Monday, October 26, 2009

poems 6&7


ink like silk before my pen

each letter a silvery thread

(that's why I still write in cursive, see)

I unravel silence which is tangled

lightly, as if to bandaid thoughts mangled

my pen

the prophet

my hand

the wielder

strive for accuracy or allow half-

assed sribbles to mingle

I hope they ferment

in the seat of my pocket

is not poetry usually drunk?


on a sling my moon hangs

deep in the belly of the sky

a pendulum for night birds

prey and pretty young girls

a compass by which two

unlikely intrepid children

dancing barefoot in the buttery sand

traverse, as a rule

we decided we were women when we

threw open arms, palms

to mouth. Laughter is spilling out

and always like a gong.

Telling this and that about

how we like it best until

at once we run dry of enthuse

quiet in reverie, content to

stare at dregs of coffee a glance

at the hovering moon

(which would never betray our lightest admissions)

and we are on the ball, rolling, again