Postcards From Purgatory: 2011

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

in the dry world ...

in the dry world

you watch rockets
that arch across the sky

in hideous trails of red light and smoke

before expanding into unforgiving

balls of fiery death

and an eerie glow

illuminates your sad black eyes

as you look from the window

to the clamouring streets below

where children run for cover

under blankets of woollen soot

and your eyes drown in a tide of anger

before you turn back to your sleepy lover

who

having filled your womb with life

rolls restlessly in bed while reciting prayers

and you wonder

if this is how dreams always end

a rocket that flares up from the blackness

and finds you waiting

with suppliant arms

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

the floor
under your feet
disappears
like the trap door in
some sad magician's act
and you plummet through
the stage floor of loneliness to
the saving mattress below
where you land spread-eagled
and tumble into his arms
your lover now
the one instead of me
the ricochet who buries a bullet
in the centre of your heart
with a murderous blinding pain
that you welcome because
it is less intense than
the horror of losing hope
and in the jumble of semi-consciousness
he makes awkward love to you
in waves of hips
cresting just above your line of vision
you say "No"
but he is already finishing
and rolling off
of you in a deep snore

you rise from the bed
slap my face once
and again
and then a third time
before you realise that
i am mere streams of dust
sliding in parallel lines
down the rays of light
that seep through the open door
from the hallway chandelier
so you shout obscenities
at the moonlit window
that throws the same or worse
back at you from the
distorted reflection
of only you flailing at
the emptiness
there in the centre of the room
naked and still wet
with the sweat
from the sex you hated
but wanted
loathed
but had
with the man in the bed
who is groaning and
telling you to
"shut the fuck up"

i loved you once
in the gold glow of the deepest dawn
i loved your body
that encircled me like a vine
felt your legs carving across my back
felt your arms always searching for the
solid mortar of my soul
even when all you found
were walls of the finest
gossamer that floated
away into the dark clouds of a crimson sunset
and still you clung
to the words
that drifted from me
across empty pages
words that fell from ragged envelopes
letters and scribbled stains of old promises
that smeared into illegible
smudges the moment
you sought to fix them
into vows of permanence
with the blotter of your need

in the valley where i'm living
i walk along the back roads
and sometimes i think of you
but not too often
the last i heard
you were travelling through
Eastern Europe or
possibly France
travelling alone
or with a partner
a younger man some say
while others say no
a much older lover
but i never wonder
never guess
at what you're doing
or about the men you're with
i am only sad
that you still drink the
wine of hope and perform
the sacrament of speculation
at how it might have been
while failing to remember
how it was

Sunday, October 23, 2011

the language of love ...

you speak to me
in the softest voice
murmuring words i do not understand
"Français," you purr
but i know better
the inflections are
all wrong
and the consonants crash
like seagulls diving
into a morning harbour
off the shores of Portugal
"Pas de français," i whisper
and a nervous giggle
pops through your pursed lips
until another thought quiets the waves
of uncertainty to form
inviting pools of blue mystery
in your eyes

you touch me
with feather fingers
tracing senses i barely remember
across the map
of my rough skin
until you find your way
to Babel
where suddenly
you stop
pull your hand away
and leave an empty space
between my body and yours
a gap so small
and yet somehow
so deep and wide
i rush to fill it
before it measures and defines
eternity

you listen to
every sound my body makes
as i tumble over and into you
and you echo
the pandemonium of my longing
with quiet submission
your lips silencing my lips
even as i try to shape in language
what i feel
your kiss turning words into
a final rush of breath
escaping from me
into the dark
my unspoken promise
unformed but unwavering
written forever
in an indistinct language
across your heart

Friday, October 14, 2011

Postcards From Africa ...

