Monday, March 12, 2012

Regarding what I said the other day:

A deep square leatherette chair,
you in your Fair Isle sweater, are,
Lips pursing; chin, receding slightly.
A pen like a cigarette, or baton
from your arm caresses up
the daffodil wall
When we were in bed
my labia drew you like a magnet,
or your fingers drew me.
Now a child noisily drains a juice box
and steam spits from the espresso machine.

The tarry Sangiovese sky
and you drop
like a page from my surrealistic pillow book,
the hole of your arms,
a mine of gold lies,
where I fall
red ochre of rose dust
in the middle of Alice,
“D’ya think I’m pretty?”
sparkles from her spigot
and a cardinal lilts
in a budding lilac,
a coterie of kisses
as I wait in my st. eve’s,
my Neapolitan panties,
catkins in gin


  1. from the Fair Isle sweater to the Sangiovese sky and onward to you waiting in my st. eve’s,
    my Neapolitan panties,/catkins in gin /enthusiastically
    you have me in a kind of tension and wonderment. i am eager, too.

    so good to read from you again. where the heck have you been?


    1. Thanks, erin. I was having fun with this one, not too serious, just enjoying the play of language.
      I've been feeling unsettled as of late. I've been online for five years and reading and writing intensively during most of that time. I jumped online those years ago because I was dissatisfied with my life and wanted change. I'm feeling that I'm at that point again and wondering which direction I'll go. Thanks for reading and commenting. I haven't been a very good blog citizen lately.

  2. This is a sort of candy pinafore on a spring breeze, airy and daring, staring down the bitter with a sweet eye. (Or is it the other way around?) The sugary tone keeps the teeth from grinding, I think. Spring's a good season for pulling out a fresh poetic. Good to see you checking back in, Miz Jane.

    1. Thanks, Brendan.
      Does my bitterness show through these lines? I guess there is a bit of melancholia strung through this, some sense of lack or loss or just emptiness.
      Still don't know my direction, yet. Pulling out words and writing now seems to be a huge effort, like swimming fully-clothed.