December Poetry (Merry Christmas to All!)

December 11, 2009 coothoots

December 2009 – This has been an “iffy” month – the weather shifts, and moods.  I’ve posted a few of my writings below.  Hope everyone will enjoy!

Feelings Yield Me to Touch With Quiet Grace

Conformists turn 180º,
follow your slaughter
like bleach soaked pigs
in blind-folded bliss,
and I survive empty, unknowing, & left
to cradle empty shell without validation.

The lullaby lingers in soft sighs
in the bending brush of hangings.
Opaque breasts embody bellied sobs
in undersexed hours.

Everlasting life and death flaunts entwined.

I love you, little boy, melodic child.

The pink tangerine sunset
will always be your smile,
the clouds your hands
blowing kisses,
forcing nature to flutter
that what buries me beneath
its strong embrace.

Even now sensual lips
soft as pink-tangerine sunset
and iris pelted skin glows.

I wait greedily for dawn mist’s wake,
the first note of a red-legged thrush,
and the complex song it sings.

Before you came I was a plain morning glory,
trailed a clapboard porch, blended in
weed-tangled span of downhill ditches.

Time slips away, as downpours gush.
Pilfered flashes fuse and disappear.

Earth quakes and fractals outline vision.
Fission can only be one of love realized.

Sleep stirs me in this hill’s hold.
I’ve grown old in this lost day,
bent by rain-floods of a teetering mind.

A blue bird erupts from crimson stamens
to fly away as insanity rocks intoxicated
to fresh smells of stir-crazy jubilation.

Quietly, I rest offhand and knee-jerky,
reverently, sitting temperate and living
the bleakness of missing limits, thinking.

Art Evolution

The temperature drops. Or so it feels.

I enter winter and the church with fruit cake
in my bag, and meet a man who brushed by me,
a month earlier, with a patch on his eye,
tilted to the right side of his nose.

He emerges with no visible signs
of ever being wounded.
I draw specific details:
without the patch his lips are perfect,
and visualize other objects standing stiffer
than his priest collar.

I decide, officially, in my mind, at this moment
it’s the season to mail Christmas cards,
write the lost and volunteer a little.

We discuss the nativity scene,
relationships between religion and art,
of how neither would have survived
if artists had not lauded
atrocious plosions,
coverted flashes
from shame to beauty
via esthetic elucidation.

Our conclusion was:
the masses are,
though they barely know it,
beguiled by art.

Obsession

My old man commutes with me on wild rides,

mixes strange pills in his vodka tonic.

His compulsions drive me batty,

even at low speeds.

Ecstasy-bound we both fly;

he’s from the pill-popping baby-boomer-generation

one propelled to bodyguard a vain sixties chick.

Full-throttled I spend his money, drink

to dawn, add to full house of collections,

a compulsion that causes his butt cheeks

to suck up and his hair stand on end.

He claims it’s all okay,

except when he misses medications.

It’s then he becomes my fixation,

and I hang in a room to rock,

cross-dress the dolls, peep

his way the same as a full moon

leaks blanchâtre mist.

Sculpture bends over whispers –

pictures grab lives that shift,

and shutters swing, jars window,

slaps screen.

Stacked curtains hide tattooed stains.

He flip tricks, spins, bursts free

streaks across the living room

like he was on a nude beach

bird watching with ten pairs

of binoculars, and I stumble

across the wedding dresses.

Mumbling reveals I’m kinda weird,

married all this time, but still buying

wedding dresses.

It’s then I decide to wear one for dinner,

jump on the Harley and head out to Shoney’s

all-you-can-eat buffet.  You’d think I’d frozen

time with one hand and traveled through it

to escape obsession, avoid entrapment,

resisted urges and found the great escape –

a night away from Ebay and Amazon,

the poetry forums all the while

saving my old man from shame.

It’s just for a night like the seasons in between.

Cooler air dithers, calls wild ones to ride

fast and free, float out split ends

of control that hang icicled

in mind melt’s where life

passes fast and quick.

The old man’s bones snap and bare toes pop.

He pulls out his umbrella, straps on leather chaps,

biker hat and reaches around my waist.  It’s then that

I know we share a festival of longing, and there’s plenty

of time and ample room in our place where mania blooms.

Obsession

We met jamming
in a basement of misfits,
running on a handful of blue dots.

Cramps made me do it,
starve off the heart’s suspicions
for a little while.

Angels floated head,

and a devil’s trail

led to his bed,
held pleasures
of heaven and hell.
Endlessly, ecstasy sought.

Demon and whore dance:

frenzy of desecrated lust.

Somewhere midstream
uncurbed passion reigned

unearthly games,
claimed essence

and promised more.

Our heads snaked

and watched Medusa fly

goggleplex of years,

leaning woe-be-gone weak,

weeks and a devil’s stash.
Morning, December, I walk
grocery lane in late hours,
super-sized in a wishing well store,
reach deep into pockets,

drop a dime –

believe it’s a coaxer

of deadbeat moments.

A Salvation Army hovers nearby,

and palms their bells.

I understand why people kill for love,

and hope wishes don’t turn his ass to stone

or cut off his wide-reached control,
shrink his penis, or blind him from sex,
only doom him to speak
and hear what I feel.

Entry Filed under: Poetry,Writer

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