BEINN NIBHEIS
Falling Omens
Leonids flew by here last night
escorted by a bluster
that blew the trees naked.
My husband, brave soul,
weathered the pre-dawn cold
Searching for signs from the universe
in the form of falling stars,
inconsiderate and absent
in the frosty air.
The one warming the bed,
waiting, lacking luster,
and never far enough off the ground
to rise, or fall, or notice
when failure was announced,
sighed in the red glow of the alarm clock.
“Why not just stay in bed,
you already know the outcome?”
It is clearly visible in the stationary sky.
The unmoving spaces howling
in between the lights.
Flashy signs like meteors are unnecessary
when luck is worn around the neck,
an albatross all feather and down.
Better to stay tucked
under the covers, hidden.
Pondering success and failure,
but mostly the void
created in the velvety blue,
on your own terms.
Even if the signs from god are
noticeably missing on this cold November night
there is still room for chance,
encounters and opportunity defiant.
Be ready to grab lucks mantle at a moment's notice.
History may be already written,
but tomorrow,
we hope,
will be there waiting for us.
Perched on a branch,
arms outstretched,
hoping to catch an omen
falling from the sky.
Routine
Every day
get up
let out dogs
feed cats
wince at mirror
scramble for clothes
match bland decor
corporate culture
groan
every day
dash to the train
coffee and carbs
focus on pattern
light on the landscape
good and bad behavior
analyze
every day
up three flights
down a canyon
a window seat
watch world go by
out of the corner
of a glassy blue eye
blink
every day
type repetition
miss humor
repress regret
self incrimination
avoid eye contact
circle clock
run
every day
face the gauntlet
six sets of stairs
clamor for seats
loud chatter
dark tunnels
bursting light
progress
everyday
think about writing
something meaningful
reorganize handbag
fold tissues
read emails
surpress regret
sleep
every day
spiral out
brake turning
pull in
avoid cat
pick up mail
search for key
breath
every day
open door
hungry dogs
cursing spouse
wagging tales
begging anticipation
settle
every day
shower
sit
sigh
call Mom
discuss weather
flip channels
shuffle mail
exhale
every day
lie on bed
hope for sleep
stare at darkness
formulate plan
corner anxiety
curl around dog
wait
every day
wake at five
hit snooze
relish warmth
wiggle toes
take a pill
kiss goodbye
start again
every day
routine.
Hope Flies in the Midnight Sky
(the emu constellation, a gift for Doreen on her 50th birthday)
Hope flies in the midnight sky.
Shaped by pitch constellations
of shadows in the darkness.
Neighbor of the southerncross,
she arrives in opposites,
straddling seasons
on her trip around the earth.
Calliope birth
lit by lifetimes of secrets
dressed in a gown
of inspiration and hope,
adorned in flickering colors
on a dark arched neck.
Eager to call witness
to the harvests of earth.
Hope flies in the midnight sky.
Soaring high above
fat white spheres
filled with potential,
of nourishment from within
It's a lesson to be learned
as we follow her journey
across the evening horizon.
To feel weight and strength
created by the spaces
in between the light.
All Souls Day
The second of November heralds an arctic breeze
a blunt greeting to hunched shoulders,
the quick steps of strangers
scurrying for commuter cars,
groaning in the morning light,
balancing coffee in chapped hands.
Every decision should be as easy
as this gesture of empty seats.
Allowing forward movement,
unencumbered, and escorted
by the spirits of dead relations;
aided by those who remained
at home on this holiday of all souls.
Ambition could continue
if the line didn't end here
on the crossroad of middle life.
Rough skin and bitter cups
reminders that the beds we sleep in
are of our own making.
Sleep the only opportunity for dreams
until we join the minions
honored on this day of souls.
Surviving Mediocre
Surviving on a diet of mediocre madness
as shadows pass under a transparent skin.
Comrades, gaunt from lack of meat, and an endless hunger,
wait for the promise of salvation that never comes,
leaving us begging for pennies
like whores in a harem.
The streets are dark where she came from.
Lit only by a flicker of golden light,
serenaded by crickets,
abundant love embraced on a soft, damp lawn.
Captured now in pixels and gigabytes,
a vision of young innocence,
red hair blowing in the wind
with a smile that could change the world.
In the canyon of Madison,
nothing is hidden except deep, golden pockets
where greasy fat men yearn for youth
and pretty girls in white thongs.
Hedging their bets that a transfusion of lust
will stop the ache for more;
while ancient mistresses gather dust
in the back room of a museum,
alone with Hatshepsut,
and nothing left to say.
No one can live on a diet of empty dreams,
neither fat men nor redheads aspiring for more.
Shadows, and long hauls of empty weigh them down
in between institutional doors,
bleak, in a plain vanilla, eating away their insides.
