Thursday, June 18, 2015

Tuesday Poem: An Announcement


I am so pleased to announce that my first book, Firefly, Brightly Burning is now available at http://www.graysonbooks.com and from Amazon.com

Wednesday, April 29, 2015

Tuesday Poem: from my April Daily Poem Notebook

Nerves
filigree out, against the dark background,
like thin branches, rivers, roots, arteries
veins, winding country roads, mapping
a woman, the nerves of her brain outlining
a skull, the eyeballs attached gazing out at us,
the nerves of the arms spreading wider
than arms, more like billowing sleeves
leading down to the hands, the nerves of the legs
curving wide as a full skirt, looking gauzy 
and sheer as hand made lace, giving her 
girth and presence, the channels of her 
pleasure and pain, memorializing 
a lifetime of sensation.

A woman donates her body to science,
and doctors make her into an archeological dig,
painstakingly excavating her fragile
nerve network, easing them out of muscle
and flesh, cleaning away all fat and blood,
until she is a white tree reaching down
toward the earth, all twig and root,
eyes seared by light, no longer
protected by sinew and bone,
attached to a delicate net cast wider
than the body that once contained it,
as if she were frayed into tatters
by all she’s seen, heard, felt, tasted, smelled.

This is what a women wears
beneath the skin: a big lacy dress of pain
pulsing along from synapse to synapse,
and global gushes of pleasure that travel
everywhere at once, galactic as the Milky Way,
nerves that reach beyond the body’s tidy
boundaries, rivering out to connect with
a matrix of others, until we come undone.
We moan, and flush, tremble, holler, and weep.
And men are driven to make it into geography.






Monday, January 26, 2015

Tuesday Poem: After a Long Hiatus, Luna Returns


Luna’s Trues

Hide your potables, put ups,
self-growns, and happy tools
whenever they’re not in hand.

Whatever home you make must be
up high on a hill, or stilt built, or tree
supported to withstand the waters’ comings.

Always carry a knife and a bag for forage
you stumble upon. Pass it by, it will surely
end up in the bag of who’s behind you.

Barter as much as you can,
for trade is a two handed benefit.

Be wary of poison places. Even a tread-by
can leave you weakened and sickly.

Take to a cave or a dug out place, if there’s to be
spiral winds and or close in lightning.

Never eat what grows near the engulfments.

Learn everything you can from the animal folk.
The ones, that are left, be little survivors.

A body only needs one bit of food a day.
Eat what can’t be salted or dried up first.

Waste nil. Eat what’s there even if
it makes your belly hurt

Most things got a repurpose. Our job to find it.
Trade what you can’t use. Discard nought.

Salvage what you can from every wreck.
It’s a gift from the hand of the dead.

Grow what you can, when you can, where you can.
Greenhouse an old car, or chicken coop it.

Dirt-full planters make good insulation.
Grasses love a roof, and so do edible mosses.

Rainwater is a gift and it must be treasured.
Fouling the water is poisoning yourself.

Bug bread tastes best with salty 
seaweed soup or juicy mushrooms.

Feed a stranger just enough to give them 
the strength to move on.
Do not allow strangers into your nest.

In the conurbations, 
you’re no more than a field mouse.
Beware. Traps been set for you everywhere.

Most of what’s people-made will 
degrade the air if you burn it.

What weather delivers comes straight 
from the heart of the earth.


 

Sunday, November 9, 2014

Tuesday Poem: Part of the Post-deluvian Water Series

Drones

Many’s the time, Luna’s spied those
hovering metal hummingbirds overhead,
or buzzing by the windows over and over,
till Sol made an ugly face and gave them
the finger. Many’s the time the two of them
were moved to head into the thickest woods,
so as not to be watched any more, pretending to
heed the hunter’s call to enter the letup of leaf cover.

When they heard, at Kin Gather, about
the young ones squatting in Hill Wagon,
all three of them nullified, where they stood,
for smuggling, and it being the same
kind of drone, Sam shook, and Luna sobbed
until she fainted. From that day on, when the
buzz come, Luna had to lie down, and Sol
made an effort to smile and flash the peace sign.

Monday, September 22, 2014

Tuesday Poem: from The Water Series

The Sink

Luna visits the dying: house after house,
slowly yielding to tidal hunger,
all roof waver, and shingle warp,
like fish, someone caught and abandoned,
scales curled and lifted by the too hot sun,
smelling of woodrot, maggots and mildew,
windows gone cloudy and wall-eyed.

Doors darken from the waterline up.
One day, a whole section of wall
slides away and gulls hop in
for a once over. Then reeds push
through what steps were left intact.
A narrow dock holds fast to its
sodden pilings until it floats, like
Charon’s raft, off to the underworld.

Luna meditates on gradual decay;
what it leaves behind and what it takes away.

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

Tuesday Poem: Another From The Post-deluvian Water Series

Naiads

Twice a year are the rememberings.

Each Naiad stepping up and doing her part
as spirit anchor, holding on to what was,
and what could come again of water’s blessing.

