The Poetry

Am Jam Weekend - Revisited and Revised

In 1995, Am Jam was in town, but I didn't pick up any
free leather goods
too bad
but strong shaggy men fell in love with me
and my red hair
(not always in that order)
and I sang duets in the American Tavern
and lost my voice
but no one cared
so I just kept singing

In 1996, I watched the bright blazing machines
flash by the park at lunch time
and listened to the thunder they made
Wished to be on the back but too afraid to ride
So I watched the townspeople watch the cycles
Loving so much the chance to welcome back
to the village those heroes, those rogues, those
new knights of the road.

I saw a skinny teenage kid
riding a motor scooter for all he was worth
tootling his way down the street and when a Harley passed him
the kid threw up his clenched fist
with pride And I laughed at him, but the Harley rider
gave back the salute
and smiled.

I saw the soul and felt the heart of the rider
from Canada
And, though this isn't the deep South
Showed him my best hospitality
He woke me up from a bad dream
And started me living again.

Chatting

Well, hello, it's been a long time
How have you been, and
How is what's his name?
Oh?, yes, I'm alone again too
No, he didn't like it when I went to school
So I had to choose

Do you remember when we had that fight over -
Yes, him, I knew you'd know -
He moved away.
No, it didn't last - he didn't understand
that, well, it doesn't matter -
You understand.

I went past the place we used to go
and I remember those guys we danced with
We pretended to hate disco
but we were there every Saturday night
No, I don't remember their names
Do you?

Now?
Well, I don't know, maybe there's someone
But I'm not sure, and he, well he
Do you know, I can't talk about it
Even to you, old friend.
How about you?

Compound Sins

Sometimes we remind me of those happy pagans
Immersed in abandoned and brazen celebrations
Feasting on life savagely
Grabbing mighty chunks with impunity
Because the Gods approve.

Revels spill over and slosh together
Flowing into juxtaposed realms and times
And the brilliance of the congregation
Lights the air
As verbal sparks
Gain dizzying speed.

Divine finesse washes faces free from shame
And untold lovers' messages are ignited
On alters of sacred flesh
Stoked by unutterable passions
As salacious spirits
Incite delight.

Mythical Dreamer

Mythical Dreamer
godhead, gods-bread;
tusked, hoofed
winged--dreamer
fly
into the pure sleeping mind of
an ageless woman
dreaming of a perfect world
dreaming in the dream

she wakes and finds it so

RED--
fly on.

(with my dear friend, Mr. X, from the Pub Poems collection)

Gloria's Hands

Her hands, so articulate
skipped and swam and danced
catching my eyes
and almost mesmerizing me
then she said flatly,
denying the nimble melody
of her body's language --
He's a man, Kathy. Men have to hunt.
And though I agreed with her
I said yes, but
And her palms faced me,
fingers up, thumb to thumb.
Straight up flat palms.
They moved apart, negating my yes, but
and she said resolutely--
You can't change them. Men have to hunt.

Immortality Again

Is it foolish to try to seek
immortality again?

It was a sudden surprise to find death
leering at me
like some old forgotten boyfriend
rudely successful and jolly
hoping to find me between lovers
and willing to slip
unresisting
into his bed.

I wonder if I can make him
turn his face away
stop calling
stop coming by
and take my name out of his
little black book.

How can I live
forever
with this
over solicitous escort
jogging my elbow
when ever I turn
and burning my nerve ends
with his never ending patience
and good humor
as if he is my last love.

I cannot let him kiss me
I know his thin thin lips
will feel like the bursting
of an overripe tomato
holding the wriggling memories
of other loves and
other deaths.

I think I'll just leave him
like the others;
just slink away
casting off the heavy shit
no looking back.