Locked in an embrace of financial infidelity,
and disbelief that they too could die.
Preferring solitude,
I sit alone
waiting for the end.
Mine, a seared but inspired heart.
damaged perhaps,
but at least my own
beating in a vibrant red,
surviving on a diet of mediocre madness.
Sleeping on Dinosaurs
Restless in an ancient bed
under a pink singing moon.
Slumber chased away by storms
that shook the rafters
and the dogs from sleep.
Waiting as rain,
cascading from the eves,
knocks the petals off
an old rose, planted with
young hands by the window.
Left are stems topped
with thorny stars.
Only a good imagination
able to restore them
to beauty in pink velvet
just like the moon.
I used to dream
about sleeping on the tails of dinosaurs.
Secured in rough scales
and toughened hide,
the harshest comment
unable to penetrate.
It was the weather
that took them down,
petals and scales,
on the precipice
of water and time.
Knocking the last of our
bloom to the ground.
Leaving only bones
in the shape of stars.
Tornado in Brooklyn
She said there was a tornado in Brooklyn,
watch out for flying debris.
Good advice always
from a Pennsylvania mother of brotherly love.
What is the world coming to?
old memories, roots, brownstones and elms
tossed about like Dorothy in the path of the storm.
Danger she said,
at every turn.
Memories spinning windmills outside the windows.
I wouldn't have known,
stuck as I was
in the bowels of the earth
with the minion of others caught up in the crisis.
Corralled underground looking for an exit.
Thanking god for my camera
and the John Prine in my pocket,
carried around like a bible.
She reminded me that water finds its own level.
Be careful where you stand.
At home the skies clear to reveal weak stars.
Lying in a bed that still spins, even with eyes closed,
I wonder what words of wisdom
I would have passed down to the children I never had,
if they were stuck underground,
storms blowing over head.
Lay low and head into the wind?
Water finds its own level?
Be careful where you stand?
Still
I draw circles in the sand
still you break through.
White candles flicker.
Still the smoke is black.
Is there no talisman
to keep you outside the gate?
Heart hardened,
I sew buttons
on a shift that does not fit.
Sift through remnant
shards of breaking and entering.
I remember tips
learned at the knee of tv
of things I will never heed.
Over and over
the same manifestation
of your face at the window.
Mistakes and missed signs
grim companions
making this possible.
Still.
good bye
“Who seeks for heaven alone to save his soul,
may keep the path, but will not reach the goal;
while he who walks in love may wander far,
yet God will bring him where the blessed are."
~ Henry van Dyke ~
(a poem for Molly)
I hope when it is his turn to leave
it does not come easy,
that he suffers the same fate he gave to you
but without the goodwill of redemption.
On the ride home I wonder, what causes us to behave?
Is it only the fear of retribution, condemnation, comeuppance?
Is that all that separates me from him?
From others, like you uncle, destroyer of children,
my only memory of you a pair of legs.
I think about how their evil would meet.
A sly wink, with a handshake and a smile?
They say god never gives you more than you can handle.
God who?
Why can’t he just keep it to himself, this doling of whim?
Mother always said “Don’t bite off more than you can chew.”
As I watch his teeth cut through flesh powerless to stop it.
I am still afraid to see you leave
watch as you depart
eyes up in your head,
holding my hand
as if you might grab my soul
and take me with you,
where I don’t want to go
not yet, not now, not ever.
Like flying, it is the taking off that scares me
not the soaring free
but traveling with eyes turned in,
shaking.
And who is this black haired woman
I want to share with my friends?
With ringed eyes that lament about purpose,
life, death and dead mothers?
What is her complaint?
Hasn’t she realized yet that
it is better to have had a dead mother
with a belief of love
than a living one with none?
I say goodbye to you at the door,
knowing you can’t see or hear me.
More to myself,
the one who will leave with you today,
the one I will never see again.
Pocket Change
We hold our memories like pocket change
not enough to be worthwhile,
only weight to remind us of the intentions of his hands.
The weight of walking the line
between child and grown
idiot and savant
blessed and condemned.
Children fingering the reason it turned out this way.
The fault on us
the guilty party long gone
under the cover of dirt.
Chiming a quiet note of despair
from hope
from anger
from fear that he will come back again
waiting in the dark, to revisit our room.
Memories hidden in the dust
like a quarter in the floor board.
Drink in the Darkness
Relief is required,
at the close of day
when the light,
low to the ground,
stretches silhouettes across the lawn.
Purple fingers yawning from the shadows
by the last blast of a sinking sun.
In the house, warm and dry
amber sentinels sit in the stillness
on the top of the fridge,
innocently tucked behind the onions
and potatoes in wicker baskets.
A thin coating of dust on a gold and red label
meant to fool an onlooker
into thinking that they are never touched.
