Easy Does It

Photograph ~ Diana Matisz

i fall in love,
easily
to the rumble of thunder
beating distant mountains
into submission
and the petrichor of hard rain
on hot skin

i break,
easily
beneath the lush weight
of silver-tongued desire
and the full-blown rose
of satiety

i live,
easily
in sumptuous rooms
framed in the hearts
of those who might
find me
might love me

i cry,
easily
with the banshee howl
of tethered zephyrs
with wanton joy
and the softened slurry
of latent grief

i fight,
easily
for what is mine
for what i love
for who i am

i am,
a woman
easily

Obituary

on Wednesday, 7 March 2012
9:00 am
in a field of crocus
old man winter
succumbed to spring
revelers arrived from far and wide
to send the curmudgeon on his way
choir of robins trilled hallelujah
as blades of grass
broke ground around him
a procession of daffodils
in sun-day finery
carried his cold white bones
to the riverbank
where geese and ducks
crows and catfish
pushed them over the dam
a luncheon was served
in the meadow
following the funeral

She Was Trouble, Even Then

i can see her clearly,
today,
the first of seven
spoiled rotten
full of mischief
sharp-eyed inquisitor
wrapping all who knew her
around her little fingers

most days,
she fades,
lost in rubble
of crumbling years
and the merry-go-round
of brass-ring moments
fleeing,
some days,
i'm afraid
to look her in the eyes

but today,
today i see her clearly
and envy her innocence
her joie de vivre
her path
today,
i look back at her
with the same blue eyes
and hope she likes
what she sees,
today

[ This post is dedicated to the little me in the photo and to my dear friend Sharon. We share a birthday and, despite the many miles between us, we often share the same thoughts.
Happy Birthday Sharon ♥ ]

The Book of Lost and Found

Photograph ~ Diana Matisz

sliding from the shelf of a dusty cabinet
the book of lost and found
releases the past with a gasp
as hours days and years explode
in a nebula of faded ink
and redolent spice
of carnations
heather
rose

faces
dates
deaths and births
prayers
rants
long-buried secrets
penned in black and blue
tumble
scatter
brighten
in daylight long forgotten

history disturbed
taunts
consoles
with tender endearments
visceral blows
page after page
stained with friction ridges
and dog-eared scenes of living
rest in peace
in the book of lost and found

Don't Send Me Flowers

on this day, everyday
tongue the sweet spot
in the thumbprint hollow of my neck
tease my ankles
with calloused fingertips,
exploring
lay your cheek
against the soft pillow
of my lips
read me to sleep
rock me to abandon
feed me enticing words
and exotic flavors
learn my terrain
the valleys, crooked paths,
the perfect imperfections
write for me
fall into me
sing to me
make me
shiver
laugh
and weep
but please,
don't send me flowers

False Positive

spring
tugs me outward
i peel off clothing
piece by piece, trailing
behind like breadcrumbs
back to skeletal winter
pregnant river
swollen with the run-off
of sated mountain streams
fertile mud birthing green
i inhale attar of warm wet earth
spice of evergreen and jonquil
basted by the sun
my tongue licks at milk-warm air
sweet with honeyed light
bird song vies with choir of geese
tranquil nocturne in the key of peace
until, the sly north wind stops short,
looks back, a stealthy hunter tracking
spring

Standard Avenue

a winter walk

turning right instead of left

i find myself on Standard Avenue

where memories pass through me, ghostly

i stand before grandmother's house

watch it change, from red brick

to white siding, peer through walls

to a garden ripe

with sun-warmed tomatoes

sweet wild plums

voices drown out my everyday

english / slovak discussing coal

and politics, sports and beer

the correct way to make pierógi

an uncle's song, an aunt's soft scold

simple buzzing quiet

of a Sunday afternoon

a winter walk

turning right instead of left

crying with the loss and joy

of finding myself on Standard Avenue