Unravelling and weaving, sometimes simultaneously

Archive for the ‘poetry’ Category

White Wing Owl

How can it be,
brother of dragons
and companion of owls,
that here I am
a noisy, dark-plumed bird
still spinning in the sky
around your memory?
I recall your amber eye,
the tilt of your head
against the blue,
the smell of your sweat
in the sea breeze
intoxicatingly familiar.
We shared the wind.
There were no excuses
for our fealty
as it happened such a way
we did not notice it,
until the hope surrounded us,
and we belonged;
the swirl of yin and yang,
a little of you in me,
a bit of me in you,
around in the blinking sunlight
until you disappeared.

(c) RCGA 2018Snowy Owl and Crow

For Mani: 5-30-49 — 5-1-08

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Wanderlust

It has been too long since I have seen

an ocean wave, a mountain peak;

it has been too long since I have gazed

upon a vista’s raw mystique

and felt my soul lift in my breast

in joy and ardor, finding rest

amidst the raw and gravid plains,

or out amongst the ruddy rocks,

upon a high place, valley spread

before me, full of grazing flocks.

It has been too long, and I must go,

because my spirit tells me so.

 

© RCGA 2018

antique compass

Player

How meta is the term for men

who think that conjugation

is a game to play, a score, a win,

no sense of the relation.

But I prefer to think instead

they are pianos in their heads

their stories circular, full of holes,

the same sour notes played

in their rolls;

and in anachronistic style

they strut, and preen, and leer their smiles,

a wooden stand-up, wound and played

by the very system that gets them laid.

(c) RCGA 2018

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Burning Love

Don’t fall in love with me;

slow fucking down.

I don’t want a quick fix,

just stay around.

The love I want will spark,

but stay alive

far past a hook-up or cocktails

at five.

No conflagration here…

be Smokey Bear,

and tend the fire gently,

if you dare.

The simmer will be better

for the meat, my dear,

in winter you’ll appreciate the heat.

Let me be clear:

I want to hold your hand

when we grow old.

So temper the mad rush;

don’t melt the gold.

(c) RCGA 2018

Riesling and Raisinets

The sound of bombs is thunder;

and as a storm front passes

I am medicating my nerves

with chocolate-covered raisins

and wine,

to distract myself from the thrumming rain

on the rooftop,

and the steady pinging of tweets

susurrating Syria.

The cats, of course, are ignorant,

and blissful, in that state,

spotlight eyes blinking slowly,

so that I imagine, for now,

in my grape and cacao cloud,

that they represent the public mind,

concerned only for their dinner

and a dark spot to nap,

somnambulant, belly-full of false advertising,

unaware of any dogs at all

outside their immediate purr-view,

much less ones that are wagged

by their own tails.

(c) RCGA, 2018

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Tornado Warning

I have been out of pocket for a while; the writing Muse has been hibernating, I’ve had the flu twice and a few other assorted winter maladies. I am brainsore, even as the end of Lent approaches, and Alleluia is dusted off from its forty days in retirement. Spring emerges early here, hectic and wet, and a geriatric cat came to live with the familiar and I following the passing of her person. Somehow I keep breathing, and talking to ghosts, staring into the centers of flowers and exorcising demons by exercising my wrists with paintbrushes. My steam-powered heart keeps thumping, and the bellows of my lungs heave with regularity. I assume this means I am still alive, whatever the reports have been to the contrary.

Last night there was a strange dog

in the neighborhood,

and frightened by the midnight train,

or thunder,

he bayed relentlessly against the thud and boom,

then fell silent at the sound

of the emergency god’s paternal voice

proclaiming all was well.

This morning,

heavy-headed,

I wondered at his smothered frenzy,

at how easily quiescent the most feral falls

listening to father.

In the daylight those that huddled down

pretended nothing happened;

a crow displayed glistening wings to the sun

high in a budding treetop,

and dropped a broken strand of plastic beads

onto the muddy sidewalk.

 

RCGA 2018

Postcard from the Azores

Another country heard from:

hydrangeas from a distant shore.

The island of my husband’s family

cheerfully inscribed with a message

from a mutual friend

tugs at my nostalgia for his long fingers

holding up the camera,

his drawl coaxing me to smile for him,

then turning to a flower, closing in;

both subject to his fascination

enclosed in pixels just as much as mind,

his warm regard upon my face

a swathe of summer sun

and the scent of long-faded blossoms

somehow brushes across me

whispering Azores.

(c) RCGA 2017

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