Tattooed

All pleasures take this road
those who indulge they goad
then, the bees that swarm
having yielding honey’s charm
they flee but on the heart
a lasting sting impart -Boethius

Last night I kept you, caught
in my dreams, I held onto you
all the hours of the night

I would wake, alone, remember
and drift back into the delight of you

I held you on my tongue
like a sugar cube and let you
slowly melt, lubricating me
with pleasure

Boethius warns of the sting
that comes
with the honey’s charm
and I wonder
what’s the lesson in pain, when you
would be happy to do it again?

You are like the honey and the comb
sought after and sucked upon
I have never known one so cocky
so full of charm…so young
to stick my hand in a hive
of a thousand bees would be
to free me, gleefully

For though the bite is sharp and strong
the pleasure that comes before it, seeps
into me, like sweet poison

Last week on the forearm of a stranger,
I saw a bee so large and faint
nestled beneath a thin layer of skin,
she ran her fat fingers over
the dyed yellow and said, I love it,
its new

And I knew exactly what she must
be going through

Wind Dial

(As seen in the Santa Barbara Independent 11/20/08)
http://www.independent.com/news/2008/nov/14/voices-evacuated-tea-fire/
http://www.independent.com/news/2008/nov/26/three-poems-about-tea-fire/

Somewhere, in the thickness of sleep
I hear seagulls, calling back to the ocean

When I awake the sun is rising
out of ash, glowing muted
in the density of morning

Still cool from sleep, the sky
is ready to burn, blowing softly
through the window, bringing
the fragrant smell of wood

And houses
turned to dust, returned
to the ground, what remains
a chimney, brick
a steering wheel, steel
and a statue of four bodies
a circle of stone

An aloe plant still in the pot
standing at the driveway
columns leading to an empty lot
the ash on the ground
a layer lighter than snow

And an iron wind dial
still turning on the roof
of my house, spared

People start returning
home today if they can
eyes like the reservoirs, dry

Mestec Kralove

a poem from another time, another place

The heavy rain makes blossoms
fall from the train
heavy from the center
they catch all they can
then detach as graceful
as any
separation can be

White half shells, soft, pooled
like wet saucers on the cobblestones
and a rainbow umbrella passes
unawares

The old man in a modern newsboy
cap notices and nods
and the petals continue to fall
the newness of spring thick
around my ankles
dancing downwards
from my shoulders

Inside my leather bag a lake ripples
like someone getting into a bath
the color the clearest blue like
the eyes of school boys,
my school boys

And the ink begins to swim
black turned purple and watercolors
scraps of paper, almost brown
that my grandma sees as unfit
for stationary

There’s a star in this town that’s 6 pointed
it rests between the 6 and the 12, stationary

This Morning

This morning I weaved into the bathroom
my pink cotton nightgown hanging from
pert breasts, in the mirror hair disarranged

The bath was still full, left, a calm baby blue
cool, but not cold, I swirled my fingers
in the water, still soft from the since
subsided lavendar bubbles

I considered slipping in
shedding the gown and
awakening my skin

Back in bed, I slowly
touch you awakes
watch you shake small
white feathers from deep
within your curls

Sunrise over the Thames

The sky line is like an old graveyard
the buildings of different heights
all slowly sinking into soft grass

The tide's turned, after the dawn
chorus of seagulls gliding and gawking
at the light beyond the stones

Lily of the Valley

For Sara and Heath's wedding July 11th, 2008

Today I picked your bridal bouquet
in the shade of the wooden oak
away from the new summer heat
where hid the smallest bulbs of white
fragrant to the point of poison

The lilies grow out from fallen foliage,
thin green stalks leaning slightly
their delicate bells peeking out
with wide, waxy leaves

Reaching down, I tug up
a memory of you telling me,
you would only marry Bond, James Bond
we had our hair in pigtails, trying on watermelon Lip Smackers
joking about dream men, when the idea of “men” didn’t stem
much further from Ken, our fathers, and of course, Bond
there was always Bond, well- he rides a surfboard
instead of an Aston Martin, but I think you found
your modern day Connery

Bells come up quickly with a little tugging, sweet and solid, they slip
from the earth and into my tightly twined collection

And this is my happiness- that I can pretend to be
picking your flowers in the forest while your mother
ties the ribbon of the dress you wont wear, and that
with this poem, I can bless your choices
and ask forgiveness for my absence

Check Me Out In Czech

http://www.outsidermedia.cz/Article.aspx?id=187