It’s a conjuring: first, faucet water,
sweet as wild grasses, with no
after taste of the barrel,

then showers falling inside the house,
all unctuous warm, softening
muscles, pinking our bodies cleanly,

mist and drizzle dancing in the air,
bringing earth smell to its full musk, neither 
drench, nor hammer, nor sodden destroyer,

streams brisk on the face, sweet and
cooling on the tongue, a gurgling
tune played on downed logs, twigs, and rocks,

heavy buckets of bounty rising
up the well shaft for all to share in
every manner of sacred ablution,

fountains shooting crystal arcs into
the heat of day, glazing graceful iron babies
and birds, sending the rest of us blessed spray,

rivers benign and lazy, that never once raged or
spilt over their banks, engulfing houses and 
towns, leaving mold tentacles to 
fester behind the recede.

The clear debris-free pond, the rocky cove,
the waterfall, and moss grown creek,
the benevolent silence of the snow flurry.

Luna’s remembering is the lake’s
cool silk, the way it held a body afloat
without you going all rashy and burning.

Each Naiad leading the rest back to
Paradise, water as it was 
when we were innocent: free and clear.

Thursday, August 14, 2014

Tuesday Poem: From The Water Series (Post-deluvian)



The Comb And The Mirror

The comb for our failure to honor chaos,
the way we try to untangle the world,
the furrows we cut, and other ills.
The mirror for our over love of ourselves,
the way we think dominion over other creatures,
for shackles and blades and all demonic devices.

Too many times, Luna spies
one or the other at Barter, though
nowadays, no one will touch them.

That’s when her whole body
fills with dread of the tempest,
for comb and mirror stir up
the old woman’s anger. She tosses
in her sleep, and soon come a whirl
and a hideous pelting, the spinning
edges of wind heavy with water,
soon the rise of white mares
in the waves, the sky’s dark keening,
the punishing hand of Marina smashing
everything we make into matchsticks.

When it’s over, survivors try to
make amends by letting go
pairs of sparrows, into the wreckage.
And Luna has learned much from
watching these little survivors
as they glean what they can
from nature’s fury



Monday, August 4, 2014

Tuesday Poem: From The Water Series


Mermaid/Man

Luna and Sol take turns
diving into the engulfments.

Buildings listing this way and that,
barnacled shipwrecks, most of their
window glass broken, or already salvaged.
Big wooden houses like temples adrift on the tides.

She sees others like them,
brightening near the surface,
darkening as they go under, trolling for
the souls of the drowned, caged as they
came to be, in boughten goods, in pretties,
usefuls, things you can hold in your hands.

Luna finds a plastic bucket, a sand etched
green glass bottle, a box of sodden
paper she can pulp and dry anew,
a camera filled with water
and tiny jellyboys.
Best is a jug unblemished,
she can plug with one
from the box of stoppers.
Sol saves his vigor for tools.

Monday, July 28, 2014

Tuesday Poem: From The Water Series



Snowdrop Soup

is what Luna serves him.
She forages and all she can
find is these, with their little
white heads and greeny secrets.

Months of being cooped up
in their too tiny space,
inundated with snow, after
heavy wet ice, after hailstone
and rain, wind whipping
beneath the floorboards, stilts
rattling a rough tattoo.

There were shriveled carrots
and mildewed beets left,
to throw in with a brackish
draw from the well, her
put-ups all but decimated.

She spies them at her feet,
clusters of early March milk maids,
a first flowering, stoop-shouldered
and shy above the sooty patches of melt.

A gift, she thinks, from the angels,
for ain’t she like Eve almost? Needing
a little swig of the hope, after
losing so much that was good?

Too late she remembers their other name:
death’s flower, so beautiful were they,
once she clipped them, like mermaid’s
hair drifting across the bowl.

He gobbled them fast, and she did too,
so craving of green were they, and then
the cramps and the stomach flips set in,
the two of them dizzy as love sick fools.
Giddy, he says, with spring just round the bend.
Their guts will mend, since at least she
remembered to leave bulb in the ground.
She doesn’t tell him the story. Maybe
next year. Pictures how hard their
empty bellies will shake when they laugh.

Wednesday, July 16, 2014

Tuesday Poem: From The Water Series

 

Old Woman’s Aria


What a boon, what a boon, what a boon!
to live in an empty honey crock tucked into
the long brown bones of a hedge.

O bee hieroglyphics!
O nectar and reverie!
O to row out in half a walnut,

to meet this drowned world,
with its blessings of barter and trade,
its mud that spits out stones for ballast
and jars, those glass beatitudes,
that rise up singing out of the muck,
jars, clear and intact, no matter to me
how small they be, or what they held once,
jars I catch the rain in, the best ones
begging to be filled with potables,
to be sealed with caps I make
out of crayons and candle scraps.

O to be washed sweet again by the rain,
to savor the taste of a memory, though
the poor bees, themselves, are gone!