I have pinned your postcard to the wall behind my bed

yes, the one you sent

a few months ago

the one so nicely sealed with a kiss

I have pinned it carefully

right beside the half-picture of you

in your jeans and tank top

I'm sorry but I had to cut off your head from the photo because

I couldn't bare to have
you watching me do

the ancient ritual dance-romance with Celia and Marjorie and Katie and Ursula

and all the other gazelles that have leapt into my life

with their dirty blonde braids

their creamy white tiger claws,

and their smooth clay lips that glowed red in the night
above my half-closed eyes

I couldn't bare to have
you listening
while our gyrating hips were
bashing together the cymbals of life so loudly that
the neighbours howled in ribald harmony
and drummed the floor and ceiling in perfect rhythm

So now I lie in bed like a fervid rhinoceros
lie down and roll
roll in the cool mud memory of such wanton desire

and nothing seems a clear way out

of the jungle of my infidel life so far away from you

Yesterday, you wrote again
this time to say not how much you missed me
but to tell me that you won't be coming home
that Africa was more beautiful than you expected
and that you'd met Baboo Who
a brilliant artist

or, more importantly, a better lover than me

And to think, all I was worried about
was the malaria

Thursday, October 13, 2011

a poem for emily dickinson to thank her for the present that someone delivered for her on my twelfth birthday

you threw down poems from your window

and after a century of travel

they arrived at my door bundled in a small book

like a stack of personal letters

wrapped carelessly in white tissue

and tied together by tattered ribbons of faded gold

i suspect you never really understood

what those cruel missives

floating down from your room

might do

to a young boy

who roamed through your words

over and over again

looking, longing for some solution

besides a willing carriage ride with death

how was i to know

that it was all conjecture and the caprice of a recluse?

the idle talk of someone

who chose to live her life alone

someone not really lonely at all

someone who enjoyed

just a casual and serene non-existence

because purgatory is easy

when it is what you wish for

but you see

i never got to choose the walls of my capture

that made me tiny

inside a world that grew smaller and smaller

because that was all that i knew or believed was possible

i suppose you never realised

any better than the others

that what you wrote

would validate my darkest thoughts

and violate an evolving imagination

a consciousness that i left crumpled

with your poems

beneath my childhood bed

today, i still wonder why you lacked the courage

to leave all your poetry behind

leave it all in your sunny room

and instead throw yourself out the casement of your window

and in that leap

become yourself a parable

for all the frightened eyes

that look wistfully

through a cold pane of glass

see life and turn away

from its blinding light

Friday, September 30, 2011

my mother takes a snapshot of my father before church on a summer Sunday morning ...

the sun is too bright

the day too hot

the whine of blue flies

fuels the memory of something

old

stale

and rotting in the centre of her soul

it's as if

some ancient taboo

has rekindled in her a cold flame

igniting something frightening

piloting her up from the deep sleep

of her dead life ...

his face is a blur where he stands motionless

just a bedlam of greys to her

then a chaos of colours

indistinct except for his cruel mouth

which gapes open and shut

shouting at her to hurry

and gulping at the hot air

in failing operatic gasps

that become maniacal howls

while she struggles with the camera

she is

confused by the machinery

that twists his features into a sharp focus

and the vibrancy of the image startles her eye

as if she were seeing him for the first time

he is a reverberation of someone she saw once in a newsreel

the same postage stamp moustache

his rat's eyes peering from the wounds of corpses

expressionless

vacant

pallid ...

the fluid green lawn seethes

whispers to her to steady herself

to take aim

and shoot

it's not what she wanted

not what she hoped for

not really anything more than a snapshot

but she relents, squeezes her finger

and shudders when the camera explodes

with a killing flash

Monday, September 12, 2011

the last ...

and so
this is the last
the last sunrise
and the last sunset
the last walk through a favourite woods
the last ripple of a crystal clear brook
the last splash of salmon spawning
the last meadowlark calling
the last car ride through golden wheat fields
the last flash
and the last crash
of a thunderstorm
coming out of the west

and so
this is the last
the last telephone call
the last sound of genuine laughter
the last whisper of your voice
offering a gentle goodnight
the last getting together for coffee
and the last smile across your face
the last shine of your bright eyes
in the last parting look you gave
just before the blur of your last casual wave
and the last memory
of you walking away

and so
this is the last
the last scent of roses
the last collapse
into your warm arms
the last longing kiss
the last promise
of undying love
the last sleep
spooned in the curve
of your body
the last waking
to the last morning
staying in bed
and the last brushing
away the last raindrop rushing
from the last look of happiness
in your eyes

and so
this is the last
the last solitude
the last butterfly heartbeat
before the last longing for sleep
the last twist of blankets
the last midnight mystery
of the last dream
the last waking in the middle
of the last night
the last nagging question
of how i ended up alone
in this the last empty room
the last stance by the window
the last look over city lights
brightening the last of so many restless nights
that end here in the last hours of this
the last home

and so
this is the last
the last prayer
the last negotiation
with the last hours of breath
the last regret
and the last moment
of happiness
the last confession
and the last absolution
the last shiver
the last shaking hand
grasping for the last
moments of time seeping fast
from a life that simply could not
or would not
last

