Month: January 2014

Dianna, goddess of the hunt

My tiny masseuse
Walks her practiced, powerful fingers
To find the knotted, bundled muscles in my neck
These angled cords and rods
Taut like bow against arrow
circle my head, ears, tipping my semicircular canals
Keep me from finding my sea legs
When try I to stand

She takes them as her mission
Finding fiery sore, angry places
where I didn’t know
I had places

She presses til my ears roar, rush, whistle.
Til my eyes well up with tears
Til I cry out for my mommy.

She hears no pleas for mercy
Only her fingers hear in her hunt
for errant myalgia.

My long irritated nerves
Creak under her ministrations
She releases the vile toxic acids
I have held there
Hunched over decades of computers.
Weighted by spreadsheets
Spread thin by deadlines and demands.

While I wonder why.
I pay for this by the hour
I know that I will pay for several days
Sleeping in hot baths
Surrounded by hot rice packs.

For days afterwards, I will find where
Her fingers traced a lineage of resentment
I will rework raw points with tennis balls
Round wooden pegs
until slowly released
rods and cones will allow me to turn my head from side to side
Without stagger or stumble.
Finally choleric bundles spun away

I realize as I text with Charlene and Rachel.
I do the same in my lone afternoons
And in my nightmares
I press hard against the knots of my failed history
In the night I grit my teeth
Until I crack the gold.Caps.
Wear through diamond drilled amalgams.

My mynd must relive every foolish blunder
The stupid and the unkind
The speaking before engaging the cortex
Cruelties both descending and ascending

Perhaps a few more sessions
Or a hundred more texts
gritty grains of angry sand
Will slide away

I will sleep without clenched jaws
Without angry knots at the base of my brain
And the dizzy sky
Will be just that
A blue canvas
And me.
my arms twirling me about
in winter’s ceaseless snow
Spinning spinning spinning
from me

Blind staggers and slight of hand

​the real Mary Poppins had a miserable sort of existence
While the sparkling Disney castle
A fascade to cover dark days

Some stagger through miserable lifetimes
Like ill, affected cattle with blinded, blunted brains.

To be a play
with legerdemain
A enchanted quill holding magic decade ink
That draws broken years back into spotted feather filters
Erases errant ways
Rewrites a discordant score
Makes it all come out
Our governances all kind, sweet, full of sugar
No warts, no gruel, nor barley water
With life’s nursery spotless
Dancing within chalk drawings.
laughter and hot teacups rising us to rooftops.
Spellbinding words change
cold, embittered straw bosses.
Only chimney sweeps shake our hands.
Our tupence fed birds sated
Our kites soaring
Harmonics rising

Fade out
.with gold Helevetica font credits
Fade out
to cloudwhite

With gratitude to my muse, who knows who she is

My enemy. My friend.

​remember ​

In childhood how a fisticuffs
Led you to reach out your hand?
Turn what you thought was enemy
life long friend?

How years after years of sibling rivalry
At a crossroads
Found your sisters
As ports in a storm?

Suddenly at 25 or 35 of age
overly strict parents
Became role models
And you find yourself calling them to hear your own voice.

I have a love/hate like that
Oh, yes, we have warred
Fought like cats and dogs
Over 25 years
Nearly half my life
My friend has flung me to the dirt,
Made me see the light,
Fought my battles for me,
Changed my way of thinking,
Altered my vision,
Eased me into a quiet retirement.

Oh it is one of those friends
You want no one to see you with
Keeping hidden,
Making liars of you both.

My teacher:
Bringing me
Wisdom, persistence, patience, determination, resolve.
We have spent holidays alone,
Vacations in silence,
Days in darkness,
Nights in introspection.
Brought me to my knees
Taught me prayer.
Made me into a homebody.
Reclusive poets are we.