Left to gather dust, in a sane house
of calm, peace and pets.
But some nights,
when the sun sets too soon,
dark fingers yawn around the foundation.
The undertow of darkness pulls even the strongest
swimmer where they don't want to go.
Tree branches no longer silent behind the window
rattle a warning to alert the guards
like the bell on a door.
Something is caught in the currents
just below the surface
of then, not now;
of now, not then.
Spinning in a whirlpool
of eternal amnesia.
Foolishness, you laugh to yourself,
shuffling plates like cards,
opening a can of neatly packed meat
for cats that curl around your legs.
You are too old to worry about shadows
and reaching fingers,
or the darkness spreading across the roof.
No need to remember what is not memorable,
Let it stay hidden to gather dust
like the solace on the fridge,
kept as talisman
just incase you get shaken,
like a door in the wind.
Tonight if the memories whisper louder than the gale
the seal will be broken.
Amber will be fondled in a round fat glass,
the only reflections in the melting cubes
your own eyes looking for clues,
while claws and tails eat at your feet.
Leaving Home
A reluctant wave,
the old woman is gone.
No more to wander
with aimless purpose,
in an Eden meant for the senses.
Abandoned are the soft heads of
pedaled children, beloved,
who depart and return every year
to expectant eyes.
Gone, the grace of solitude,
peace of earth with sun,
seed with water, bud with bloom.
Abandoned are the fruit of effort
to keep the back strong,
and the inevitable at bay.
The house, packed,
belongings, dispersed.
An unexpected turn
for the better or worse.
Only time will tell what will be missed
and what will be gained
as farewells are whispered at the gate.
Gray clapboard, white shutters,
navy slate warming by the back door
will no longer call a greeting.
Strangers, who won’t recognize
the creaking laughter of floorboards
which palmed her life,
will walk in this place called home.
The leaky faucet,
water circling down and around
in an eternity of gravity,
bids adieu from the old pedestal
in chipped white that will speak no more
to ancient ears.
A lifetime of ghosts, set out on the curb
for the next garbage pickup.
Dusty walls, bare, harbor no ill will
to the empty echoes that remain behind.
The crooked tree left alone
to celebrate a wrinkle made only by time
on her small hands, speckled like the plover egg,
cracked, thin and delicate.
She leaves, with reluctance,
the soft earth tilled with patience and love,
that will continue on without her.
A reluctant wave,
she is gone.
No more to wander
this place she called home.
The Gallery Spoke
The Gallery Spoke has a river running under the floorboards.
Above, plaster walls hold thick slices of rich golden ocher and crimson,
glorified devils, potted geraniums, a crow plucking out an eye thrown in for good measure.
Morsels of inspiration from a mixed bag of temperaments.
The eddy of the gallery swirls with looking glass conversations of hope, gossip, discovery.
Talk of art is buffered against the best way to repair a wall, so often penetrated by nail,
ignoring the breach below, as if a river is no surprise at all.
Sometimes it is easy to ignore the obvious underground.
Strong currents wear away stone and etch linoleum alike with its passage.
Conversations turn instead to their preferences for white, as shaky hands are known to spill;
needs for more, the desires for less, the competition down the street.
Challenges, or change not necessarily a welcome guest amongst this crowd of few.
Frustrations, perhaps, keep souls young and the paint moist.
Still westward the river flows,
immune to the politics and struggles above.
Springing from an unknown source, much like inspiration,
but without all the drama.
Small deposits of sand and silt caress the banks
that hold abandoned work and forgotten causes.
Rich minerals, iron and lyme, nature’s medium,
rework the damp canvases in patterns of umber, viridian and black
slowly elevating them into an organic masterpiece of mold.
I am honored that this stream,
its briny breath, traversing oceans and time,
has chosen this spot to cross my path.
Past gates of brick and wood,
a trickle at times, roaring at others,
Flowing onward as I cast my lot on a foundation built on sand.
It has to be an omen, luck, ironic
given my already obsessive ponderings of a watery muse.
Glossy images of source and spring
An amateur’s hand and a determined ache
to direct the flow of ordinary into a work of art.
This river, my salve, offering up possible salvation
From menial tasks and days without ambition or delight.
Hope that I may follow its lead
with an eventual bubbling up in a spring of success.
All the while keeping my own path clear, holding a steady course.
Embracing the hope that notice is not necessary for greatness.
It creation itself that only matters in the end.
Tar Beach
We would sit
the three of us
on tar beach
no sand to reflect the heat
or water to quench the burn
only the scent of a salty brine refuge
where we perched on an abyss of black
surrounding our little islands of pink
We would sit
the three of us
listening, to the music of car alarms in Brooklyn
the screeching wheels of the J Train
waiting and wishing for transformation
into something other than what we were
cocooned in foolishness
three pale girls alone in the world
ribs digging into soft flesh
talking, of the meaning of dreams:
an octopus with the eyes of a man,
flying without wings,
devils in the basement,
of invisible souls growing in wombs
too small to contain their meaning
yet too large to ignore.
