Diana's Words

Standard Avenue

2012-01-09T14:33:00.000-05:00

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

Measuring Time

2012-01-07T17:46:00.001-05:00

Photograph courtesy of my sister, Sharon Greco, from her Carolina heaven.

i can see you
there

waiting

where you've always
been

waiting

but
no matter
that i follow the rules
color inside the lines
walk the straight and narrow
i can never reach you

waiting

perhaps a break in accustomed routine
a variance, a mid-course correction
will close the gap between us
perhaps one step forward
from off in the distance
will bring you running
to where

I'm waiting

In Her Own Words

2011-12-15T10:36:00.000-05:00

I was recently asked by Theron Kennedy to do an interview for TeamPoetry at his website In Their Own Words. Please click the link to read his interviews with other writers in the spotlight. I am a great fan of Theron's poetry, which you will find here Between the Rhymes. It was an honor to be invited to participate and I'm grateful to Theron for his dedication to poetry and his untiring promotion of writers whose words might otherwise go unread.

Diana Matisz: In Her Own Words

What is an Artist?

An artist is anyone who has the need to create, in any format. I have a friend who cannot understand why I love the paintings of Jackson Pollock. To my friend, he did nothing but throw paint onto canvas. To me, Pollock's passion to create is apparent in every spatter and drop. His need literally flowed from his body to the canvas. The 'need' to drop everything and sit down to pen words, scribble notes onto a scale, capture something different through the lens of a camera, paint a sunrise before it disappears forever, that 'need' is a component of a true 'artist'.

What are your passions?

My passions are slow-simmering private ones. Although I have strong feelings regarding politics and religion, you won't ever see me discussing them on social networks. If we had a face to face discussion, you would find that I'm rabid about the rights and treatment of the elderly in my country. If you know me well, you know that music and musicians live rent-free in my heart. On an artistic level, photography is a main focus these days. I'm a novice, I have no expensive equipment but I'm quite pleased with some of the work I've shown. I run two online stores. One at RedBubble, solely for the purchase of prints and the second at CafePress, another outlet to share my photography in other formats. They're both doing well and although the monetary factor is nice, the idea that a piece of my art is hanging on the walls of someone an ocean away or just around the block, is even nicer.

What are your favorite styles of poetry? What are your favorite styles to write in?

I really don't know how I would categorize my style of writing. I am in awe and have great respect for those writers who tackle forms such as sonnets, rondeau and triolet. I've attempted form but never published anything. I don't think I have the discipline in my writing. I enjoy reading form much more than my poor attempts at writing it. Haiku are favorites. I love the simplicity and elegance of expression in so few words. Rhyme used to set my teeth on edge until I learned to read it aloud. There's a richness and flow to the structure that wasn't apparent to me immediately. I'm a sponge, I want to read everything.

Who are your favorite poets and have they influenced you? How?

Other than the required reading in high school, I hadn't read much poetry until later into my adult years. Musicians were the poets that spoke to me first. Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Nick Cave, Joni Mitchell and yes, even Led Zeppelin. Lyrics opened doors to new worlds and ideas for this small town girl. I'm not sure I remember why I began reading poetry but I do remember what started it all. I'd bought a series of books by Winston O. Abbott (writer) and Bette Eaton Bossen (illustrator). Four little books that I picked out of a sale bin, signed no less, elegantly written and beautifully illustrated. I still have them and they are still go-to favorites. I've buried myself in Pablo Neruda, puzzled and marveled over Fernando Pessoa and José Saramago, fallen in love with Seamus Heaney and Robin Robertson. I've devoured the modern Greek poets, thanks to the recommendations of an accommodating friend in Greece and, give me the gift of a big thick poetry anthology and I'll love you forever! Despite this plethora of knowledge, I've found that some of my favorite poets are those writers in my social network. Those whose work I anticipate. To hold the first published book of a friend in my hands means as much to me as the work of a well-known poet. I'm not influenced so much by how another poet writes as I am by how I feel after I've read them. And then I want them to taste the flavors in my writing that I've tasted in theirs.

When did you start writing?

If I remember correctly, my first official piece of artistic writing was for an art class in grade school. Our assignment was to write and illustrate a small book. My book was about autumn and it was in the shape of an oak leaf. Although the book has long since disappeared, I do remember the joy I felt over the finished product. My art and my words bound in tangible form. I'd always wanted to write and over the years have kept half-filled journals, scribbled ideas to be used in the future for....something. It wasn't until the death of a family member a few years ago that the desire to write became a reality. Grief became the catalyst to writing, writing became the outlet for grief. A blessing from tragedy.

Where are you from?

I was born and raised near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. I lived away from this area for many years but am currently residing in the 'Burgh again. It remains to be seen where my next 'home' will be.

Why do you write?

Simple, I write to express myself. I'm a fairly private person and I've found that writing allows me to share a little more of my life in a way that's more comfortable for me than just blurting out the facts. Early on, I was very unsure of myself as a writer and shy about sharing my work. I was always comparing my writing to that of so many others until I finally had to convince myself that if I liked what I'd written, that should be enough. I published a poetry book in 2010, mostly as an experiment. I wanted to see if my poetry would sell, which it has. But mostly, it was the satisfaction of opening that book and seeing my words in ink and again, holding the tangible result of a creative effort in my hands. I'm astounded and grateful, always, whenever readers share my work or take the time to comment about something they particularly enjoyed. My joy is when readers tell me they felt as if they were 'there' with me while reading. I want a reader to see what I see, hear the undercurrents running beneath the words.

What inspires you?

I look to anything and everything in regard to inspiration for my writing. I love to eavesdrop on conversations while sitting on a bus or on a park bench. I have a musician friend who creates whole songs from one-line phrases given to him by his listeners. That's what I anticipate, a catch phrase that will trigger a flow of words. Two years ago, during a walk in the snow with my five year old nephew, an idea for a book surfaced out of nowhere while listening to him tell me about his imaginary friends who lived in the pine trees at the end of our yard. Music is also a huge source of inspiration to me. Often, when the words seem to have fled, listening to music will quite often pull buried emotions to the surface and along with them, the missing words. My natural environment, the Allegheny River valley, is at the heart of much of my writing and particularly in my photography. I also love that chance meeting with a stranger, someone who takes you out of your comfort zone for a short time. One of my own favorite poems, "The Carney Man", is a perfect example of that and I've included it below.

Have you discovered what is unique in your voice as a poet?

I believe the voice of every individual poet/writer is unique. How could it be otherwise. My writing doesn't fall into a niche or follow rules and form. It is what it is. I suppose if there was one 'voice' for which I would like to be known, it would be that of a storyteller. I'm an apprentice hoping to improve with patience, practice and experience.

The Carney Man

Seated on a city bench sipping lemonade
lost in clamor of squealing children and
mechanical skeletons kissing summer skies

a body settled down beside me and
out the corner of an eye I saw
blue bans

and when he smiled, gold-toothed grin.
Defensive walls clattered upward,
body language stiffened until he nodded

and said 'good evening miss' and smiled
once more, this time with green eyes.
An hour later he had quoted Heaney, Cave

and Cohen and spun my head with tales
of Memphis belles, delta blues and
californication.

