Along an Avenue of White Elms in the Sun

yellowing at their tops,
how I would too
change for you,
in a glad wave
curl up
to your voice,
warm-dark oscillation,
my green edges
bending to yours.
I asked only for open eyes
before the night’s wild shards
brushed over.
And I see.
I see with my hands
reaching up
to touch dear limbs
ageless aging,
all beauty,
ever-changing.

At the Club

Open the temple gates unto my love,

Open them wide that she may enter in,

The sacred ceremonies there partake,

The which do endlesse matrimony make,

And let the roring Organs loudly play

                  --Edmund Spenser from “Epithalamion”

There is a certain feeling,

A visceral vibe,

You know it’s going to be a good night.

The DJ is spinning,

Spilling treasures ebullient onto the floor.

Crossing over Jordan,

No worries or dangers or cares

On that bright shore.

No poisonous pairs

Looking to wheel home a third.

The men are all clumped dark and far

Away, skulking at the bar.

The night, the dance, belongs to the girls.

Eyes kohled, hair hennaed.

Fantastic-lashed pastel petals glitter.

Grown-up schoolgirls

Catholic short-skirted.

Azerbaijani princesses girded

With black leather bras

And leopard poly skins.

Goth nurses twisted hair

Ghostly openly stare

Black and periwinkle wide.

High strapped booted tight

Atop heels of consequential height,

All are lost in essential delight.

Rose attar, neroli, clove,

Patchouli, musk,

The garden roars

Cinnamon, jasmine, sandalwood.

And all, we all are such touch whores,

Endorphin freaks demanding more

Wordless promises petting, praying:

You won’t hurt me, I know

You won’t hurt me.

Only comfort to cut the pain

Connect reassure another smother

Shyly asking with hands brushing

A shoulder smooth

A breast caress sweet

In Drum & Bass

House trance bump ass

Scratch vinyl slick.

But our romance ends

When the needle comes up.

The smoky remains,

A tremolo echo

That lives only here

At the club.

2008

Will we make it to the Ball?

We've been a bit delayed by some mending that needed tending.

   Got a bit of gin and tonic, though.  Hope to see you all soon!

Check out all the action here:

Willow Manor Ball

The Distaff Side

You come on

aflame and rolling

through a room,

from slack-hips

to paint-blistering fingertips.

A flickering St. Christopher

blazes high above

your breasts.

My lip catches the crest

and drags across,

running the length

of your shoulder,

unsealing that envelope,

pulling smolder~~

An ash-borne crumbling acrobat,

glancing off

fawn-brushed thighs,

threading silk slung

pink crinkle crinoline loops.

Speckled marble balustrades melt

under the weight of sighs.

Waxwings beat aflutter

and down-dive.

Flywheels shudder

off singing sinews’

sympathetic cries.

Satellites luminous

rise

and expire,

Shunted down dusk alleys

of defunct desire.

Runcible

come, charming spoon,

so thin & elegant,

silver thrilling,

cold and brimming

with sea cockles

from warm plush

cream and green

bits of moss

scrubbed clean.

and butterfly

do we then

their shells

that wing

our lips

supping

blue.

who then is the pussycat

who then is the owl

who?

Golden

On your way home,

on the wooded,

hidden path

to your door,

where flagstones jut,

tectonic,

you told me,

in that careless mess,

where that rod of re-bar

sprouts menacingly

for no reason,

you saw the sudden yellow

of an aspen leaf

fallen

in the last light,

indescribable.

Nonetheless, 

in your breathless,

in your silence,

that golden

I knew.

Accepted Rejected

 

Jimmy Page

Well, so, uhm, I'm published, I think, and also not.
My entries into the Rattle Poetry Contest were all rejected, but something I sent to Unadorned Press was accepted for publication.  I took the Rattle rejection rather hard.  I had lots of support (and one guy at work who said, "What, do you think you are that good?"  To which I got to reply simply, "Yes.") from you all here and in FBlandia and my local writer's group.  One person in my group had been a reader for a small press.  He told me that it was easy to discard the stuff that was poor, but among the good works the decision process of what made the cut was more arbitrary.  Often times pieces he would champion wouldn't make it.
The Unadorned Press situation is cloudy.  I had sent them two poems and was informed of acceptance by being tagged in a photo on Facebook.  No email message,  no indication of which poems were accepted.  I have a feeling that this is a very small press, maybe just one guy in New Hampshire who, if I send him $5, will send me what looks like a plastic file folder for a term paper with my work and about ten other poets.

So, the question remains:  What do I want?
And that is where I am right now.  I was reminded by my writer's group that I do have an audience, I have readers already.  And for that I am grateful.  What would being published or not being published change about that?  I still feel this sort of desire to be acknowledged and given a stamp of approval by some unknown "them."  Meh. 
And, why the picture of Jimmy Page?
It's a fairly arbitrary addition to this post, but when I was trolling around the interweb, I came across this picture on someone's page of "Things I Like" or some such, and I thought,  "Yeah, I like that, too."  So,  just a random picture of Jimmy Page reading someone's horoscope in a random world.