We would sit
the three of us
perfuming skin with orange laced oil
sliding across translucent thighs
that would dance for boys
with a wild abandon
available only to the untamed
unbroken or mad.
willows in wooden heels
bending to the gathering storm
maelstroms, of reckless dreams,
hoping that Odysseus would succumb
to our wily ways and save us
from a future hidden from vision
in the shiny black sea.
The Coffee Shop
Three women sit
Sipping coffee in delicate cups
The color of mud, a hint of pink on the rim.
They haven’t fared much better
since the sweet days of youth
when they would sit
at this same table
pulling apart yokes, their lives,
with a determined vigor
to get to the bottom of their plate and their fate.
Today, sipping in a holding pattern
before a funeral of an old affair.
Thirty years gone in a flash.
Really, it is his wife they are curious about.
What did she have that made her so special? Deserving?
The bitch, with thin legs and blond hair.
Her luck: an inheritance, a big house and even bigger insurance plan.
Bitterness has left them hollow as the pit of growling stomachs
even after a sensible lunch.
All that is left are veins, sinew, wrinkles and space.
Three women sit
Waiting as empty cups are filled and plates shuffled.
How much they have changed.
Black to gray. Thin to plump. Foolish to wise.
Then back to foolish again.
Even beginnings of a hump
visible beneath comfortable clothes.
Talk turns to their grandchildren,
older now than they were then.
The check is split, three ways.
A tip, hefty, for the waitress,
left under the sugar bowl,
meant to make up for lost time.
Swimming
Weeks past the equinox, and a little past noon,
you find yourself swimming in rough waters.
The sun warm, the surf strong,
breakers pull you out and then roll you back again.
A cork, in an ill-fitting suit purchased impulsively at K-mart.
The draw and the release consume your attention.
Body bouncing and tumbling along with crabs and shells,
rough territory for tender feet trained for heels.
A child’s laugh released from salty lips is worth the risk.
You, neither crab nor child, relish the buoyancy
of empty space under your feet
highs and lows, over which you have no control.
On the shore, an umbrella stands, a little to the left
moving steadily with the current, soon out of sight.
An abandoned handbag, towel, fritos, a few cigarettes incase of emergency
are left unattended and prey to a hungry gull
prowling the sand like an offshoreman,
roving back and forth, with angry eyes.
The motion of the sea still in his step.
You will feel it during the long drive home,
sandy shorts, tight skin, and a rasp in your lungs.
Traces will be felt later as echoes escape bone
interrupting the gray sleep of winter
calling you back to the deep.
The Cat
Every day the cat pisses in the sink
to protest his confinement,
his life indoors.
Not on the calico patched comforter
or the couch, worn and old,
who’s embrace is an old friend,
cushioning where he sits all day,
staring at the door,
waiting, waiting, waiting,
for my return.
But in the sink,
where the stink of my own day is washed down the drain.
Damn cat, kindred soul,
with his constant reminders
that some are meant for grander things
than to sit and watch the clock,
praying for a key to open the door
kept locked by a fearful heart.
Piss on you my dear,
for keeping me here, safe but trapped.
Caged against will, against want,
heart bursting at the seams.
Waiting on the sidelines as life streams by.
Destiny shadows out the window, a waking dream.
The cat begs for release,
as I wash the porcelain clean.
Deep in the Belly of the Whale
It’s dark it dank
There is no light
Deep in the belly of the whale
There’s nothing to do but
Moan and fight
Deep in the belly of the whale
She sits there too
And she’s looking at you
Deep in the belly of the whale
She takes what she needs
To make it through
Deep in the belly of the whale
Her legs are long
Her face is old
Deep in the belly of the whale
The yearnings hot
But her heart is cold
Deep in the belly of the whale
Her money’s tight
His pockets are ripe
Deep in the belly of the whale
She sits there too
And she’s looking at you
Deep in the belly of the whale
She takes what she needs
To make it through
Deep in the belly of the whale
His hands will grope
But she’s no dope
Deep in the belly of the whale
not a wife that is true
But she will have to do
Deep in the belly of the whale
She sits there too
And she’s looking at you
Deep in the belly of the whale
She takes what she needs
To make it through
Deep in the belly of the whale
There’s lots of cash
At the fat man’s bash
Deep in the belly of the whale
If hell was real
You would know how it’d feels
Deep in the belly of the whale
She sits there too
And she’s looking at you
Deep in the belly of the whale
She takes what she needs
To make it through
Deep in the belly of the whale
You’re not alone
Wishing for home
Deep in the belly of the whale