Category Archives: Poetry

Ancient Tomes

dustybooksThere is a mummified shroud

unraveling in our spirits
that are delivered with gusts

of gauzy breaths
revealing chapter, verse,

the context and content
of our lives lived
by the turning of our pages
to reveal
the chapters of our hearts
to one another
in labored, birthing, unity.

extend humanity outward
like a library of reciprocal knowledge
donate your gifts to fill your coffers
 
Teach from the trenches

Learn from the quarry
Bloom from the crap
Shine from the darkness

Believe from the silence

Joy from despair

Triumph from resistance

Freedom from oppression

Meaning from Understanding

Wino Confessions

After a bottle of wine I like to confess things to my husband.

I like to tell him of how I felt when I first laid eyes on his face;

how my heart raced, how my eyes teared up, how I forgot to breathe.

I like to tell him how I didn’t want to believe that he existed

because then it would mean I live surreal.

Even now, I feel shy putting this down from my fingertips.

The same fingertips that have traced every inch of his body.

The same fingertips that he’s kissed when I burn them on dinner.

The same fingertips that smooth out his blankets when I make the bed.

The same fingertips that boop his nose to see if it still works. (It does.)

I like to tell him how I’d follow or lead or walk beside him anywhere.

I like to tell him that he’s the funniest man I know,

that he leaves me breathless with laughter and breathless with love.

I like to tell him with great earnestness that he brought me to life

even though I thought I already was, but not in this way. Not in this time.

I would still be me without him, but not the same me I am now.

I’m a better human with him nearby. I’m able to freely explore the world.

After a bottle of wine, I like to confess to my husband; my always, truly.

Lost Sunday

Go away.
He sat in the back seat using his hands as a rosary
praying to holy mother Rosemary his sin not be discovered.
The violation of my air space undetected by his stealth
suddenly had air raid sirens blaring loudly,

“HOW DARE YOU?!” upon my radar screen
while I drove away and prayed the guards were adept.

Open to me

OCEAN

Open up your sea to me so that I can sink my toes into your shores

Let me be wrapped up in your undertow,

Drowning while begging for more.

Open up your sky to me so that I can dream your galaxies with you

Let me become the very air we are

So that I may breathe you too

Open up your infinity to me so that I can swim in the pool of us

Let me drape on lounging couches stories

Of pearled adventures of our trust

Open up your earth to me so that I might return to dust again

Let me crumble from the quakes you give

That I’ll return world without end.

When I’m Alone

The Clipper Ship Blue Jacket On Choppy SeasAm I Schrodinger’s cat locked in a coffin that I can’t see?

Am I my own imagination come to life or who others want to see?

Am I an earthquake that shakes the foundation of your beliefs?

Am I the whirlwind that’s met with cautious alacrity?

Am I so enigmatic I am hidden even from myself?

Am I a magician’s assistant that performs with infuriating stealth?

Who am I when there’s nobody around to witness me?

Am I just a wanderer piloting my ship on the popped blue collar sea?

I really dig

I really dig that when I open up my blog reader

I find people-y readers lurking about, liking this or that.

I really dig that when I peer back through the shop window

the readers grunt, groan, lust, hug, love and hate like I do.

I really dig that when I peer through the looking glass

I don’t find my readers slumped sleeping in side-chairs.

I really dig that they poke fingers to keys while:

drinking coffee

popping pills

drinking bourbon

honoring artists

dancing with desires for origami people on paper they will print.

I really dig that the people I don’t know by face

stare back at me as we travel, passing on our reader’s train.

I really dig when we arrive at the same destination of personal truth.

Because that’s when the shit gets real.

The Morning Drive

When the murky morning fog come shifting through the mists
The light devours the shadows in stunted slickery lisps
When the streetlamps and the stoplights paint impressionistic on rainy roads
The ozone stenches the oxygen with lowered transportation modes
When the Doppler whizzes past me through the lowered window of mine
The colors surprised to appear on the vehicles from out of shadows blind
When I slow to prepare a turn at the corner to accelerate to speed
The faithful runners slap the asphalt path with faithful runner’s feet.
And I drive through the rising sun to not see the break of day
Except when the working whistle blows and I’ll reverse my way.

How Many Walk Among Us? BY: Jimbo Slice

How many walk among us

that we don’t even know?

The reclusive Picassos

and downtrodden Van Goghs,

The sequestered savants

and homeless heroes,

hiding in plain sight

while thinkin’ they’re zeroes.

The Robin Williams that never was,

The Vaclev Pavel afraid to write,

The Michaelangelo of the street and

Da Vinci of the Night?

How many walk this planet

Pretending they’re not on it?

Please enrich our world

with brush, with song, and sonnet.