Saturday, August 6, 2011

something borrowed ...

in borrowed rooms
i live in borrowed clothes
or sometimes in the finer things
you bring from
the Salvation Army
when you visit my bed
and offer me the fog of love
and your smoky body
borrowed from
your sleeping husband

and i have to confess
that i am staggered
in the morning when i realise
you're gone
even while i count the kisses
you've left
there on the breakfast table
between the mismatched china
and the library book
that you say you borrowed
just for me

a true story you said
so much like our own flight to forever
but clearly no more than a dream
that you carelessly borrowed
from some nostalgic romance
the cruellest fantasy of love that
you hoped i would believe
was something more than
an endless spiral of illusion
leaving me only the crumbs of
dead hope on a chipped plate

but i have no appetite for
the borrowed phrases and
the leftovers of a pretend life
here one moment
and gone the next
a ritual of misdirection
and so cruelly poisonous
for a man like me
a man starving for love
and living the lie of
a borrowed heart
beating moment by moment
on borrowed time

Sunday, July 17, 2011

the slow dance of love ...

you drape me in the velvet of your skin
you spill lace lips over every nerve
and every pulse that yearns to fire
in a straight line to ecstasy
i am so restless and ready
to swarm over your body
like bees from a fallen hive
but find the urgency of desire
drowsing instead
in the smoke of your eyes
and i quiet under your beauty
under the murmur
of your whispering
words that fall
like cool petals of rain
in some serene splash of a misty mantra
that numbs the world's drone of noise
and the uncertainty
of too long a journey
searching for you

your hands soothe
and soften my passion
as your fingers tumble
over a patchwork of
rough seams and sewn scars
over the etchings in skin
of a wounded life
and where your fingertips stop
you melt each trace
of yesterday's sorrow
into new flesh
that bubbles to the surface
like a first breath born from beneath
the darkest lake
to find its way to light
and when i am renewed
when i am yours
for you and only you
your fingertips trace the
way to my longing
and carry me into the first chords of the future
as we embrace and begin
the slow dance of love

Monday, June 6, 2011

food for butterflies ...

in the butterfly conservatory
everything is a flash
of pandemonium and
i am transfixed by the beauty
of miracles seen
not like still photographs
but streamed in strips
of beauty floating
in broad sweeps of light
crossing like waves that
crash on stone walls
through layer after layer
of retinas caught unaware
but instinctively
transforming the world
into mixed bursts of colour
from the shadowy greys
of black over white

for a brief moment
i am lost in the confused memory
of the emotional flat-line
of your indifference
and my imagination
betrays me
as you fold into
and over yourself
hurriedly tucking and turning
who you are
in some origami ritual
that stops my heart
when i see
you emerge from
my thoughts
as a paper moth
with cascading
vellum wings
that flutter across the table
helplessly beating
through the wrinkles of
a desperate life
your truth a temptation
and an excuse for this vacuum
this empty void you offer
to anyone capable of
a breath strong enough
to inflate your dreams
to anyone eager enough
to flail helplessly with you
anyone blind enough
to fail to see
that where there is no air
there can be no flight

at day's end
i stand on a cliff
above a familiar beach
and look westward
toward where the sun is
draining in a perfect counterpoint
of blood red and burnished gold
into the sea
and i remember how it was
when you were there
with me
your fingers enfolded
in mine
and you said how
the sinking sun
reminded you of
a butterfly
stretched across the horizon
its velvet wings
covering the world
with the soft embrace
of eventide rushing
to shore
and carrying us
above the threat of darkness
into everlasting
light

This poem is really a composite of three separate poetic fragments. Each one embodies the image of a butterfly, and so I simply stitched them together in something of a haphazard way. I only offer this explanation because there may seem to be an inconsistency in the voice and mood as you read through the three stanzas. I see the piece as something like a symphony of words and images, consisting of different and disparate movements.