We said goodbye and as I walked away
he called out 'Hey miss, come back anytime.
For you, the rides are free'.

Links to Diana Matisz's poetry and photography:

Diana's Words

Life Through Blue Eyes

RedBubble

Pastiche at CafePress

Casting Spells

2011-12-03T22:00:00.001-05:00

when i think of you

i steal the black from crows

ink in the mercury moon

to dim gleaming hunger

reflected in my eyes

bleach the sky of color

shroud dawning blush

erotic heat in cold gray

spectral passion

i still the wind that stirs

the leaves with traitorous

incantations, your voice

astride zephyrs

circle runes around my heart

an alchemist transmutating

craving into benevolent panacea

casting spells

when i think of you

The Weaver

2011-11-28T11:58:00.001-05:00

Photograph courtesy of Dan Sandu

deep beneath warp and weft
of inured lifetimes laid to rest
spindrift pool of sorrows
where broken threads
and threadbare lives
disintegrate in mist

waiting, for weaver's
slender fingers, each a shuttle
plaiting rapiers of solace
across a mystic handloom
mending rifts in time
restoring priceless tapestries

[Gratitude to my friend Dan Sandu for allowing me to borrow his wonderful photograph.]

Handbook

2011-11-15T21:19:00.001-05:00

'Reverie' ~ Migdalia Arellano

long black dress
back-less
the woman,
column of dark
midnight
proprietary hand
on the small
of her back
slipping
beneath silk
his touch,
guiding her
across a marble floor
fingertips
pressed to litmus skin
ciphered messages
all that he is
everything he wants
of her
spiraling
through matrix of whorls
his signature
a codex
to her anima

Storm Door

2011-11-09T18:42:00.001-05:00

through an open storm door

clouds race in

dirty striations
on crumpled parchment

stretched thin

across sour-milk sky

bamboo chimes

chant hymns

hollowed out

by rising wind

black limbs stripped
honed, poniards

stabbing dusk

into bruised submission
faint shriek of winter
banshee cry
beneath susurrus
of dying autumn
battering an open storm door

A Road Home

2011-11-06T17:08:00.000-05:00

Photograph~DianaMatisz

a road home
where skin fits bones
to perfection
where other eyes
see nothing
but who one
really is
beneath the scars
hidden
far beneath the armor

a new road
unexplored, a novelty
deviation from the path
and yet, long-shadowed
by past lives lingering,
never far behind
a road that leads to
just-around-the bend
time-in-a-bottle and
grow-old-with-me
the best is yet to be
on a road home

Saudade

2011-11-05T13:46:00.000-04:00

"Saudade" ~ José Ferraz de Almeida Júnior

longing, deep and dark
riding contrails of recollections
on wings of melancholy pleasures
indolent desires reaching to the past
aching for a future
bound in a Gordian knot
of cryptic joys and sorrows
saudade
the heart's solace
saddened in bliss
buoyed by consoling hope
saudade
beautiful paradox

Akimbo In Limbo

2011-10-25T11:12:00.000-04:00

Photo * Diana Matisz

stuck in place
static
emptied
hands on hips
elbows bent
a ewer
waiting
to be filled
or
at the very least
carried off
to a shelf
with a different view

Starfield

2011-10-24T11:48:00.001-04:00

Photo ~ Diana Matisz

luminaria
blown out
one by one
like candles
on a cake
dying flames
pinched
between thumb
and forefinger
one star
for every hunger
each desire
the sky
is black now

Whirlwind

2011-10-19T21:24:00.000-04:00

Photograph "Combustion" ~ Diana Matisz

They met on Friday

beneath a holiday sky

and striped umbrellas

sipping temptations

on the rocks

electric smiles

igniting flirtations

behind Gucci frames

sharing everything

and nothing at all

made love on Saturday

behind shuttered windows

a private archipelago

decanting everything they had

into everything they needed

stopping borrowed time

with whispered confessions

demands for more of this

do that again

please please please

don't stop

separated on Sunday

in the airport bar

kiss kiss both cheeks

promises to call

to write to visit

turned and walked away

already checking iPhones

to see whom

they might have missed

who might be wanting them

never looking back

What Children Hear

2011-10-04T12:52:00.000-04:00

Photo ~ DianaMatisz

when children listen
it's with more than ears
eyes widen
at lips forming full round vowels
tiny fingers stretch to catch
the crooked curves of smiles
trace wrinkles in a cheek

when children listen
they feel the rumbles
and whispers of words,
intentions resonating
in air, between the reason
for a spoken word and
the experience of its taste

what children hear
when they listen
is everything we are

Aroma Therapy

2011-09-21T22:06:00.000-04:00

Photography Link

waking slowly to
Cohiba oiled fingertips

sandalwood and leather
in the hollow of a shoulder

eastern sea breeze
in curl of chocolate hair

upper lip rimmed
in fruited tawny port

waking slowly
to you

Confessions

2011-09-18T13:13:00.000-04:00

in an open-air pew
declarations spill
from wine-stained lips
wanting kissed

two owl confessors
silently observe
sub rosa hunger
mea culpas, knifing

like comets through
a treacle sky
burning bright
and dying.

Demons at 3 am

2011-09-16T11:44:00.000-04:00

Photography ~ Denis Butorac

through tiny cracks in window glass,
wrinkles in the sheets, they arrive
lost sleep flops, helpless, belly up
onto the killing floor
scars, old wounds of love's
fatalities, commence their bone-deep ache
silence resounds off walls bled of color, shatters

the relentless pace begins through
shards of battered dreams
bloodshot slitted eyes blink away
advancing horde of phantoms,
imps plant doubt, tug,
dragging heart from home

poor body, weary of the fight,
rails back with a snap
of artificial daylight
banishing demons at 3 am

Conjuror

2011-09-12T20:04:00.015-04:00

Photo - Diana Matisz

when the moon
casts an opal eye
on sweet grass
lush and deep

when grey-beard moss
whip-stitches jagged sutures
into a coal-black night

as raven-ink wings
of hollow-bone birds
beat into submission
feral howls of need

you will find her

arms akimbo
legs dovetailed
pale skin smeared with
the dirt of a sacred place

you will hear her

black-note hymn
a chant, sweet canticle
of three words
sung in runes...

