Tag Archives: Hair

Grafting Rosmerta


it was simple
I’d place the oil burners full of fat into the tree
and the branch would light up.

i would take a lock of my hair
and braid it with yours
full, like a benediction
and whole, like love.

i might run like a kite and never find myself again
and my deep interior might grab at me and say
stay close
dont run away
be simple.
graft me back inside.

the milk and warm apples and pearl earrings
and my darling teddy bear and the conversations
the milk spilling sour and turning sour
the apples being eaten
and the teddy being torn
and the coversations empty.
I want to be at the edge of the forrest, braiding my hair and flying my kite
and breathing a cinnamon story of warmth.
do you think i know the truth?
why do you ask me questions, Dan?
I’m just twenty
i need some money
i want a bed full of straw and full of heady hearts
stringing along like electric parts
until its so bright i have to squint.
i am made of you
you, of me:
it is simple.
I am grafting a staircase to the underbelly
you shook, i shake
the world topples over
but we stay on mount balance,
never moving an inch
never feeling a pinch
and laughed
like bees filling up the cup
with sweet honey.
the rosemary fills my lungs,
and its time,
i realize,
to move on,
like a grafted tree or branch:

like a whirlwind
the world is all moving sound and color
and i will hear you when i wake.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry



The Gobi Desert Cycle-HAIR


This is a cycle of love poems I am working on. This is the fist one in the cycle. Hope you enjoy!


The sand gets caught up in his hair every once in a while, like white marble castles drifting on seas of dark evergreen


he brushes it  off. Always it is night there, a perennial obsidian coffin, buried with incense. The light  cannot escape it.

it’s curve is

forever a hushed daughter’s keepsake, kept in place and twisted horribly all at once.  Hush, she whispers, fingers


each strand like a horse’s mane. He is a quiet warrior, like a sleeper who is not talking,


through the silent grass. A bridge echoes through the dark waterfall of  the daughter’s mind;

it breaks

evenly, vertebrae by vertebrae, slowly cracking, each piece of it’s  driftwood crashing into the open mouth of the  river:

she drowns

but she doesn’t know it yet.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry