Monday, January 13, 2014

Lost in the Sheets

It's time to write another song, he thinks.
One that's tender, one that's long.
No longer what he once was.
A changed man.

He sends karma, circles, infinite love, pretty little things.
Generous, grounded, happy, sometimes sad, magnanimous.
Reminds me of a king in all places.
I hope he finds his queen, someone who deserves him.

I listen to his songs and wonder.
Perhaps just as he did reading my poems.
I wonder what is or is not about me.
He's a musician and a writer of songs.

Kindness in the face of insanity.
Clowning around, always clowning around.
There's a wooden box on his wooden table and inside the box there's an Eisenhower coin.
There used to be one capsule, but we split it up, it's gone now. 

His bed looks like an enormous sleigh.
And the cement mixing plant starts humming loudly again.
I remember us twining around each other.
Lost in the sheets.

Flame Point

The playwright sits in his father's home surrounded by memories and small chaos.
There are honeysuckle entangled with morning glories and poison ivy.
The terrain outside is etched in his memory, a map of ground moving under his feet.
Silence in the woods, where the trees move without the wind helping.

He writes to express the angels and demons crying to be heard.
In his plays the conventional becomes ephemeral, dark, extraordinary.
In a small town we find Mrs. Quark endlessly serving soup.
I define myself by Tracy.

In the writer's town I know there must be books of postcards with lovely paintings on them.
There must be numerous amazing details I cannot fathom.
There are stars glowing in the nether-regions of space.
And he's sad, which makes me sad too.

There are many cats in place around the room.
They take their marks and dance.
I would dance too, like a ballet dancer.
And there is one Flame Point.

Saturday, January 11, 2014

The Granite Mouse

Loyal and true, he'll never let ya down.
Give him the chance and he'll melt your heart.
Whistlin' Dixie I wrote you a tune.
Playin' guitar, take you to the moon.

Granite, granite, granite mouse where do you hide?
With the cats inside!
My sincere friend I miss you.
Old Crow Medicine Show days.

Walks down the residential streets.
Stop to greet Old Man Cat or Albert.
Grabbing coffee and food.
You gave me everything I wanted, except a tramp stamp.

Nice, smart, fun, and protective.
6 years is a long time.
The past is what propels us forward.
I am keeping my history.

The Photographer

The photographer looks at things a different way.
Nature, humanity, colors…
A tilt of the head, shutter fires.
The fabric of a new creation.

Tired of the struggle.
An artist's life.
Long hours in front of the screen he perfects images he finds lacking.
As a spiritual advisor he acts more than says.

A reclining pose, face in profile.
Shabby house you had to fix.
When we met, before I knew you, I wore your shirt in a shot.
Silly me.

Painted backdrops for your work.
Hidden cities made of coal.
Beyond us there are vast expanses.
Wonder where you'll go.

Under an overpass.
Black hair twisted by the wind.
I look back and I see unhappiness.
Your temperament even.

I'll always remember the coat hangers and the recording.
Dear reader are you wondering what this is about?
It's about something personal and dear.
Remind me later to keep it close.

So many faces caught in a moment.
Suddenly flashes of light illuminate skin.
Pearly teeth, pink lips, raven hair, smooth, thin.
A digital graveyard.

Mittens for Days

Tomorrow you might forget what you said tonight.
I don't think you will, because your story has stayed the same, you always get the time in Colorado wrong.
Remember the times we had at the studios?
One of the things I like most about you is your penchant for double entendre.
Who are you?

I am one who is royalty.
You have a nom de plume.
Congratulations are in order.
Pleasant smiles, laughter for miles.
Although I have questions too.

When I think about you there is a lot I don't know.
We don't know each other well.
The Dark Crystal guy was horrible.
Reminded me of someone else.
I remember what he said.

I saw you years ago.
It doesn't make sense.
To me.
I'll be here.
Knitting mittens for days...

Friday, January 10, 2014


I found him in the big city.
I searched through hundreds of teachers and found one.
When I entered his class I felt unworthy, he was willing to teach me a selection.
Learn your lines, pick your props, mind your cues, beat yourself each time you take the stage.
I wandered in like a lost doll with a fragmented mind.

