effeuiller la marguerite

summer’s innocent calls the rise in day,

its powdery petals sprinklin’ across

field and yard indiscriminately

in everlasting flowering bouquets.

.            tous les jours, mon amour, je t’aime, je t’aime

aimez-vous, aimez-moi, aimez-vous, aimez-moi

picked and threaded in delicately wound

chains woven in my own gossamer locks

holding youth to the long days of summer

and the wonders of simplicity found.

tous les jours, mon amour, je t’aime, je t’aime

aimez-vous, aimez-moi, aimez-vous, aimez-moi

loyal to love, one pluck for yea, one not,

patience is born of the rays of plenty

that orbit out from its sun centerpiece

quick to hold a number to tie a knot.

tous les jours, mon amour, je t’aime, je t’aime

aimez-vous, aimez-moi, aimez-vous, aimez-moi

long day and bounty permit long sessions

contemplating the delight of whether

love is found for the ardent admirer,

though what is posed is hardly the question.

             tous les jours, mon amour, je t’aime, je t’aime

aimez-vous, aimez-moi, aimez-vous, aimez-moi

love you, love me, love you, love me, love me

is the anthem of the daisy command

on the mossy mound of long ago time

when the thought never not occurred to thee.

            all of the days, my love, I love you, I love you

            love you, love me, love you, love me

larceny

in your embrace,

my nose buried in the skin

above your collar,

I did not detect a discernable scent,

but the warmth-

that I stole:

won’t … can’t … give it back.

Winter Moon II

A full moon sits heavy in the cold night,

mist shimmering around its curve weeping

icy dew drops on my freckly cheeks,

rushing over me like an Irish tide:

thunderous, rock splitting calamity.

Ducking inside, away from its strong pull,

I’m home in the lonely painted red room-

winter frozen, stirred by the warming glow

of the ghost light left burning to welcome

spirits that inhabit the deepest dusk.

Sleep comes quick as my head hits the pillow,

my dreams unsettled and full of panic

as lunar waves push love away from me,

daring me to chase it down and take it

before it’s ripped away and out to sea.

Sirens call for me to dive under and

swim around and through sandy silt and weed

that languish and fire across  in a play

of the cyclical connection that sea

and night sky’s pearl know to be magnetic.

Gulping air, swallowing salty water,

I reach for a rock slimy from the sea

and pull at a branch broken from its tree,

trying to beat the sharp ice’d current

to the safety of the dark rocky beach.

Awakened by the fury of the night,

I lie still in the wave of tossed blankets

left to wonder the outcome of the tale,

did I beat the winter moon's dark challenge,

is love close or has the tide pushed it out.

Note: I wrote another version of this poem almost two years ago. I have changed it some. I realize that it is a little heavy handed, but the moon, to me, is a very romantic figure. And its pull on me ... is very tragically romantic. 

Christmas cookies

as soon as wheels hit the tarmac

they’re making cookies

at grandma’s blue house on the corner.

in pjs and aprons, flour running across the floor,

chocolate chips, snickerdoodles,

hey, don’t forget the gingerbread cookies,

we need to make so many more.

eggs cracked with one hand,

shells littered across the counter,

fingers greased and at the ready,

more dough hits the tummy

than the metal sheet.

is that a cardinal out the window?

where are the hummingbirds?

no sweetie, they only come summer.

ding, ding, ding the timer sings,

cookies come out and are gobbled up

faster than the next batch hits the hot oven.

making cookies at grandma’s blue house on the corner,

we need to make so many more.

love

it hovers-

anti-gravity

energy

keeping it

from landing

tease

he fucks with me

            like cat and mouse

ah, but I don’t run

for the hole in the wall

if my tail is caught

            he can have it

do it yourself messiah

old Tony plopped down next to me

flurriously

at the do it yourself messiah.

sitting in the altos,

his warbling, questionable tenor

threw me off

my nascent attempt

at choral singing.

he smelled of mint

and at half-time explained

that he had driven three

hours from Madison-

to sing.

Sing? Yes.

have some peppermint water,

it’s good for the voice,

he said.

he moved out,

stumbling for a fit,

fishing for his cap

under my seat.

Hallelujah. Hallelujah. Halle-----lu---jah.