Mistress

If I believe that I am the mistress of my soul
Then perhaps I need to treat her better
and be always
sweet smelling luxuriously perfumed
squeaky clean under silky oils
eyes glistening bright health white-blue lashes expertly mascaraed
natural curly artificially colored hair sprayed with no frizz
caught up on sleep down on cholesterol
and dreaming a little dream of
oh yeah

MY SOUL

That last bastion of my heart my undeniable absolute psyche
keeper of books of rights wrongs served and received and
forgetting to write it all down off balance
keeper of the flame expected to burn
eternally and keep alive that
seventeen year old girl under
years passed too swiftly
MY SOUL

who seems to possess a slightly absent minded girlfriend instead of a devoted
MISTRESS

The Moral Woman

She sends you home after making emphatic love
To a place that is a nothingness.
She cannot picture you there
You live only when she can see you.

She tells secrets to you, speaking freely
And reveals a self that you will never disclose
As if you are a shadowy incubus
Risen from the mist at her bidding.

Later, pristine sheets give her no comfort
As she tries to embrace an empty space
Craving the parallel spark of your mind
To make her believe that isolation is not eternal.

But grazed by the light of the moon she remembers
To give thanks for immodest indulgences
That serve such a virtuous function --
Divine offerings to celebrate life.

Pan

He takes such delight in their pleasure
that women can't damn him
when he moves on.
We understand, you see,
that this is seemly behavior for our great goat god of woods and fields.

As he surrounds us with his vulgar magic,
one light
bursts
into infinite glimmering flames
that darken the night
and lighten the soul.

Shadowy, he grows taller,
more primitive
and plays our pipes
until we beg for release
and mercy.

Our civilized minds
remember ancient chants
and we learn again
old words and harmonies.

If he should tough us on a sacred night
we know that we will live forever.
And other men must now be gods themselves
or less than Pan
and so
nobody.

Physical Science

The year you saved me from myself,
I studied geology and collected stones one at a time
To mark the times we made neighborly love.

Small stones;
From the driveway, the ruins of the old barn
And flat, flaky ones from near the pond.

But when, at the end, I threw them into my driveway,
I couldn't tell them from the gravel already there.

When I studied astronomy, I couldn't stop thinking
About that first night
When we looked for the Big Dipper
And found
Each other

I'm only a little bit sad to think
That I'm light years away from you now
And that you don't care.

Produce Erotica

Cilantro smells like hormones
But tomatoes smell like the sun
Cut, crushed, sliced, chopped
And tossed with yellow peppers

He was like a salad
And I was like mayonnaise
We shopped in silence
Until our hands met

He picked me up by the parsley
Asked me to dinner
But his eyes promised
A long, slow supper
With rich dessert.

(with my dear friend, Mr. X, from the Pub Poems collection)

Real Women

Shopping, I look for signs that say "Women's Sizes"
No petite, no juniors, no misses for me.
I once slunk to sections full of matronly wear,
Wondering why they seemed to be full
of too large paisleys and horizontal stripes.
And even spent money in stores
Where the only things that fit me were earrings.

But now, I ask
Where are the clothes for real women?
And spend huge amounts on outrageous, bodacious attire
And only wear black because it makes my skin
Look so damned fine.

Today, I boycott skinny little women stores
No longer willing to wait, humbly embarrassed
while my slim sisters try on size tens
and scornful clerks, not wishing to meet my eye,
toss long hair nervously from side to side.

I dare to wear red sequins, black lace
and purple silk
I walk with my head up, look at the world and
stretch myself out to my full trueness
I will look you right in the eye.

Dare you to judge me.

Summer Solstice

The heat
Makes me feel like a broad, earthy little woman
A change in time is upon me
I cannot sleep.

I'm as restless as if I wait for a man
Though men are but teachers.

They teach us about ourselves,
And I have been tutored by the best --
To be all things desired;
Mother, lover, maid, mate.

But now my own passions run in my blood
And I feel the musings of the female race
Deep within.

I am illuminated with me,
The passing seasons teach me now,
And I could not be more of them
If I were molded of clay
Sitting in a doorway
Close to the earth.