I am a poet who no longer writes poetry – that’s tragic on a literary level.  In an effort to remind myself of what used to be, for better or for worse, I feel compelled to post a small gaggle of word-songs from the way back.  There’s also a few of you angels out yonder who have requested as much – now you know these kind, selfless call-outs don’t go unheard.  Thank you for wanting such things, and for pulling out this piece of my storybook.  She wants to be real again – maybe this will be the spark that starts the poetic fires once more.  I’ve hesitated sharing these, because they all come from a long-gone voice.  I suspect that’s why I haven’t been writing verse lately – the entire way of speaking such truths has dramatically changed.  There won’t like be any more woe-is-me confessional outbursts, or tales of unrequited love.  The poet in me needs to be reborn if she is to write again.

But first, an acknowledgement of what was.  The path that took me to the current doorstep.  Yeah, I can do that.

Poem #1

Last words.  What they will be.  Or won’t be.

Famous Last Words

We all have a name that will

Be on our lips the final two moments of our

Living hours –

The syllables that spring forth as a last

Desperate sound, echoing the

Feelings we will take with us

Forever.  Some hope it will be their

Beloveds; soul mates in this lifetime that seem

Indelible and

Permanent.  Some believe it will be a child

Or two – the lifeblood, the extension of our own

Cells and screams; a natural inclination

As the peephole narrows.

I don’t believe it’s ever who we

Think it will be.  I don’t believe we can really

Know, until the air siphons inward like an

Angry vacuum, oxygen dissipating, heartbeats

Waning.

I know what won’t be said

As my energies falter –

I won’t be crying out Father,

I won’t be reaching for an ethereal maker, hoping for

Redemption, grasping for my Providence.

You might hear a whisper of

Relief

In the name that leaves my

Lips.  You might hear me scream my own.

11-26-04

Poem # 2

This one was penned in the aftermath of my first Ayahuasca experience, upon return from the Amazon.  Appropriate here, as it’s a voice-awakening moment.  Yay for those.

Now Hear This

Oh

Hell

YES.

Fuck the butterfly notion,

I am a shell-less, bloodless

Vampire, shooting up and through the

Darkness, casting scales and scabs and

Shadowed memories, to find this

Screaming core.

Oh hell YES

I have things to say, to spill and

Vomit, to point to and

Illuminate, to teach and tell and

Unravel, sometimes,

To splatter, and catapult,

Others –

But I have risen, I have

RISEN from those jungle depths

With a voice and rhythm and a body and a

Soul, ready to finally say

Yes, I claim my destiny.

Yes, I want a different

Way.  I no longer choose such

Mediocrity, such

Shackling day-to-days,

The restraints of a love unre-

Turned, the suffocation of a life

Unfull-

Filled.  Fearless? Not even close.

But I trust this

Transformation.  I trust that I can

Fucking fly, that I will have everything

Everything all that is Mine,

That I do deserve the mirrored reflection

Of everything I

Give.  Oh hell.

YES.

6-2-06

Written in a passionate spurt at the gates of LAX

Poem #3

This was written for the Navy JAG, an old boyfriend I spent a year or so madly adoring.  He did a tour in Baghdad during those days, and this poem expressed as best it could the long-distance love dance, riding to and from each other on those ever-moving staircases.  Anyone whose ever known a long distance bond definitely knows these motions.

Escalators

The world is full of

Moving stairs,

The infinite Escher loop,

Hailing and sailing the motionless

Travelers as we float
Unconsciously

To the other realms, the places and

Spaces that hold our answerless

Secrets.

Mine always lead to or from your

Silent salute, your

Olive-oil glances, sometimes full of

Radiant, overwhelming comfort,

Sometimes nothing but

Agony, the excruciating

Exits.

They bring us

Together

Like mutual

Landslides, like sky-

Divers looking for a

Hand-grab, and we hold on for dear

Life

Sucking in our breath,

Eyes squeezed shut yet still

Hopeful, thinking

This feels just like

Living.  Just like the danger-less

Fly-bys of

Dreams.

Other times, they are like an

Earthquake, with jagged faults

Jutting up to

Disconnect, and one carries you and

One carries me and it’s anything but

Unionized, anything but

Rhythmic, an asthmatic

Revolt, an omnipotent slingshot.

These are the metal-coated moments

Where I’m left clinging to the railings,

Waiting for the directions to

Reverse.

3-14-05

Poem #4

This is literally my first tangible memory – my sister giving me a bath.  I’m guessing I was around a 2 years old – maybe even less.  I can still call this into memory today, as vivid as it ever was.

First Memory

The tiny half-breath of

Moist, lavender scented air

Swept in with the tickling rush

Of bathwater, tiptoeing down

The inside of my newly formed

Cheek,

I laughed out loud,

My sister’s manicured hand lowering

Onto my chest, a little loving push,

And the water waves rise up in another

Greeting,

I see her smile and laugh once more,

My ears submerged and comforted,

Liquid ear muffs

Distorting the resonance, making the

Swoosh of the air sound

Distant and

Harmless,

Pushing the movement of the moths

Outside

Swiftly into slow

Motion,

And if I had the words then,

If I knew how to twist my mouth to form the sounds,

I would have said

That I felt fearless,

Protected,

Whole and complete –

It’s the moment I started

Living.

10-5-03

Poem #5

I read once that in the morgues in LA, they burn the unclaimed bodies collectively each December.  This. . .had an affect.

The Nameless Burn

Every December,

The unclaimed bodies at the morgue are burned,

Collectively,

Bone dust mingling with the dreamscapes,

Until you can’t tell the wet dreams from the death wishes.

The stench is like Auschwitz – heavy and bleak

Like rotted flesh mixed with cake flour and acid.

Jane and John Doe’s, lighting up the sky,

A final tapestry that streaks the horizon with

Knowningness – each hue a humble whisper –

I was here.

6/22/04

Lastly, a very sincere shout-out to Derrick C. Brown, a mind-blowing beat boy I recently crossed paths with.  His poem “A Finger, Two Dots and Me” has literally inspired me to write in this gorgeous format again, and that’s no small feat.  Click the poem’s title to go read it – he’s a pro, see – get the hankies ready before reading.