Friday, June 3, 2011

sepia

sepia ...

it's just a square of sepia
you ... there in the half-light
you ... snapped from the sweep of time
and snared in a pattern of pixels
static contrasts that freeze the moment
and imprison your beauty in a dry second
and yes
in the next puff of breath
i guess you were gone
transformed into someone else
another you
the you who moves through space
the you who picks a wildflower
by the roadside
and who carries it home
to nurture in a vase of sweet water
the you who loves
with a body animated by passion
the you in process
the you entwining and releasing
the you in real life
someone fluid and in motion
someone who knows the warmth of the red sun
someone who embraces and who falls into an embrace
someone so far away
so alive and so different
from this sepia square
that taunts me as it fades away
with every passing day

Sunday, May 8, 2011

you have the passion ...

you have the passion
it shines in your eyes
like traces of a comet
flashing through blue night
like a celestial shower
of liquid desire
that burns my open hands
as i grasp at the fragments
that fall from above

you have the passion
it runs through your fingers
electric and trenchant
into my soul
it awakens me from the sleep
of dull silence
arouses me and
forms words that flow
images that glow
carried from here
to there
to here again
through every sunrise
and sunset
it’s all i know
all i remember
all i hope for
all i can think of

you have the passion
it lingers in the rivers of your beauty
deep and wet
and floods me with warmth
when i am cold
and old
it excites and renews
every empty moment
and fuels the
green force that
engenders creation
building life
from seed to
giant oak
creating empires
from broken shovels
sculpting art
from the fog
of confusion
and if i were to die
in this moment
or the next
i would pass gladly
into dust and air
having known what we share
is where
i ended a life of longing
and found love

Monday, April 25, 2011

be ...

be the unfailing light of dawn
that wakens me from the agony of desperate sleeplessness

be the wind that blows from the western skies
and chases away my cloudy thoughts pregnant with dark thunder

be the hot sunlight streaming through the bright apple blossoms
and startle me out of my tired and worried rooms

be the darkness of night at the end of the hallway
where i can hide my shadowy fears from the world

be all that is impossible and then be more
and i will love you until the end of time

Friday, April 15, 2011

the dream falls apart ...

the dream falls apart
and the night splits in two
one half
the fire of you
flaming into sudden desire
and pulling me over the edge
of your uncertainty
over the ledge
of my ambiguity
and into your life
until you have me
completely
until i sink
into the steamy quicksand
of sleepy fantasy
wrapped in the warm blanket
of your flesh

the other half
the icy waking
alone and knowing
that the starry light
of your love
is so far away
that no matter
how my heart aches
and no matter
how my arms reach
my fingertips touch only the dream
of you and never
the softness of your skin
never the part in your lips
or the curve of your hips
never the unfolding flower of your beauty
so tightly locked behind the steel gate of fate
that i fear i shall never
find my way in

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

the dance hall ...

let us dance
just you and me
across the cracked and worn wood floor
and through the dark and musty air
of this ancient, deserted ball room
where women better than you
and men better than me
once met and loved
and returned
to dance
again and again
let their ghostly presence be
a constant reminder
of how the minute waltz
can last forever

Saturday, February 19, 2011

into blue ...

i'm fading into blue
the unfinished tattoo
of love etched across my heart
a dragon tail over holy grail
worn sea glass under prairie grass
such a confusion
of images that i thought
would last
but faded fast
completely into blue

i'm fading into blue
drowning in the view
of a mosaic morning sky
the burning shrouds of midnight clouds
devour every hour
as i inhale
powder lines of poetry
hoping time might slow
or stop and never go
completely into blue

i'm fading into blue
invisible through and through
night's sharp design blurring to soft outline
in the orange dust of rust
as dawn's daylight falters
not once but twice
and then once again
until only the truth breaks clear
telling how you put me here
completely into blue

Sunday, February 13, 2011

i have been with love ... too often ...

i have been with love
... too often ...

too often in the dark velvet of night
have i felt fumbling hands
reach for pleasure

too often have i rehearsed the same kiss
and tasted the yearning of smoky desire
too often have i listened to the murmur of a wounded heart
and whispered in return like a gentle surgeon
who refuses to speak of the terminal cure

too often have i rolled aside the covers
stood by a window
covered with the stain of sweet sweat
and with a trembling finger
traced the outline of a cold memory
in the moonlit mist and frosty patterns
of spent desire

too often forlorn or forsaken
until this night finds me
pushing aside the glassy pain
of all my yesterdays
and returning to your warmth in my bed

to celebrate
all our tomorrows