Stripped

2011-08-26T23:15:00.002-04:00

Photo ~ Diana Matisz

I crack open, strip off summer skin
shed and shred charred parchment
of volcanic days, let fall to cooling earth
hypnotic comfort of cicada songs

sea glass mementos evaporate
in bleached and thinning air
as india ink of star shot skies
bleeds onto fading roses

I gather golden husks, jeweled leaves
wood smoke wisps and harvest moons,
draw maple sap into emptied veins
store pumpkins in the hollows

stitch closed jagged tattered seams
with silvered corn silk strands,
plump, reshape the empty shell
soften, unbend into autumn skin

Mercury Rising

2011-08-25T17:04:00.001-04:00

Photo ~ DianaMatisz

fat teardrops of silver rain
sacrificed and shattered
on glass reflecting light
from spectral moon, waning

thunder rolls in tremors
along limbs entangled
in early morning déshabillé
echoes of rustling wakenings

cobweb gauze of river mist
undulates through open windows
teasing, stirring somnolent inertia
of lovers shedding night

passive bodies rouse
reconnoiter epicenter, connect
with dawn's first blush
mercury rising

Morning Paean

2011-08-23T08:49:00.002-04:00

Photo ~ Diana Matisz

robin's trills banished
by raucous notes of sleek black crows

pensive cries of summer ardency
ripped like weeds from cool damp earth

cautious creak of petals
stretching spreading wide

fog's ashen hiss
sun's point of entry

rapiers of grass
shaking off evanescing diamonds

hymn to dawn
thanksgiving

Southbound

2011-08-16T08:40:00.013-04:00

Photo courtesy of James Rinalducci Jazz

southern man south bound
burning asphalt beneath tires
suitcase full of thin black notes
whole, half and quarters
flats and sharps
semiquaver
breath marks

his one and only woman
rides along, cherished,
the spur behind the odyssey
long and shapely, elegant
in her flushed metallic beauty
her given name, Gilda

through big cities, sleepy towns
southern man and inamorata
weave their melody appassionato
scatter lush black notes into
southern skies, no interlude until
the suitcase empties and they
are north bound once again

{ Written for my friend and favorite sax man James Rinalducci who is currently on a tour and a journey of discovery through the south lands. I wish him well. }

Under Glass

2011-08-09T10:53:00.002-04:00

Diana Matisz

Pour one for me before you go,
she said. Leave a glass of words
in the guise of honeyed-amber
tempting lips and tongue

Make it the best you have,
one that will burn away
the blues, light fires in a
darkling anima

Walk away, leave me to it
don't look back, it won't be
pretty-this gnashing frenzied
exhumation of inspiration

When I'm spent and the deed
is done, I'll turn and walk away
leaving poetic bloodied runes
beneath your catalyst

{ For Judge Whisky }

Connecting

2011-08-07T13:23:00.001-04:00

a voice, a hint of persona
fleshed out, amplified on
delicate attenuated line
syllabic vibrations
roll and tumble down
fiber optic pathways
earthy timbres growl
from lips to ears
and back again

vowels and consonants
woven into first-impression
stimulation, electrifying
articulation of words
begging to be
spoken
heard

listener's bated breaths
speaker's dulcet proclamations,
revelations of the yet untasted lips
from which they fall-
connecting in the aether

Sunrise Fusion

2011-08-01T09:46:00.000-04:00

moon recedes on gulls feathered cries
tugs back nights duvet

georgia peach sun kisses
tattered pearl grey dawn

coral shafts cantilever
clouds at morning stretch

lone musician facing east
releases dark wing blue-notes

watches as they soar and burn
before falling into cool pink silk

washed ashore, plucked from sand
composition for the next sunrise

In Pieces

2011-07-31T21:39:00.000-04:00

Artwork Link

oddly shaped and tessellated
jig-sawed again and again
reworked reinvented
never quite complete

too often one last segment
un-fit or gone-missing
puzzle bows and breaks
a thousand pieces on the floor

sharp linear edges
easiest to maneuver
complicated center cuts
myriad of labyrinthine hints

reshuffle, square the frame
assemble glimmerings in empty
corners, integrate the perfect fit
from pieces on the floor

If You See Him

2011-07-26T09:18:00.008-04:00

Photo ~ CommanderEVE / DeviantArt

Wanted:
my green-eyed muse

Last seen:
I don't remember when

Characteristics:
pulls words with ease from unknown depths
able to leap tall tales in a single bound
has fingers fitting any pen, ink for blood
parchment skin tattooed with traces
of a fading me, scented with the patchouli lure
of unwritten words, hostage thoughts
my soul hums deep within his chest

if you see him, send him home
but be forewarned of those green eyes
that's how I was caught

Upstream

2011-07-24T18:05:00.002-04:00

Photo ~ Diana Matisz

Rare stolen moment

little body at rest

study in contemplation

of up-stream, around-the-bend,

i-wonder.

Light-weight of an eight year

old world takes five on thin

shoulders, splashes of dragons

and space travel eddy,

imagination at full spate.

Too soon he'll rise and wade

through currents of curiosity

to discover what waits for him

in a somewhere else from

where he's been.

Two by Two

2011-07-21T14:12:00.002-04:00

Photo ~ Diana Matisz

two beds
two rooms
two worlds

separate

one writhing need
one wanton abandon
two conjure two

rumpled madness in

two beds
two rooms
two worlds

separate

Some Woman

2011-07-18T16:57:00.007-04:00

moulded in flexible sinew
and bone, with weight-bearing
hips, knees embedded with cinders
of tomboy adventures

life blood seasoned with tears
muscled silk delicacy, scars
of experience etched onto pliant
canvas encompassing all

histories and mysteries peer
from curious child eyes
rain down in word showers from lips
made for kissing and kissing away hurts

designed in sharp angles and
dangerous curves, a custom fit
body of work, malleable iron
resilient to change

but to most, she's only
some woman

Southern Magic (Collaboration with James Rinalducci)

2011-07-16T11:37:00.001-04:00

'Southern Magic' is a poem I published last March. It's one of my own favorites and has taken on a life of its own. The poem was inspired by the music of my friend James Rinalducci and by our shared love of Savannah. When James read the poem, he told me it inspired him to write a piece of music around the words. He waited for the perfect night with the perfect moon and recorded in Forsyth Park. A full creative circle back to James' music. Which is the perfect reason to share this again. The photograph is also one of James' own personal favorites, taken on a visit to Bonaventure Cemetery. Enjoy his lovely melody as you read. Thank you James, from my heart ♥

Photograph courtesy of James Rinalducci

She came to life on a wet opalescent night

a night wrapped in occluded moonlight

skin perfumed with sweet white gardenia

and red oriental poppy

She breathed deep the antediluvian scent

of river tides and incense of spanish moss

through half opened lips her tongue

tasted the new exotic, the aged decadence

She heard the deep low moan of a sax

echoing through Forsyth Park

its voice a fluid catalyst of passion

rolling over her like soft thunder

Her body hummed and shivered

with old mysteries and older secrets

that stripped her bare as she succumbed

to southern magic

James' links:

Jamesrinalduccijazz's Blog

James Rinalducci Jazz at Reverbnation

James Rinalducci at MySpace

The Window

2011-07-11T23:56:00.002-04:00

Diana Matisz

air tumescent with fat drops
of summer rain lift and billow
the curtain at the window
where she waits

skin tattooed with the lace
of shadowed leaves back lit
by a gibbous moon and rising
silver river mist

auras of sweet grass scents
ride the surface of her body
at the window where she waits
in lavender and lace

The Carney Man

2011-07-06T21:21:00.002-04:00

Diana Matisz

Seated on a city bench sipping lemonade
lost in clamor of squealing children and
mechanical skeletons kissing summer skies

a body settled down beside me and
out the corner of an eye I saw
blue bandanna, holey jeans

and when he smiled, gold-toothed grin.
Defensive walls clattered upward,
body language stiffened until he nodded

and said 'good evening miss' and smiled
once more, this time with green eyes.
An hour later he had quoted Heaney, Cave

and Cohen and spun my head with tales
of Memphis belles, delta blues and
californication.

