Untitled
Like everyone else
what I remember most
are the rolling waves
at the coast.
There is only that one.
One shore for all
continets, islands,
riverbanks,
oceansky
holding the Motherwomb.
They all feel her
rolling over
again and again
stretching, lunardancing
against them
on the twentyeights.
I cannot stand there on that edge
with sisterseabreezes
sexing me
without ladymemories
titillation.
I am just a male;
body cut off
from a direct touch
of MotherSea.
But I know they do
and will feel her
inside them
in a tidal way.
So,
like a boat
I can only wonder,
to
enjoy the awe
of both
and hope to stay afloat
on that sweetbreast.
Offshore worker (Louisiana Man)
What is it knowing her?
Like………
Well, sort of like driving toward the Gulf coast
in predawn Louisiana.
The comfortable night darkness
not quite yet gone
with a pinkish-red sidewalk chalk line
making sweet lip caresses
that sip at my sweet Southern horizon.
Like ……..
waiting for that inevitable first
whitecap of air rolling and tumbling swelling
pregnant with that welcome home perfume
of Mother Ocean
riding on an impatient-for-the-morning offshore breeze
blowing in
flirting with the gravid marshlands.
with
The sound of the song "Born on the Bayou"
or Creedence Clearwater's "Proud Mary"
turned all the way up 'full blass"
flashing past,
shaking the gators and snakes awake
in the canals
as the truck's tires kick backward
the quickly heating blacktop.
As she slept I left our place
reluctantly.
Bending to kiss her face
and hear her half roused "Drive carefully on the road"
Her voice identical to that first fresh smell
of Mother Ocean.
The sound of it rolls like the Gulf in me
drawing me back time and again.
Caught like contented driftwood
I am the most alive in the tides
of those two great women.
Untitled
Under
an evening sky
of coral
strung on golden wire
an empty rocker
still dipping
rusty fire
from the horizon's
half circle sun
the armrests
still warm
need repainting.
Caught
inside
an eclipse chrysalis the moon
stirred
alive
a bright, white winged
moth
yet an unflighted thing
I watched it
complement her
eyes,
reflect
refract
her birthing it earthward
the song of her voice
"Oh Look,"
"Oh Look ".
A crystal of condensed moonlight
shimmering,
On her cheek
I kissed it
tasted
ocean salt
on my lips
to be reborn
knowing the struggle would follow
again
as it always has.
Untitled
I saw again, same way as before-
in the trees once more.
This time in the ones
on the other side of the garage
in the neighbor's yard
the ones that clear the galvanized tin roof
that satori:
the infinite
in the finite.
I wish you would have been here and could have seen
but that is so unlikely-
two to be unblinded at the same time
too many years passed unseeing,
noticing nothing behind the green
Untitled
somewhat of an invitation
Sometimes
in the morning
around breakfast
there's a squirrel
that comes down the bayleaf tree
next to the swings
I drink my coffee - two or three cups-
he eats the tender roots
of the St. Augustine shoots
he pulls up
One of Haydn's better pieces tumbles out of the windows
but does not impress him one damm bit
He's happy enough just as long as the lawn grows
composers or no
and that's our trick.
I like Chopin with my morning caffeine too,
the squirrel likes pecans that fall from the tree in the front yard.
Come over any morning you'd like: it's nice.
then
that first time
now again!
a refreshening.
mirror tales | mirror tales
“I have never been friendly
with mirrors” she often said.
“I was never what would be called
pretty, you know
not even cute, or euphemistically “sweet”
I resented that cold cynical clinical precision
and the could-care-less superficiality
that could out stare me.
I am so much more than that.”
All that the reports said
was that she was found
in the motel.
none mentioned that she was nude
or that the room had a mirror walls
on both sides of the bed
none said that she had waited
for most of the night
for her friend to show.
no one knew.
“I have never been friendly
with mirrors” she often said.
“I was never what would be called
pretty, you know
not even cute, or euphemistically “sweet”
I resented that cold cynical clinical precision
and the could-care-less superficiality
that could out stare me.
I am so much more than that.”
All that the reports said
was that she was found
in the motel.
none mentioned that she was nude
or that the room had a mirror walls
on both sides of the bed
none said that she had waited
for most of the night
for her friend to show.
no one knew.
All poems copyrighted 2002
Addotto
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Bio
(physical)
simple : - Italian - Cajun (Louisiana French) Buddha-Harley-Claus,
big fat man (fat? Yes, your problem of acceptance, not his) ponytail
-1,grey beard-1, 5'11" tall brown eyes (soulful) - 2, and black
hair -several (doing the glacial retreat baby boomer boogie) born in
the year of the Hiroshima bomb drop.
(intellectual) more complicated: several degrees of
different types and utilitarian usage. English,Creative writing,
Technical school, and several curious and unmentionable institutions
and training centers.
(personality) curious, creative, exaggerated opinion of
self-worth. slightly arrognt,a born liar and storyteller and a
general gadfly.
All in all a nice, harmless and creative person--all things
considered. A writer and observer.
life philosophy--- " ... and this too shall
pass"
King Ashoka , ancient India.
Heroes: Christ and Buddha and teachers generally especially
Joseph Campbell.
Art: See the Sea by Stacie
Milmeister
(Please click on Stacie's name to visit her site,
Anastasia Art. Stacie presents both black
and white and color photos which are
available in limited editions. Stunning work
and well worth a visit! )
Music: Cantalibre
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