I remember, "You have to believe."
I think that was the core understanding I took away, so far away.
If you don't believe in your character's existence, if you don't step inside her, who are you but a cheap imitation?
The classmates guided every week, kept coming back.
So quick to take offense at the wrong choices.

I learned to listen closely to his voice.
The trademark use of phrases that confuse and befuddle.
Listeners learn to wait.
Before making assumptions.
Did I say he's a hopeful romantic?

How many pages can you memorize?
He has committed a full library to memory.
I am a beginner, he's a pro.
Acting like I know, when I don't.
Makes me challenging.

Permanently contrite, simple, smart, pretty, could be how he likes the female population to be.
Erroneous maybe, intriguing still.
I wandered away so many times.
But in the end he waived my bill.
I let him down.

See I still feel badly.
Wished I could have repaid his kindness with hard work.
Instead I lost myself in the dark labyrinths.
I went into the House of Mirrors.
And came out pregnant.

Pregnant with a toxic love.
Despite the teacher's lessons and advice.
Always listen, listen to your professor.
I hear him speaking now.
From acting teacher to life teacher, it works both ways.

Impart with care, they listen to us, and we are barely here.
Did you respond to my heart?
Or what, I don't know.
For me I had my crush.
Silence, the teacher thumbs pages into the night.

I wonder if he knows what the playwright has done.
Covers and dedications, dreams I never thought or knew.
And I'm not who I was.
Is the teacher the same?
A man.

A Conversation

A conversation is filled with gems.
A conversation is intellectual.
Nuances understood quickly, words used like weapons.
Friendly sparring, blunted tips.
I am at home.

A conversation is beneficial.
A conversation pulls us out of ditches.
Gratitude on both sides.
Balance and receptivity.
Honesty that doesn't hurt.

A conversation is gracious.
A conversation is sincere.
Spontaneous uncontrollable laughter.
New information and insights.
We learn more about one another.

A conversation is fun.
A conversation is a treat.
Happy times remembered make new happiness.
Hungry for more, we don't want to let go.
One more minute, one more hour, and sigh goodbye.

Wednesday, January 8, 2014


For all I lost I got it back.
When I lose something their love keeps me afloat.
Painting pictures in a book.
I lost a brush.
The friends I made gave me a look.
What am I worth without my tools.
Without brushes, without pen.
Stripped, naked, and shorn.
Someone make a blanket from my suffering.
Please use vivid colors, light and love.
Don't take away the strain.
It creates a tight stitch.
Color me in bold, color me, my soul, bright.
I am the sun and the cloud.
I am the wind, and the rain won't let me drown.
These lips surrender, but we don't kiss.

Wednesday, January 1, 2014


I've found my wishes coming true.
I wished for the chance to have what I lost in L.A.
And the screenwriter came.
I wished for what I gave away.
And I received it parcel post, circles for days.

I sit here now, alone, and wonder what my life means.
I am a liar.
I lie to people every day.
It's a secret I don't want to give away.
I still don't believe this is the truth, I am simply playing the most advantageous part.

I don't think I'll ever be what I want to be.
But I may be missing some pieces.
I like hearing the neighbor blasting tunes.
I like flirting with people on the internet.
But I don't like online dating.

I like being in control and healthy.
I love my mother.
I don't like eating plenty.
I do better on a ration.
I am sick of hearing about eating vegetables.

I am sick of the circle around me.
I prefer to be alone.
Watching my fingers numbly type.
What you may see is against me.
I am against myself.

My mother won't think this poem is lovely.
She'll like the last two best.
But I don't care, because love is in the air.
And I might, I may, one day.
By May I'll be gone, lost, pulled completely into the black hole called Colorado.

And yet, somehow, I am still on a strike.
A hunger strike.
Or something...
I don't like whatever this is.
Modern poetry...

I like being poetic when it means I effuse poetry that hits a chord.
Honestly I am as sick of my audience as they are of me.
I know who's reading.
I hate them for it.
And yet revel in my numbers.

I love no one.
I meet people.
I meet my male side.
My yang.
And I weep...