Dream

she said
she had the best
of life
under
feverish
spell

she
noticed
tiny movements
and looking at
the inside of
the forest
time

nightshade
clock striking
ten and
then lush greens
filling her den
in
cold grass
cold dew pools
empty letters

she
revives
herself
on
feverish
waking

I am the only one who can touch her
Maybe
in another place
a seaside cliff,
foamy with tumultuous exaustion
rips itself apart
at the shore
and lute, the
song of saints
echoes in the
walls

oh yes,
you have heard me speak
her life
under
feverish
resignation
and uninhibited
palace of
lost.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

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Internal Dialogue

After “The Pillow Book”

1.

I’m lost in a transient sort of state

utterly lost  and abandoned,

I mean who was this girl–

this thing–

I’ve become?

 

2.

REGRET

on a  dry, razor- perfect cut lawn,

her red lips are stained with a sort of

forced forgetfulness.

the magenta furls of summer,

like kites or long twirling dresses.

White alabaster carvings in her mind

of a boy she almost left behind,

like a patch of cool shade in the late afternoon,

making her swoon.

 

 

3.

THE DREAM

The wooden chime sings in the air, as

we take a moment to find ourselves once again.

We will sing, like two small flutes,

like proud-breasted birds,

on miniature twigs,

as the wind rides on the current like a dancer on the water,

flickering in

and out

of everything,  as if she were a

skater without skates.

she flies once again through the night

without any means of suspension

not by firelight,or torchlight, or by the sound of her breath,

but by the only sense that she has

which is senseless.

 

4.

I’m lost in a transient sort of state

utterly lost  and abandoned,

I mean who was this girl–

this thing–

I’ve become?

 

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

Photography Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

Linking Arms

My dreaming self is a better poet,

but I forget the words. Now,

I’m dreaming about

two people

eye

to

eye,

in love.

Hush,

stay there,

don’t breathe.

We have children’s things to do,

mischief to make,

houses to run in,

places to deface,

always running and running

and running

and finding the ghosts in our dreams

that just edge closer

the more that we tug at the strings.

In a dreamworld

really lovers by nine,

and we we had grown up

transfixed between kissing and playing on tomato vines.

If only we could have had another hour of this paradise

and know if it was really paradise.

now really lovers at twelve

stopping by the ice cream stand

to breathe in the salty air

of a make believe sea.

Finally twenty

you lock arms

with the sun

and the new sun

and the new sun

and the new sun

all over again:

will you be-

and always be-

mine?

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

Tuesday Already

what does mother say?

she lifts her head above ground to the silken sky

making symmetrical arches on the side of the green mountain

it’s bold, 

it spurts like a fountain

god, it’s lovely today,

and the breeze has found itself another way

to curl up into my arms and spread over my hands

as if it had it’s own brain with it’s own plans.

my mother says to look down

the counter -intuitive head spin that makes my head drown

in nausea, from the drop.

heights are never ending and they never stop

and it’s Tuesday already

and mother has climbed out of her burrow once more

closing the door

and her eyes

once more

god, it’s a lovely day.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

Sylvie left this note

Sylvie left this note

Sylvie left this note

In the August fog:

The bearded poet reeks

of mud, and dry leaves.

He has been

fashioned to recite,

line by line,

only skipping

sentences

when the task

is too tiresome.

We will wait,

and we will wait again,

and  all these soft and silent waiting evenings are being

ironed out on the porch

in the August fog.

We wait, and we wait

(an abandoned curtain is playing on the cornfields)

waiting to be seen.

still burning, love?

take care then,

to put me back onto that Great Stage

and give me a shove.

you’ll see-

ma, look! no, hands!

as proud as me!

(and I was likened to the scent of darkness

for as we passed the  gray stone towers

I was fully fine to listen to

the songs they chanted after me

“STILL BURNING, LOVE?”

‘STILL BURNING LOVE?”

“STILL BURNING LOVE?”

“STILL BURNING AS WE WAIT?”)

But still we wait, and wait again,

and all these silent waiting evenings are being

ironed out on the porch in the August fog.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

two short reverso poems!

OH MY GOODNESS THESE ARE SO HARD TO MAKE BUT I DID IT!!!! Basically the poem reads one way forewords, and has an opposite meaning when read backwards. the form was started by a woman named Marilyn Singer, who has written two books of these poems for children. Her husband suggested they be called “reverso” poems, and that is exactly what she did. The books are  absolutely genius-check them out! The first book is called “mirror, mirror” and the second is called “follow follow”. 

Two Reverso Poems

gods,

the

sunrises

make

me

overcome

dark.

dark,

come

over

me.

make

sunrises

the

gods.

x x x x x x x x x

crying,

I’m

beautiful,

not

just

homely.

I’m

me.

Me:

I’m

homely,

just

not

beautiful.

I’m

crying.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

Montana

the old brook goes

by like a patriotic river

gushing out

it says

come to me!

behold the orange and yellow!

leaving spring to autumn colors have

unexpectedly sprung

leaving peaceful contentment

here, in this frame, like

a flicker of the imagination.

Copyright 2012 by Golden Star Poetry