We said goodbye and as I walked away
he called out 'Hey miss, come back anytime.
For you, the rides are free'.

Fractures

2011-06-26T21:14:00.002-04:00

Diana Matisz

breaks
in communication
ruptures
at the junction of contact
fragmentations
of bitter-pill memories
splintering
end-of-tunnel light

repair
ever widening rifts
caulk
with viscous familial blood
reconstruct
teetering frame
seal
raw lacerations

[ Thanks to @lerrnst for the inspiration with the word 'breaks' in his latest poem '1453' ]

Seraph

2011-06-13T14:09:00.001-04:00

The wonderful photographs below are courtesy of my friend and favorite sax man, James Rinalducci. Please take a moment to click on the link to hear his music. James lives in Savannah GA, my favorite southern city. He recently took some photos during a visit to Bonaventure Cemetery, one of the most eerily beautiful places in the world. Thank you James, for the inspiration.

Photographs courtesy of James Rinalducci

behind spanish moss mantilla
head bowed, acceptance
a Bonaventure angel
face stained with
burden of tears
lifted from weary souls

ensconced in southern heat
cold facade lit from within
alabastrine fingers
drip moon-drenched lilies
gifts to the lost
lanterns by which
they may find their way home

Throwing Stars

2011-06-10T21:14:00.002-04:00

'Surikens' by BurtonX270 at DeviantArt

changeling winds
pluck silver stars
from onyx sky
above your head

minuscule shurikens
flung across a sea
honed points dipped
rimed with salt

riding nor'easter furies
to alluvial river's edge
lifted by night mist
to clouds above my head

dropped by rain
onto my skin, slicing
through the surface
embedding you, in me

Move Me

2011-05-29T23:53:00.004-04:00

'Soft Light' by Pino

fill the hollow of my shoulder
with symmetry of lips
tongue a fearless path along
katana arc of neck

breathe erotic touchstones
into pearl-pink ears
abrade with teeth and chin
bare wanton nape

slip unhurried hands around
carnal ellipse of hips
pour liquid ecstasy kisses
into open-mouthed desire

just
move me

Night Shades

2011-05-27T22:30:00.002-04:00

"Odyssey" ~ Diana Matisz

walking at night
through streets of my past
i

stumbled twice on cracks of sly hindsight
bounced softly off auras of vanishing Me's
hopped over memories embedded in stones
spun once in a current of visiting haunts

walking at night
through streets of my past
i

swallowed piquancy of light-hearted summers
stole a deep breath of old lace and lilac
heard my young laugh in a softly lit house
tucked it away in my world-weary heart

walking at night
through streets of my past

Reading Palms

2011-05-26T21:31:00.003-04:00

a man's palm
cool and firm as marble

muscled mount of Venus
carved for lips tongue teeth

plain of Mars hollowed
cradle for my cheek

heart line furrowed
deep crevasse of love

Jupiter Saturn Apollo Mercury
fingers, long and supple

line of fate through Saturn's core
magnet to my own

simian crease, heart / head fusion
emotions in check awaiting release

a man's palm
reading me

Smoke and Whiskey

2011-05-24T21:25:00.004-04:00

"The Mirror" ~ Sir Frank Dicksee

crowded room
cacophony of voices
litters pearl grey air
sip of whiskey
puff of cigar
sees her face
reflected
in hazy mirror
above the bar

blue abyss eyes
follow corkscrews
of smoke curling
above dark head
halo of recriminations
assumptions made
by those who think
they know
what lies beneath

pursed full lips tilt
and blow one long flume
an aromatic arrow
through the heart of
'you think you know me'
glass of amber liquid raised
to the woman in the mirror
'to everything she is'
all the things they'll never be

Abrazar la Vida (Collaboration with Alejandro Ezequiel)

2011-05-21T17:12:00.000-04:00

This is a second collaboration with my friend Alejandro Ezequiel. Alejandro is a photographer, poet and musician. Please take a moment to visit Alejandro's page to see more of his imaginative photography and words.

the dance begins

in the dying kiss of a well-worn day

the present, the here and now

perform intricate steps

a close embrace tango

over the widening fissure

between fractured past

tenuous future

mistakes trapped beneath

hope reflected in

mirrored abyss

one misstep one stumble

the here and now

becomes a day

with no tomorrow

how will the dance end

Living

2011-05-17T18:16:00.000-04:00

anniversary
the eve of the day you left
and couldn't come back
for you,

I let black diamond rain
kiss my skin

breathe white river mist
deep into lungs

touch fingers to heart
blood singing in veins

taste layers of spring
flow on my tongue

gasp beneath the unadulterated
weight of living

on this anniversary
the eve of the day you left
and couldn't come back,
I do these things

for you,
because you can't

[ for SJM / 05-18-08 ]

River Music

2011-05-11T14:23:00.000-04:00

goose-down notes
on robin's egg sky

adagio of lapping waves
blue jay choir

an orchestration
of honking geese

woodpecker tremolo
birch leaf waltz

soprano finch
sparrow's tenor call

alto doves
frog's basso profundo croak

sonata of sun, air
earth and water

river music

Street Lamp Child ( Read by Costis Demos )

2011-05-09T11:27:00.000-04:00

I'm honored to have one of my own favorite poems read by my friend Costis Demos . If you haven't already, do yourself a great favour and read his elegant poetry at Mist dancing .

Photography Link

12:38 am.
Tell me child,
how did you get here?
How did you find yourself
lying in an alley on your back
blows raining down on you
from the fists of other children.

Ragged freeze-frame images
of angry little faces
baby fat of childhood
clinging to sharp angles
of impending adulthood
your dark eyes
staring up in fear
haloed by a street lamp.

Children dying
world imploding
and yet,
in the safety of a quiet town
they fight and scream
kick and pummel
and for what?
Jealousies and slurs
or the unforgivable:
lack of love?

Sirens shatter
what's left of night's peace
as twenty children scatter
in a game of hide-and-seek
no longer an innocent race.
I watch as you stumble away
to a home where no one cares
and hope you sleep well, child.

I won't.

