmer

A glint

A spark

Between us.

I bit the hook.

You reeled

Me in

Out of the murky depths

Up to the surface

Where my skin

Shone like silver.

Wide-eyed

Dazzled and blinded

Breathless and bare 

I surrendered to you

Under blue skies.

Your eyes

Measured my worth.

Your hands

Weighed my value,

Stroked my white belly,

Paused,

And then tossed me

Back to the life

I didn't want.

At night

I dream of the hook

And the way I shimmied

And shimmered.

I wake to the lingering taste

Of metal and blood--

The price I paid

For daring

To shine for you.

I had a dream

We were in Florida

Your eyes as blue

As the sky beyond the palm trees

Your hair lit by sunshine.

We were finally face to face

And you were talking to me

But each time you'd reach

A critical part of the sentence

Something would drown you out--

Another person speaking,

A background noise.

My words became only

"I'm sorry. What did you say?"

And then I realized I was losing

More and more of your words

The conversation became all sounds

But no meanings.

And I wondered

As my face went blank

If your smile

Concealed

Thoughts that I was not so smart

After all. 

My heart clutched then raced

With a sense of panic and betrayal

As I realized I had become

Deaf and dumb

Under a sunny sky.

January 18, 2008

In the entry way

The boots lean toward each other

The gloves brush fingertips

The hats almost touch the scarves while

The jackets shrug with indifference

And I face the truth

About the need for warmth

The need for protection.

In the basement

Socks tumble and disappear

Slipping away in secret

Abandoning the lives they’ve known.

Later in the bedroom

I face the truth

About cold feet

About missing mates.

In the kitchen

The plastic containers

Fight with the lids

I mop up messes

Sigh over spills

Taste what's gone stale

And face the truth

About finding a perfect match

And staying together.

My days are full of

Acts of reconciliation:

Attempts to make things right

To find divine order

To fit expectation to reality

To accept the reflection in the mirror

To locate the key

That unlocks my life.

January 15, 2008