When She Looks At Me. (18.2.25)

The woman – perhaps?

The woman in the mirror.

When she looks at me.

.

A passing glance,

or a laugh.

Forced or true.

.

Mocking wet eyes,

angry crystallized sadness.

.

If

the image is distorted

When she looks at me

despaired.

Then

When she looks at me

soaring,

Is it too?

.

.

It’s not a mirror in my mind I see,

when I think of me.

Something more of an ideal,

mix past and future, maybe,

and pure, force of will

applied to sense of self

.

The woman in the mirror,

when she looks at me,

it’s not that me I see.

.

.

The image of me I see

I wonder

if anyone other sees

.

perhaps if it is not

the distortion is not my mind

but yours.

Quiet Deafens. (19.3.18)

Standing still after a shower, sensations of water running down your skin.

Listening to the click and pop of an open soda sitting next to you.

Listening to millions of tiny snowflakes hitting the ground around you.

The rush of wind, of cars, of heartbeats.

.

Quiet is loud, sensation is strong,

When you tune in.

They take over all in the end.

When will you tune in?

The Woman Dipped In Ink. (19.2.12)

Red dress. Black dress. White dress.

White dress, black flowers, red petal tips.

She drifts through the world. Rain pelts the glass in fat, running droplets as she watches. Their streams distort light, views through the window. Inside, and out.

Her fingertips trail down the pane. Longing, loneliness in her eyes.

Ink seeps from her. Constant, viscous, pooling. From her fingertips, heels, hair, tear ducts, it seeps and runs from her, pooling in places, sticking in others. Reflecting slick highlights.

As she drifts, the ink runs like tears around her. It fills her footsteps, dissipating in rain and evaporating into black stains in the sun. It’s left dark and unseen on anyone she touches, without her knowing. It bubbles up through the skin at her throat, sliding down her chest through her dress’s weave without leaving trace, but marking the whole world around her.

The rain is a mild, warm background noise in a cold city, accompanying her tapping footfalls as she walks through the alley slow, barely feeling the rain. The edges of petals on her soaked, summery dress the only spots of color in the scene.

Soaked in experiences turned potential, is this

Her beginning or her end?

She walks, a lifetime of untold stories no longer contained, flowing away from her in fine rivulets.

SEAF 2019! (19.3.21)

I’m excited to announce my poem Truths will be included in Seattle Erotic Art Festival’s 2019 Literary Anthology!

I’m excited to announce my poem Truths will be included in Seattle Erotic Art Festival’s 2019 Literary Anthology!

Woman lies in a field with a yellow typewriter and umbrella, in dark tones. Text reads: Read My Art at Seattle Erotic Art Festival April 26th-68th #SEAF2019
A stylized heart amongst peacock feathers, paisley like designs, and green stylized vines. Text reads: See my art at Seattle Erotic Art Festival April 26th-28th #SEAF2019
See My Art
Seattle Erotic Art Festival April 26-28 2019

I’m honored to share pages with the other talented authors who make up this work, and I look forward to seeing the awesome collection of visual art the festival has chosen.

I hope you’ll consider supporting erotic art in Seattle by purchasing a copy of the anthology, (On Lulu, or Amazon) and by attending the festival itself. I’ll be there if you want to say hello; it’s lovely meeting people who are enthusiastic about erotic arts or sex education.

Find more information about SEAF Here.

Basil Kisses Mommy. (18.6.10)

Never doubt the power of the wind that sweeps along the healing rain.

In the darkened days, when we hadn’t figured out as much, of what it was like to be kind, to be human, there was a stormy night. And in that night there were the souls, who’d sought their shelter in places, that kicked them out on their faces, time and time again.

Three of these souls were Ash, Amelie, and Baby tucked inside. The thunder crashed around them, lighting up their paths, they had no where more to turn.

They settled underneath, a tree whose leaves cast an illusion of protection, and as the raindrops fell, their spirits did as well.

Ash and baby curled into Amelie and cried, sure this was the end. The last chance at hope was spent and wasted, lost in the shuddering alleyway boards. Amelie only looked up to the sky, unable to see through the raindrops, unable to see where the rain fell from, the cloud with the silver lining, the rainbow they were supposed to cross. There was only darkness and swirling patterns of falling rain, struck briefly alight with flashes across the sky.

If this truly was the end, if this was where they’d lie, then at least, she’d make her lover smile to the sky, one last time. Amelie stood on shaking legs, wiping raindrops across her face, pretending she was brave. Her lost white dress in tatters, clung to her form as she stood against the storm.

Her voice rose quiet, soft, and unendingly sweet.

Lady Ash my love,

We have come so far.

And our child within you,

must know our star.

The star our love has followed, looking for the future, a world where we can say that this has past.

This song was my grandmother’s, her love in me grows strong.

I sing to the elements of soul

They dance around us all

entrancing us in storm, warming us in shine, bringing us the fresh bread scents.

This is our love and child, and this is where we are

I sing for you my love and all who’ve needed shelter.

To all the world’s connections, carry this message with you,

Along to all the ones who can help you

Find the shelter from the rain that would heal us

If only falling with a different touch.

And in these moments, when all hope is lost,

Please be standing there.

Her song is haunting against the rain, Ash’s tears mix with rain on her face, and when Amelie offers her hand for them to dance in the echoes of her song, she takes it.

Swaying there together, singing their songs of love, Baby kicks between them, and the rain warms their faces and their hearts.

For everywhere around them, lights blink on in darkness, casting light in shadow and a honeyed glow. The rain fell thicker all around, but the cold did not sting them, the wind did not bite. They were caressed together, taken care of by the night.

Amelie’s song returns in the raindrops, ringing along the ground, except her words are different, answered by the storm.

To the wind and rain who hears us, and all the spirits there that may,

We Care.

Those lovers there beneath the worried sky, were protected. From their own world and the wonders that had lost their course, warmed in rain and sheltered they danced in love. Amelie took a sprig of something growing just in the dirt and cracks, held it to her lips and laughed. Pressed it to her lovers lips and kissed her. The sweet, earthy scent of basil wound around them, a charm for their future, and a lullaby for their tired eyes.

Ash’s tears were happy now as her hand brushed baby’s tiny fist, lying just below the surface, ready to seize the world. “I think we should name her Basil.” Ash’s voice was hoarse and low, accompanied by the thundering approval of whichever goddesses above were watching.

Amelie nods and they kiss once more.

***

Seven long years later,

These two lovers stand, with their own protection and their people, finding their better world.

Basil kisses mommy, and she grows.

Silly Weekly Meta Momentum. (18.10.4)

When ya gotta write and all your head provides is song lyrics that already exist.

Starting lines and dramatic passages of fame.

Bits and pieces, ideas and scraps; deserve much better than this claptrap half exhausted gotta write something for the weekly brain.

Can’t loose momentum on the weekly.

Bits deserve flesh and strength.

Pieces of larger things that can’t, well shouldn’t, simply be removed.

To stand on their own.

Ideas take time.

Scraps need edited.

Sensations and scenes, imagery and vivid instants.

Those would be lovely.

Fully realized, perfect edits, easily.

While still asleep.

The lead weight cotton static in the mind drags on the hunt

To find a more or less decent post.

Maybe next time, it won’t be a weird and silly meta blob of bits and pieces.

Open Wind. (12.7.6)

Listen to the open wind

It speaks

As

A culture all its own

Open wind lives

Within

Everyone feels

Open wind

Within

It calls

Beckons

Cries

Begs

For your alliance

To find what you search for

In

On

With

The Open wind

Why do you trust

That it will take you

Where you want,

Where you belong,

When it

Changes.

When it only

Changes.