Prayer

2011-05-08T17:46:00.004-04:00

Photograph ~ Diana Matisz

asleep beneath a vernal sun

falling apple blossoms

become your lips

cool river breeze

your palms

dandelion wine

taste

wind in copper beech

voice

bump-bump of rocking dock

heartbeat

viridian green grass

body

earth's axial tilt

your arc

into me

I pray

to never

wake

Photo Op

2011-05-06T15:32:00.003-04:00

family photo

all eyes forward

smiles in place

and she,

she looks east

what distraction

kidnapped thoughts

made her different

separated

what did eyes,

curious, see

and chase

from that day

forward

will she

ever find it

looking

east

Tenure (Collaboration with Bukky Fehintola)

2011-05-02T10:04:00.000-04:00

Photograph courtesy of Bukky Fehintola

occupancy ensues as full-blown desire

hot-yellow passion, lit from within

liquid gold pours from long slender throats

overflow from springs wine cellar

drunken heads bob and bounce

giddy in their innocence

seemingly indefatigable

insouciant unfettered

without warning, one by one

fragile tenure ends

as alpha saffron fades

to snowy-haired omega

wisps plucked from former glory

beheaded by fickle summer draughts

their sad remains float above the ground

their revenge, a new tenancy below

[ please take a look at some of Bukky's other work here PicturePerfectPlusSome and follow him on Twitter @picturesand .]

Anonymity

2011-04-30T20:14:00.001-04:00

Photo ~ Diana Matisz

Someone read my words today
and decided they didn't like them
such foul words you had to say
bellowed like a cow
couched behind a mask of
anonymity

anonymity
that safe place behind which
stupidity reigns
insignificance revels
intelligence recedes
into a mist of inconsequence

inconsequence
the indifference I feel for you
but just had to say
to your anonymous face
coward
you

The Old Blue House

2011-04-29T14:27:00.002-04:00

Standing at the open grave
of another part of my childhood
I glance across the street
to the old blue house.

I whisper to my brother
'do you remember when'
he nods and smiles
memories flood his eyes

and mine. Another family
lives there now. I imagine
they bump into shadows of my
younger me, a fearless me.

Maybe they catch a whiff
of pipe tobacco or hear
a Scots brogue on a winter night
and wonder, why. The old blue house,

this cradle of my youth, stands vigilant,
watching over the reasons that I am
my past, laid gently
in the ground.

The Lady

2011-04-28T16:20:00.002-04:00

The wonderful photograph below is courtesy of my dear friend Alejandro. He is a musician, poet and photographer. His photography is magical, imaginative and inspiring. You can see more of his work here VISTO AL REVES and listen to his peaceful music by clicking here . You may also follow his work on twitter @vistoalreves .

The lady walks, on new moon nights

then, and only then

a transparent evanescence

casting lambent traces of her presence

on vaulted ceilings, on stonework walls

stained with mists of aeons

silk skirts rustle with the sough

of dried grass on weathered stone

scents of valerian musk

damask rose and clove

rise, haunting zephyrs

memorials to her metamorphosis

the lady walks, on new moon nights

then, and only then.

Roll On

2011-04-26T00:38:00.008-04:00

Photo ~ Diana Matisz

Brought to life by the wonderful Catherine . Please take a moment to visit her page.

blues wash over me

cerulean waves

subdue passion

spatter cobalt blood sprays

against the inside

of my eyes

groundswells surge

and ebb, with the ferocity

of indigo thunder

a rocking cradle

of both gravitas

and elevation, until

they fade recede

lose strength
from opened veins

of azure illumination

and I beg, roll on blues,

roll on

Rare Vintage

2011-04-24T00:34:00.005-04:00

Photo ~ Diana Matisz

On a morning misted
with the dying white breath
of night, you press me into
cool tall grass. Wet earth

rises up to chill our
conflagration, unloosing diamond
shards of dew from beneath our bodies,
a corona of heat eating away the dawn.

Soon the sun's sly ascendancy burns
through the canopy of our secret bower,
ribbons of saffron lash stubborn shadows
into submission. Your lips on mine

you fill my mouth with the wet
honeyed elixir of dandelion wine kisses,
as with this rare vintage of butter-yellow
and piquant-green, we are sated.

Be My Steve McQueen

2011-04-19T20:55:00.005-04:00

Artwork Link

It's a simple request, really.

I'm looking for the King of Cool.
One with steel blue eyes behind tinted Persol frames
eyes that say everything I want to hear
leave nothing to the imagination.
He won't say much but when he does, I'll listen, closely,
sliding in to catch his scent, smoke and leather.
And when I'm seated snugly on his Triumph TR6,
I'll lean in that much closer to hear the rumble of his heart
feel my destination on the road beneath his skin.
He's an anti-hero who will teach me rebel ways
push my envelope, bend my rules, give me wings.
He will know what he wants, he'll take it.
Come on now, don't play hard to get.
Won't you be my Steve McQueen?

Death By Ink

2011-04-18T19:00:00.003-04:00

Photography Link

ink once flowed

from fingers

to pen

to paper

a slow and steady

IV drip

black life's blood

slaking the thirst

of newborn pages

innocent recipients

drinking in passion,

growing strong

on a scribe's stygian milk

came the day

the well, depleted,

reversed flow

from paper

to pen

to fingers

sucking written proofs

and truths from now

mummified retainers

as the scribe, bloated

and intumescent, wrote his last.

Death by ink.

We're Through

2011-04-17T12:14:00.001-04:00

If I've told you once
I've told you a thousand times,
we can't see each other anymore.
I've had enough
of the late-night visits
you moaning and groaning
over your miserable life
or lack of,
I don't want to hear how you miss me
how you want to come back.

You gave up on me
the day you left me standing
at the bedroom window,
watching you walk away,
suitcase in hand
not even a backward glance.
I'm done with you, we're through.
I've moved on
now you do the same.
Don't make me come back here.

[Written for OneShootSunday at One Stop Poetry around the wonderful photograph of James Rainsford . ]

Storm Chaser

2011-04-16T01:07:00.001-04:00

Photo ~ Diana Matisz

I want you most
when mistrals howl
a savage song
of lust and longing

when thunder
detonates my core
fusillades and salvos
batter weak defenses

I want you most
when pelting rain
licks and stings my skin,
liquid tongues of ecstasy

when lightning explodes
in atmospheric tandem
with passion and release
vanquishing the need

I want you most
when the storm has passed
and the halcyon light of you
stills the tempest in my heart

[Submitted for week #43 of One Shot Wednesday at One Stop Poetry .]

Illumination

2011-04-11T23:46:00.003-04:00

Photo ~ Diana Matisz

Tears of hammered silver

drawn from the deepest roots

rain from blue willow eyes

lifted on the winds of sorrow

scattered and sown, liquid light

for the coming dark season

Conquered

2011-04-08T23:16:00.005-04:00

Photo ~ Diana Matisz

In the wet dark umbra
of a smoke and wine infused fugue
armoured scales of reality
slough clumsily away, tails
between their legs, riven

and bested by a more worthy
opponent, desire,
darker and wetter than the
inked-black sky beneath which
it blossoms, spreading

frenzied bloodlines of simmering
need through the psyche of its
eager supplicant, who, with one
more drag, one last sip, surrenders
to domination.

