there’s a
shaking, shivering
skeleton
under every single sheet.
hollow and haunted.
we’re all
facing down
our death–
calling out
our demons–
dancing
with the devil.
we’re all just
trying to
hold ourselves together
with a thin piece of cloth.
Daughter of air, Goddess of Heavens
Mother of Music, Magic, and Smithing
Tired of wind and bored
of counting rainbows,
Ilmatar invited a duck to lay
seven cosmic eggs at her feet.
Under elm tree, Ilmatar sat still,
cradling cosmic eggs on her lap
until her legs tingled and numbed.
Needing to stretch,
she risked disturbing
cosmic eggs that tumbled
down the lawn and into the pond
where delicate shells cracked
on surface of water.
Whites became the moon.
Yolks emerged as sun.
Fragments transformed as stars.
Universe created, delighting Ilmatar,
she finally gave birth. Mother
of music and magic, impregnated
by wind, creator of the majestic
when one ripple disturbs the pond.
Eat eggs. Invite ducks.
Evoke spirit of creation.
Let the siren
in soft percussion
of clicking wings
and the sexy
male song of pursuit
awaken your senses.
Hums to crescendo
soft to strident.
Like stars in the sky
the more you focus
the more you see.
Lose yourself
in the pageantry.
Fleeting ebullient pleasure,
eye feasting excursion
to savor.
-Sue Neufarth Howard
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
but we are no statues.nor the pigeons
who adore(n) them
we scoop generous ice cream the many bowls
over which recited children of poetry
chocolate drizzle reward & ofcourse sprinkles
i speak you from this sweetness, melted/
consumed. know you as not an empty bowl
like silence, an open palm like giving –
reaching – like (almost)holding – catching –
who is now fist:closed
the effort to unmake such a gesture
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
There’s never enough storage
for what’s held dear
memory blurs
fails
a mother forgets names
her daughters her husband her own
lost
tick tock all gone
time hacked all strangers here
You crawled toward me
on hand and knee
tattered flannel shirt
over filthy denim pants
your shock of white hair
illuminated from behind
by the television light
of late night infomercials
your shriveled face
with cavernous lines
leans in to mine
your mouth wide open
beneath the scruff
of salt and pepper whiskers
I stare wide-eyed
from my sofa bed
unable to move
incapable of scream
you lay your lips to mine
I taste the putrid rot
of stale hard liquor
smoke and decay
it permeates my orifice
coating the soft tissue
in its rancidness
my tongue recoils
you suck my breath
from my lungs
until I startle enough
to wake myself
under the television light
of late night infomercials
I shake off the nightmare
but my mouth is still filled
with the putrid rot
of your incubus kiss
that tastes of stale liquor
smoke and decay
you have studied much of this world,
both the great and the small,
(two choate universes–micro, macro)
seeking a safer path for our stalwart company
much of an explorer’s work is done alone–
hunched over antiquated, creased maps–
searching for elusive signposts in a land
filled with danger and death
with each morning, comes a new trek
through harsh brush and cold rains
heavy arms swing the machete,
which is in constant need of sharpening
(once i spoke with a chess master
who told me the secret of winning the game
is not to look ahead; rather, it is
to tally the possibilities
our choices have taken away)
there is talk of treasure,
enough for our bevy of anxious travelers,
somewhere down the trail–
we keep searching
you have studied much of this world,
filled with possibility and expectation
you know the Great Truth:
this expedition is not about jewels
or gold or trophies for the wall
it is about the journey–
the journey is everything
rain dances off the brim of your hat,
your blade sings through the air,
first, one step, then, another
When you sat talking about how you loved Jim Morton
The tilt of his chin, the blue of his eyes
The lilt of his laugh, the way his butt looked in his 501s
The only thing I could think of was
The way your mouth moved as you spoke those words
The curl of brown hair escaping from your ponytail
The lemony scent of your skin
The way the light reflected off your neck
Yes, I said, he’s dreamy, isn’t he
But in my mind I pictured you lying beside me
On a blanket in a meadow at night
Looking at the stars, our shoulders touching
Our hands intwined
