Krystle's Poem

Take care, my love:

this is a cold country, where the wind will whisper a story.

Such brutal beauty is beyond dispute.

And in the fear of silent nights

cold is tangible.

Only God knows why it's a cruel world.

But you are safe, my love.

No more grief, my love.

Come with me to my candy clouds where summer rain shimmers--

(not unlike Joy or imaginary light)

Stay inside the paper flowers in my fields of sun-comforted imaginary landscapes.

Linger under glittering purple stars

Lay down.

Stay awhile.

And always believe, my angel,

you have been loved.

taken from The Queen of the Damned by Anne Rice, "You Have Been Loved" by George Michael, "Imaginary" by Evanescence, "Subzero letter" by Joanne de Longchamps

A Deadstar Fruit: Erasure Poem

Wind blew on the shrinking cities.

Envenomed air snapped wormwound architecture.

A world away,

before the final day,

green desire spun in darkness down.

taken from "Exitus" 

by Joanne de Longchamps

Postcard Poem

I'd say I wish you were here, but really,

I'd rather I were somewhere else.

This place is perpetually thirsty.

The only green things are the stunted Joshua trees:

half-human half-cactus dancing in the parched starlight.

I miss the cobalt ocean waves 

and the smell of your skin in the morning.

Let Your Dead Blood Run

Out in California

mainline and coke and hash were supposed to be

hamburgers and French fries and strawberry shakes.

Flash!

Pull into a gas station and lure the old guy out.

Out in California

cut your finger.

Strike fast, kachoom! -- Cover it up.

Men wearing bill caps with calloused hands:

What were they doing?

They were supposed to be together.

You had to feel sorry for them out in California.

The Queen of the Damned, pg. 43
by Anne Rice

An Oldie

A young woman sitting alone

sips from a coffee cup with a chipped rim.

The coffee tastes acidic, 

bitter,

and faintly soapy.

Inside the cup, a brown film floats.

Though she takes extra care not to spill,

coffee is already crusting in the saucer.

S+7 (verbs): David Copperfield

I ridicule that I was blamed 

(as I have been identified and buried) 

on a Friday, at twelve o'clock at night. 

It was radioed that the clock began to splatter, 

and I began to crack, 

simultaneously.

S+7 (nouns): David Copperfield

Whether I shall turn out to be the hammer of my own labyrinth,

or whether that stanza will be held by anybody else, 

these phantasms must show. 

To begin my lamplight 

with the belladonna of my laughter, 

I record that I was born 

(as I have been informed and believe) 

on a ferris wheel. 

Maybe We Should Have Let the Condo Go Last Year.

After all, the BofA paperwork didn't really change anything.

We could've been in a complex with real grass for the dog to poop on,

And a clubhouse to throw spectacular parties. 

(and plenty of parking for the sparkling people who'd attend our spectacular parties)

No more HOA fees held over our heads:

remember when they told you the phonebook on the stoop was a public nuisance?

Maybe a bigger patio where we could sit sipping cocktails 

while watching the sunset...

Instead, we're stuck in this financial disaster and the bad news

keeps on coming:

All our time and money wasted

for imminent foreclosure anyway.

Meteorite: a tanka

I asked God "Why me?"

I looked around for answers.

I listened for His Small Voice;

but the angels turned away.

And even the stars went dark.

Composed on the Commode: a haiku

Mike dared me to write

a poem while in the restroom.

Someone light a match.

Many thanks to my fabulous colleague-in-arms, Michael Carroll.

Most importantly, my gratitude and love to Brian who gave me the new ending. I love you honey!

Little Sequins

Last night the sky was reckless,

but how was I to know?

When the yellow days turn grayer,

the moon comes early 

with a face full of shine 

while twilight lingers.

taken from

"Sparkly Snow"

"Going Calling"

"In the Snow or Sun"

"Early Moon"

"Pumpkin Head"

"Moonstruck"

"Day and Night"

all poems by Aileen Fisher

Out in the Dark and the Daylight

Harper & Row, 1980

Ghazal #1: First draft

How can I make this world

a place of goodness for you ?

Is there somewhere you can fly?

Sail your soulboat away from all that troubles you?

It seems that God has been unkind,

has made the world abhor you.