Substitute

2011-04-07T00:56:00.002-04:00

first encounter fabric on skin
illusion of myriad fingers discerning
the sweetest pathways, caressing
curves and valleys
serpent tongues licking their way
round and round thighs
flowers plaiting garlands across hips
chilled skin now blood-warmed
by the sheer weight of
this red silk
this substitute
for you

Ascension

2011-04-05T13:19:00.000-04:00

Photo courtesy of Raed Shomali Photography aka @shomali11

the quest begins
uneven steps
enlightenment the grail
stumbling through religion
a short trip on the path of divination
hobbled by belief
or worse, lack of
I take an uneven cant
through mists of
transcendental light
skipping lightly over
ancient text and liturgies
until, at last,
summit achieved
you've found you
and I, the perfect inner me
who despite the climb
to grace
and joy
still wants to simply, be

Strata of Forever

2011-04-03T14:32:00.007-04:00

Photo courtesy of a heart-dweller.

worn stone, rotted wood
empty gaping face
hollow echoes of dead zephyrs
moaning in tantric unison
with howls of last regrets
cries of drowning hopes

then,

touch the crooked layers of sun-baked
reminiscence, deep-earth heartbeats
listen to ancestral voices pressed between
sepia rifts in time
witness faerie shades of mirth
flutter in corners graced with new light

worn stone, rotted wood
gatekeepers to eternity's memoirs
written in the strata of forever

Spring Wine

2011-03-30T12:49:00.004-04:00

Athena's Pix at Flickr ~ Pansy Butterflies

The fermentation begins, slowly.

The ice wines of white lilacs

sweeten alongside a muscat of wild violets.

A buttery chardonnay of daffodils

chills in lush green grass.

An iris-laced merlot, full and rich

beneath a new spring moon,

crab-apple beaujolais

ripening in the dawn.

Proseccos of narcissus and lily-of-the-valley

bubble over new shoots of lemon green

adding sparkle to the blush

of a rhododendron rosé.

Riotous aroma of sangiovese tulips

blending with the quiet

rustic bouquet of a vin de pays

of bleeding heart.

Intoxicating elixer, spring.

Down and Dirty

2011-03-29T10:43:00.006-04:00

Photography Link

I've sinned, again.

Done the thing sworn never to do, again.

Waiting for just the right moment of madness

to inaugurate the newest fall from grace.

Digging, clawing, unearthing

every treasure once buried with the prescience,

the knowledge that I would return, again

to bring them back to light.

Hands scrape back the dirt and mud

of insignificancies, panning for the gold

that lies waiting, tempting and elusive words

that shine, wickedly, for me alone.

Eureka! Frantic now, I smear alluvial words of passion

across my legs, pack quicksand of love against

my heart. I paint words of promise in clay along every

inch of skin, abrade my mouth with the sand of rough kisses.

Weak and spent. I'm down and dirty, again.

Hands smooth over ravaged terrain and I sit,

seeking absolution from the primordial sin

of loving you, again.

A Divided Plane

2011-03-27T14:39:00.006-04:00

I look in the mirror
and chisel my face
into quadrants of four:

Carolina.
hands never still
Slovak and English
quietly falling from lips
kissing the sweet crown
of a newborn's head
her plump cheeks rest
on the bones of my face

Martin.
stoic coal miner
living for family
dying for family
the one of four
I never knew
his nose delineates
my facade

Isabella.
inner steel beneath
soft Scots burr
pale soap-scented skin
the backbone of family
deep-lake blue eyes
those through which
life finds me

Walter.
digger of earth
puffing pipe smoke halos
cigars and pinochle
straight-backed
reserved Englishman
my hesitant mouth
speaks his words never said

These four without whom
my face would be
just a face.

Wet

2011-03-25T21:58:00.002-04:00

beneath the blistering

heat of need

a desert bare and scorching

waiting for a deluge

showers of kisses

tempest of deep thoughts

storms of passion

torrent of sweet words

make it wet

flood the landscape

slake the thirst

make it blossom

Until

2011-03-23T22:14:00.000-04:00

Photography Link

Until I have you
I am content to be

the drop of rain
that falls to your hand

the hand that lifts the drop
to your tongue

the tongue that tastes
what I want to be

when I have you

I Would Know You Anywhere

2011-03-18T19:18:00.001-04:00

Photography Link

In all the little things
whether miles from you
in a crowded room
or in my sleep
I would know you anywhere.

I would know you
by your footsteps following a path to me.

the scent of an ancient world
caressed by an exotic sea
that precedes your presence
and lingers long after.

by your lips
and the silent thoughts
that fall from your tongue
to wet the nape of my neck.

Know you, yes
by your voice
hiding inside your words,
a soft rain serenade
for my ears only.

by the imprint of your fingertips
dropping whorls with each touch
marking the way back
so as not to lose your place.

You.

Anywhere.

Ink and Madness

2011-03-18T09:49:00.000-04:00

Artwork Link

Pen and paper

innocent inanimates

kind and loving helpmates

here only for your pleasure

sweet words

drip from black ink

the sly blood of ego

scratched across

a raw page

the flow is smooth until

the mania begins

pen stabs paper

words become bruises

rearranging themselves

before your eyes into

Not Good Enough

Can't Compare

you silly fool

thinking you can write

abilities and beliefs

smeared like bloody bits

the festering open wounds

of what was once

your confidence

grin up at you with glee

take the pen

turn the page

descend once more

into ink and madness

Waiting Game

2011-03-16T23:41:00.006-04:00

Photograph ~ Diana Matisz

Waiting.

flame tipped sticks
of sweet almond incense
waver in soot-black shadow
curls of soft smoke
twist round ankles and wrists
like white velvet ribbons

Submissive.

placid and still
halcyon island of pleasure
moist terrain illuminated
by the sweep
of a full moon's gaze
with a piece bitten out

Ready.

pulse taps a drumbeat
against trembling skin
both fevered and iced
near unbearable joy
exquisite agony
played out in the game of

Waiting.

Street Lamp Child

2011-03-15T13:24:00.004-04:00

Photography Link

12:38 am.
Tell me child,
how did you get here?
How did you find yourself
lying in an alley on your back
blows raining down on you
from the fists of other children.

Ragged freeze-frame images
of angry little faces
baby fat of childhood
clinging to sharp angles
of impending adulthood
your dark eyes
staring up in fear
haloed by a street lamp.

Children dying
world imploding
and yet,
in the safety of a quiet town
they fight and scream
kick and pummel
and for what?
Jealousies and slurs
or the unforgivable:
lack of love?

Sirens shatter
what's left of night's peace
as twenty children scatter
in a game of hide-and-seek
no longer an innocent race
I watch as you stumble away
to a home where no one cares
and hope you sleep well, child.

I won't.

