All The World's A Stage

What I Use My Crayons For

Carmine is rich sex
slow and luxuriating
or violent bursts
but long and deep
leaving memories
and sometimes marks.

Cerulean is rainfall
chiming down the window pane
while we lay in bed
reading between
bouts of draining touch
cut fruit, blue plate

Sunflower is warm hands
hot against my chilly skin
dreams of summer flare
in heated lips
kisses feeding my soul
as the bright sun

Yesterday was Langston Hughes' Birthday.

Love his stuff.

Harlem by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore -
and then run?
Does it stink like rotten mean?
Or crust and sugar over -
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

Why Yes, I Got A Poetry Day By Day Calendar

When we lived in West Virginia I spent a lot of time walking with my new baby in a sling through the woods. She'd sleep, her little baby head against me, causing a patch of sweat between us. It was wonderful, the smell of the woods and her baby scent all together. It's part of what I miss most about that place, the smell of the wood and the sound of the leaves and the creek and the animals.

Often I encountered deer on these walks. Deer and diamondbacks.

So this poem speaks to me.

The Doe
by CK Williams

Near dusk, near a path, near a brook,
we stopped, I in disquiet and dismay
for the suffering of someone I loved,
the doe in her always incipient alarm.

All that moved was her pivoting ear
the reddening sun shining through
transformed to a color I'd only seen
in a photo of a child in a womb.

Nothing else stirred, not a leaf,
not the air, but she startled and bolted
away from me into the crackling brush.

The part of my pain which sometimes
releases me from it fled with her, the rest,
in the rake of the late light, stayed.

I Started Writing Hannah's Patternwalk Today

(image clearer via Croft!)

And I Will Always Cherish Smiles

Because We Should Share The Adventure

I Will Appreciate Diversity

Still Have A Child's Heart

I Will Cherish Conversation

And Be Amused By My Own Whims

I Will Laugh At Man's Folly

When All Lies Dormant, The Green

In The Dark Days I Will Remember The Sun

And so we send you to car heaven, Charity Motors...

You served us well, our Cougar
although you could have driven smoother
but now your tire stays flat
and we miss your hubcap
and the door handle misplaced
will never be replaced
at least, not by us
just too much fuss
since your engine won't turn over
we consign you to Charity Motors.

20 Minutes on Monday Morning

It has been a hell of a long time since I attempted a sonnet.

And the iambic on this is WRONG WRONG WRONG.

Francesca's hiding her face and bemoaning: Why would you show that to anyone else?

But for me, this ain't a bad start. Hell, it's nice to just try to write poetry. And I'm not going to judge myself to harshly on anything I write for the smut game.

"Thou skin shines as moonlight on snow pure white;
Yet unworthy of being so blessed (read bless-ed)
As to be color laying there I might
Dream of dark places, wet, cool carresses.

Poets can but hope and search longingly
To draw out words, from lips and breath and touch,
From she whom in words reside, daringly.
Passions to paper, rhymes, rythms, I clutch.

For thy desire a warm dream I'll be,
Wrapped in images, myth, stubborn delight,
All earth bound, a dreamer, and so faulty -
Yet show my best attempt to create light.

So netted, caught and trembling (read trem-bel-ing) I be,
Yet I gain your gifts given by the sea."