I have clung to my friend in desperation,
And I know, of course,
My friend cannot live without me.
We are closer than ever these days
Moaning and bemoaning as our
30th anniversary together approaches

All those rough and tumble years
Leaving their scars and marks
We ache and complain about life’s foibles

There’s an odd comfort
Knowing we’ll be together
Come what may
Rain or shine

​Meet and greet my frenemy….


blessed are those who spin. . for they shall be called wheels

And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We’re captive on the carousel of time
We can’t return we can only look
Behind from where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game. Joni Mitchell

gin makes me laugh
Reminding me of our childhood
Playground where a massive
Maypole of steel chains with handles
We called striders
photo (1)

Swung children at a mad speed
Til inertia lifted feet from earth
Circular flight
or not, as
Sweaty palms slipped us
At concussive force onto the
Dusty ball field
Giddly deciphering the extent
of our bruises we
Rushed again to leap aboard
We used to think dizziness was fun
photo (3)

I am visiting a land of carousels
Which comes to me with that same speed
On whirlwinds
eddy currents
Without courtesy
Of warning,
takes me for spin after spin

And I plead
Nay, beg to return to familiar ground
But this place has no such landing.

I could feel rich
For I have two more of everything
On this merry go round
Two rocking chairs,
two pinging phones,
two howling dogs.
Two swaying swings,
two or three tv screens
All repeating the same slideshow
Click. Click. click
gyrating letters on two keyboards
drives poetry from my heart
two coffee cups
neither of which my four whirling hands
can grasp
as they plummet to twitching hardwood floors
my cedar flutes lie silent
16 fingers
cannot manage to cover 8 holes
Even in the dark
With mom’s satin night mask over my eyes
I lie like Dorothy of Oz
In the eye of a twister
Waiting for mattress and house to
drop to earth
Two doctors with two opines
Two ear crystals
Two neck muscles

I can step
off the
merry go around
There I have four knees, four feet.
None of which will lend me steady ground

While starlight reels counterclockwise
I cover my four eyes.
photo (4)
I try to believe
that these things pass
And soon the trip.
Shall end
I step onto the swaying dock
Leap off the playing ground striders
Grip breezes as they shudder
Shake off extra shadows
Hang up extra phones

Remember how it feels to walk strong and steady
If I dare I crane my sore neck
to look back
has the carnival left?
Painted Horses still
spinning screaming octopus dismantled
bumper cars stacked neatly
leer with fake headlights
‘A pox on your kind’

my two hands search for fence rail
Or walking stick

It’s not there
I don’t need it anymore
I’m off the carousel.
photo (5)

Quarter to midnight

We dream through sunlit mornings of this life​

Wondering just who might appear

And when. ​

What surprises might form in the colours of earth.

I searched in long hot lazy afternoons of my summer

I bear frown lines from squinting against the sunsets ​

Still believing

‘Cause that’s what the fairy tales say

I wearied at sundown in my life ​

Resting quietly in the garden of my own making

Contented with what I had sown

Though small the harvest

I could not have expected anything at the edge of my night ​

When I am but a shell of the self I was


Warm against the barren trees



Along my leafless limbs

At quarter til my midnight

i wait for ​

Aurora Borealis

Winter vacation in Omaha

There’s a comfort in the cold
Winter sets in with a bit of snow
To muffle humanity
No kids screaming on at the corner
As they jump on their trampoline
No three wheelers rumbling in alleys
No lawn mowers endlessly foolishly
Grinding manicured pastures
No cars screeching brakes while
Windows open pounding out bass rap
Dogs inside garages
Make the long freezing nights silent
Far, far in the distance coal train
Horns spilt the cool dark like a acoustic zipper
I open my westerly window to see the sharp bright stars
To listen to humankind hibernating
As the last Canadian geese nosily cross
The fading sunset
I wonder if townsfolk too
have all headed south
To seek comfort.

For me
I would rather vacation in Omaha
I love the sharply painful frigid air
It fills my ipod headache with the calm
That January brings
Where I wait by
Flickering tv light
For sleep that will arrive
On the next train
Or the next