Carolina Daydream

2011-03-14T14:31:00.002-04:00

Photo courtesy of Ryan Greco

In an end-of-winter daydream
we're lying in a hammock
beneath a Carolina sun
entranced
by seductive sway
of palmetto fans
all remembrance
of winter's biting zephyrs
banished by the onslaught
of dense wet southern air
that makes even the trickle of sweat
on your upper lip taste sweet

Somnolence becomes a state-of-mind
in this rocking summer cradle
a synchronistic metronome
to the turning of the earth
while behind closed eyes
murmurs of life magnify
croaking gator
flap of egret wings
soft slur
of salt water on sand
a repetitive bump-bump
of boat against pier

Legs entwined
two at ease
in a Carolina daydream

On You

2011-03-13T21:32:00.001-04:00

Dale Chihuly Glass

You enter my thoughts with stealth
slipping in through the entrance
left ajar
for your use only
unaware and unprepared
for your presence
until I begin to feel
the erasure
of the innumerable insignificancies
that took the place of you
and then begins
the orgiastic detonation
of once forgotten pleasure
vying with the implosion
of my senses
this is my mind
on you

In The Box

2011-03-11T15:23:00.002-05:00

Photography Link

side by side
amidst red velvet and gilt
the air in the private box
ripe with melodic ache
of sweet strings
notes rising above
plump promises bursting
vaporizing between them

she was enraptured
skin glistened with white heat
eyes wide and wet
he was enthralled
focused on a lone tear
on a flushed cheek

his hand on her thigh
burned a welcomed brand
through green watered silk
sighs commingled with music
a legato transition
from sublime to erotic
a symphony composed by two
in the box

The Good Girl

2011-03-09T00:43:00.006-05:00

Artwork Link

Always the good girl

of p's and q's

crossed t's and dotted i's

angel in the guise

of human imperfection

tightly bound

buttoned up

Came the day

she'd had enough

of good & safe & nice

pretty pearl buttons

uncinched from neck to waist

such promising deviancy

welled up and out

Blossoming

succulent pinks and peach

becoming moist with danger

basking in the once

unforgivable sin

of life bound

by desire

Now look for her

when a new blue moon

slivers shards of light

across her naked skin

as she dances for your delectation

with not a button

to be found

[ Dedicated to a sister-across-the-sea Monica because I forgot her birthday and to Adam White for letting me use his phrase "such promising deviancy" which he happened to use in a comment about me :-) Hugs to both. ]

After Birth

2011-03-07T12:07:00.025-05:00

Diana Matisz

With a reading by Abi Baker . Please take a moment to visit her page.

I want you
to love me, words,
once you've
been set free
by me
I want you
to look adoringly
up at me
from your still-wet
black ink afterbirth
and know
I've bled for you
I want you to love me
one last time
before I set you loose
on the world
and you're no longer
mine,
words

[ Submission for One Shot Wednesday at One Stop Poetry . ]

The Weight of You

2011-03-06T21:56:00.003-05:00

Photography Link

It rides me gently
the weight of you
a fine silk mist
corkscrews among
strands of hair
curls itself inside
shell pink of ear
forces wide
my waiting lips
this beloved heft
of thoughts
the sweet bulk
of your words
without which
I would be pressed
against the earth
and lost
without the weight of you

For A Southern Hemisphere Sister

2011-03-04T12:46:00.000-05:00

No poetry today. I'm writing this the day before my birthday because on the day of my birthday, I will be in a hide-away in the mountains sitting in front of a fire and having several glasses of wine. And this isn't to announce my own birthday to the world but to wish a very happy one also to my friend Sharon, with whom I share the same birth date.

Sharon lives in Perth, Western Australia and we've never met face to face. But we've known each other for a time now and have become close. We speak heart to heart and I'm hoping that one day we will actually have the opportunity to celebrate our birthday together.

So Sharon...I wish you a day of hedonistic joy, a year of happiness without limits and a lifetime of love.

♥ Happy Birthday dear friend ♥

And behave? I think not ;-)

Southern Magic

2011-03-03T22:39:00.005-05:00

Photography Link

She came to life on a wet opalescent night
a night wrapped in occluded moonlight
skin perfumed with sweet white gardenia
and red oriental poppy

She breathed deep the antediluvian scent
of river tides and incense of spanish moss
through half opened lips her tongue
tasted the new exotic, the aged decadence

She heard the deep low moan of a sax
echoing through Forsyth Park
its voice a fluid catalyst of passion
rolling over her like soft thunder

Her body hummed and shivered
with old mysteries and older secrets
that stripped her bare as she succumbed
to southern magic

[ Inspired by my favorite southern city, Savannah GA, and by my favorite sax man James Rinalducci . ]

[Offered today for week #42 of One Shot Wednesday at One Stop Poetry ]

After Dark

2011-03-01T13:00:00.002-05:00

Photography Link

The floor throbs and shudders

delivering a deep low pulse

that thrums from feet to head

blinding lights churn and slide

off skin and hair and eyes

heated bodies nudge

bump and grind out

wild-heart intimacies

heads thrown back

no control

until a glance is thrust

across the swarming floor

and caught beneath

a hooded gaze

two writhing shapes

impelled, connect

to meet to press

collide

parting waves of sound

and so begins

the dance.

Wild Roses

2011-02-28T11:48:00.003-05:00

Photography Link

You found me there
waiting and supine
upon petals
tumescent with the oils
of rose-hips and patchouli
your lips
painted a blossoming trail
of wild rose blushes
variegated pinks and crimsons
splashed feverishly
onto a canvas
of trembling silk
You left me there
spent and supine
waiting
for the return
of wild roses

Guardian

2011-02-26T17:36:00.001-05:00

Original photo courtesy of Sharon Greco ~ Sister & Island Woman

HHI ~ February 2011

He has been diligent

this guardian

escort through life

custodian of fears

gatekeeper to dreams

waging battles

in my stead

his armaments

my heart and soul

Scars and wounds

we both display

but his are so much deeper

as with each blow

he receives for me

he lets fall

into my hand

totemic reminders

of his allegiance

Release (Collaboration with Juan Carlos Hernandez)

2011-02-25T13:55:00.000-05:00

I was invited once again by my friend and photographer Juan Carlos Hernandez to collaborate with him on one of his photos. He selected the photo below and it, along with many others, may be viewed in his 'Life Series' . I'm honored to be a part of his continuing collaborations with writers around the world.

Photograph courtesy of Juan Carlos Hernandez

You know the feeling

I know you do

it begins deep in the belly

a stirring of the entrails

an igneous eruption of emotion

firing torrid blood to every extremity

You know how it feels

I know you do

that edginess of lacerated nerves

riding the chafed surfaces

of skin and bones

the itch of containment

Admit it, you know the feeling

I know you do

the snap of synapses on overload

a drumbeat of tension

pinpricks tattooing their path

from toe to head

Yes, you know how it feels

I know you do

but is it joy or is it pain?

insurmountable sorrow or

electrifying passion?

it makes no difference

because all you need

all you know or want to know is

release

An Obsession With Inches

2011-02-23T14:59:00.000-05:00

Photo~Diana Matisz

Stand in front of the mirror
look long and hard
legs, nicely defined
feet, pretty and strong
ankles tapered
not so bad
but
slip those feet
into 6" stilettos
and how the view changes
legs climb high to the sky
and the sweet steep arch
of an instep
begs to be kissed
hidden muscles
once undefined
curve and flow
with every step
as hipbones discover
a new rhythmic sway
surprising what a good shoe
can do for morale
I so love
this obsession with inches
;-)

Voyeur (Collaboration with Bukky Fehintola)

2011-02-22T11:41:00.001-05:00

The following is a collaboration I had the pleasure to do recently with Bukky Fehintola . I found this photograph by Bukky at Photograph Prose . Thanks to Ally at PP for the opportunity and thanks to Bukky for the wonderful inspiration. Please take some time to visit both of their pages for amazing words and images. You can also find them both on Twitter: @picturesand / @PhotographProse.