Yet here we are, together:

Heart to heart, hand to hand once more-- you, 

And I. And somehow in this prayer, this peace,

I find space to explore you.

A. B. C. D.

After

battling

character

deficiencies

everybody

finds

garish, grotesque,

how have

I intentionally

just

kept

limping,

managing... moving... morning,

noon, night,

over, over, over,

prolonging personal passions,

quietly

resenting, receiving rebuke, recanting reactionary radicalism, radiating righteousness?

Sometimes screams,

tears, 

tantrums,

ultimately untangle uniqueness.

Venial

weakening. 

Woeful

Xanthippe's

zodiac? 

Zimogenic.

Metropolitan Avenue: A Found Poem

Drinking with friends,

I noticed your lingering stare.

I think we all need to know, at some point in time,

we can go on living our own lives,

and make time for one another.

taken from

"Carroll Gardens"

"My letter never sent"

"sweet man, find me again"

http://newyork.craigslist.org/mis/

Strike the Cymbal: A Cento

I should have died a Trojan or a Spartan, 

in past times of fear and unknowing,

with goats and games and other Woodsy things.

I should have died

under scrutiny of hills in the hot sun.

I should have died.

Yet here I am in the text of another journey.

I do not say I came home to earth, 

for this seductress, this Nature, is a ploy:

I have known water to cry and be afraid when the music was cold.

I want to love what I was not and miraculously depart, resurrecting in flight.

But God's ice is my only road.

And God Himself wets my lips with an old curse.

 taken from  

"Hearing the Voices"

"The Night Sammy Davis Jr. Couldn't Go On (Las Vegas)"

"Vegas: A Few Scruples"

"Sleeper From Kansas"

"Calendar for Worship"

"And One Other Thing"

"On Hearing the Choirboy Sing"

"Dress Informal"

"III"

"IV"

"Presence"

"Idaho"

"For a Friend"

"Dead Birds"

all poems by A. Wilber Stevens

Horoscope Poem

Beautify your surroundings, Pisces.

As the artist in you emerges, 

superficial answers don't satisfy. 

You need a new 

moon to crack the code.

Worrying yourself sick in so many ways, it's clear: 

your attempts may not be sufficient.

Take control.

Go slowly.

And pay attention.

Or just smile and walk away.

Hope Springs Eternal?

"I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."

The word is tossed out and about from mouths that don't know the real meaning; but I've seen the colors hope is made of. 

Rain on an early spring morning.

Fresh cut grass.

Sandcastles in the summer sunshine.

A chilly afternoon curled up on the chaise with a cup of coffee and the cat curled over my toes.

Lilac blossoms.

And butterflies in unexpected places.

On the Writing Life

I'm sitting here listening to The Fray and pondering why it's taken me this long to get to the point in my life where writing feels like breathing. 

Maybe it's because I'm thirty. 

Maybe it's because I'm getting married. 

Maybe it's because I recently got the chance (thanks Vegas Book Club!)to Skype with Jillian Lauren, author of the tragically entertaining memoir Some Girls.

Maybe it's letter D: none of the above.

Or maybe the combination of hourglass sand and Jillian's sage advice was the catalyst I needed to view myself honestly and decide what kind of legacy I really want to leave behind.

I asked her when the climactic moment came that she knew she needed to tell her story. She replied it was a story that "kept coming back."

Those three words seemed to me to be the message I've been searching the stars for.

I remember thinking to myself as Jillian shared with our book club, "She's so amazing, but so absolutely normal." A mother, a wife, a lover of books and beautiful things... I felt as though I was having a glass of wine with an old friend (actually, she could have been a twin of my gal pal Alison!). After that, my next thought was "If she can do it, why can't I?" And I say again, well.... why not? 

These days, with technology outdistancing even Jules Verne's imagination, how many more excuses do I really have?

What am I waiting for?

(With apologies to the Divine Creator of all) In the Beginning...

...Sara created this blog.

The blog was without form and an empty waste, and darkness was upon the face of the flat screen monitor. The fingers of Sara were moving over the face of the keyboard.

And Sara said, "Let there be words;" and there were words.

And Sara saw that the words were good and she approved them.

And the afternoon was the first blog entry, and Sara was hungry.