Photo courtesy of Bukky Fehintola

She watches
from the safety
of a sheltered distance
drinks in the silhouette of him
against pale powdered sea
as his body
leans and rides the bluster
of salted air
feels her own
begin to sway with his

She wishes
for his face to turn
to turn and see her there
and just as quickly prays
that it does not

She wonders
if, after all these years,
his scent is still the same
sandalwood and smoke
and if his eyes
still reflect the greens
of summer meadows

She steps closer,
hears her whispered name
lifted from his lips
carried on the zephyrs
that bring the sound
of footsteps
to his ear

He turns
to find her
watching

River

2011-02-20T22:25:00.002-05:00

Photo ~ Allegheny River / Diana Matisz

Please listen as you read, to the voice of the wonderful Catherine . Then take a moment to visit her wonderful poetry at thinking cat .

This river
knows all the secrets.
It's felt the heavy drop
of salted tears
eddying its currents
seen a wavering lost-soul face
reflected in a midnight mirror

This river
has heard the echo
of blithe and easy laughter
careening off its shores
and the quietly voiced desires
as myriad as the lapping waves
against its rocking dock

This river
sanctuary and solace
provender for the soul and spirit
a piscean's green water muse
donor of nature's words and images
this river
Allegheny

Unfathomable

2011-02-16T23:10:00.000-05:00

Photography Link

It is

endless

this craving

this thirst

that leaves me

both chilled

and conflagrant

trembling

quaking

with no intent

less than

rapture

desires boundless

and inexhaustible

intoxicated

I succumb

to the unfathomable

The Bones of Summer

2011-02-15T13:43:00.006-05:00

Original photograph courtesy of Sharon Greco ~ HHI February 2011

They stand protective

buffeted by salt-air sting

the click-clack of summer's bones

weaving drunkenly across

a winter beach

each one a guardian

of a faded memory

of cockles, coquina and slippers

picked gently from tide pools

the solitary hunt

for the fabled black tooth of a shark

greedy cry of gulls
beneath hot Carolina sun

clandestine sunset kisses
behind sheltering dunes

recollections

of distant laughter carried high

on sea-kissed wafts of air

caress of heat

on a body's wintered bones

and music only sand and sea

could possibly compose

these skeletal bones of summer

waiting with anticipation

for the flesh

of new memories

Branded

2011-02-13T18:29:00.003-05:00

Photography Link

From the sheltered harbour of a dream

I watch as you lie sleeping in my bed

watch muscled rise and fall

of a man's soft deep breathing

sharp clean edge of jaw

from ear to chin

a linear explosion

in the blurred light of dawn

I watch and lean in

spying a pulse beat at your neck

sending seismic trembles

along the shaded parchment

of your skin

inching closer and without thought

press rose madder lips

against this living proof of you

drumming beneath my transparent kiss

and as I move away

I see the stain I've left behind

the brand that names you

mine.

Shelf Life

2011-02-12T21:30:00.004-05:00

it lies

ensconced in clay

high on a ledge

safe-kept

this heart

brought out

to the light

by the sound

of a distant voice

with a telegraphed word

a touch

this heart

with its eternal

shelf life

and no

expiration date

I Wonder

2011-02-10T15:06:00.002-05:00

Original photo courtesy of Sharon Greco ~ HHI February 2011

I wonder

about his thoughts
this singular dreamer balanced
between an ever-changing sea

and the terrain of solid land
that shifts with every step

Do somber thoughts run rough-shod

over the magic

of the vista before his eyes

is he so weighted with decision

that he cannot lift his head

to know it

Is he simply content

and at his ease

reveling

in this welcome solitude

searching

for nothing more
than shark's teeth

whelks and angelwings

I wonder

Everything and Nothing

2011-02-08T13:21:00.002-05:00

Photo ~ Diana Matisz

Nothing.

Little black holes
seared into the fabric
of an otherwise
tight-seamed life

The deep nothings
of lost hours
and wasted words
loss of life and love
worry fear pain
perforations
through which
the blood of living
flows unstoppable

The sweeter nothings
of sleeping in the sun
and waking once again
joy in laughter and passion
emotional rescue, the right chords
loopholes
through which
the blood of living
reinvents itself

One nothing after another
little black holes
spreading and fusing
fibers woven
into intricate detail
and suddenly the nothings
are no longer nothing
but

Everything.

[ Written for OneShotWednesday at One Stop Poetry . I also wish to thank @hgracestewart for playing substitute muse today. When I said I had 'nothing' for OneShotWednesday, she said "write about nothing" :-) Thank you Heather. ]

Primed For More

2011-02-07T11:56:00.000-05:00

In July of last year I wrote a post titled Primed about a favorite band that I'd started to follow on Twitter, Prime Ministers . Today I want to mention them again because in seven short months they have achieved some amazing milestones. I mentioned in that last post, that they are all about their fans and that hasn't changed, despite their new success. Ernesto "E", is a driving force behind the music. If you watch him in interviews, his focus is all music and it is intense. Chimo is a powerhouse drummer, with finesse. Emotion in motion. Perico, the favorite bass man. A John Paul Jones for his generation. This man will always get back to you with a reply no matter how many days go by. And Pala. Pala of the low-slung guitar and a guitar hedonist's dream. I once asked him about the equipment he uses and he was generous enough to spend an hour explaining it all to me, from the amps and guitars right down to the cables and strings.

They have a new album coming out this year titled 'FAR FROM FREE' and their video for the title song is currently ranked at #1 on LatinMTV after a first week release. They are coming to the states, at last. They've been selected to perform at the 12th Annual Heart of Texas Rockfest in Austin during March. Do I hear road trip? And with all of this, they still take the time on an almost daily basis, to say thank you to the fans who love them. If you like, you can follow them on Twitter at tweetsPM .

Congratulations to all four of you. You deserve this and more. Enjoy the journey.

Something

2011-02-05T22:08:00.000-05:00

Artwork ~ Léon Spilliaert

you step slowly
toward the something
that you want
that something
you know
you cannot have
but you don't care
you cannot stop
a few more steps
it sinks its hooks in you
that unattainable
desirous something
toward which your weakness
hurls itself
impales itself
even as you step again
ignoring the warning bells
the dangers
of that something
you want
but cannot have

Paraíso

2011-02-04T19:31:00.004-05:00

Photography Link

rose petal sky

canvas brushed

by soft winter sun

exhalations

of ancient whispers

rising above red-tiled

rooftops

and in the near distance

the audible deep breath

of a constant sea

kissing the land

this paradise

this dream

this desire