Postcards From Purgatory: 2015

Tuesday, July 7, 2015

polaroid girl ...

your body
clings to me
like ivy finding its way
in serpentine patterns
over the cracks
and crevices of
an antique brick wall
and i still remember
the way you turned
your face away
even as you pushed
your naked breasts
into sharp focus
when you first became
my Polaroid girl

you watched and giggled
when i fumbled to find
the perfect angle
to capture
the passionate collision
of Venus and Mars
my finger snapping the shutter
and igniting a sudden flash of light
that made me flinch
"Quit moving," you cautioned
"Or you'll just get a blur"
and how could i not
instantly watch my love develop
there with you
my Polaroid girl

the years run past
like shadows overlapping
sunny daisies
and somewhere in a shoe box
or beneath the underwear
in my drawer
a younger woman
with a body serene
(although slightly tinted bluish green)
lingers in my memory
the you in you
who discovered that the freedom to be
exists far beyond
the clunky white borders surrounding
my Polaroid girl

Monday, May 18, 2015

the motive for metaphor ...

in the room
the lovers fold into one another
disappear and reappear from
under the worn white sheets
of the bed over there
across from where i sit
in the corner of the room
on a simple wooden chair
and i watch blankly
feeling slightly bemused
and somewhat out of place
not quite the poet laureate of love
more an embarrassed observer
with pen and paper
here to chronicle
the events of the evening
for you

they bend under the weight of sex
flexing taut muscles that fire
and then relax
and i jot down the cadence
of every whisper and groan
in the rise and fall
of this symphony of desire
carefully noting how
her hair flies in a perfect arc
over her softly lit shoulder
just before her lips pout and part
to caress and encircle his eagerness
and when his kiss
finds the heave of her hesitant hips
i grasp for the perfect mixture of words
feel it form and rush along the fingertips of thought
before it collapses completely
and is gone

i have known these lovers
for time passing over time
their elongated and supple bodies
so easily dancing and writhing here in the shadows
have turned into one another
since the days of the Roman gods
theirs is an enduring ritual
that races down a familiar path
from gentle caress
to the rehearsed chaos
that measures the crushing blows
of flesh and bone
in the murderous longing for ecstasy
until at last she is lost in him
and he is lost in her
and both cross the sacred divide
each helplessly obliterated
for the sweep of mere seconds
in the fusion that other poets
far better than me
have described as
the motive for metaphor

Friday, May 15, 2015

doing my best ...

i am doing my best
painting the back room
with the tin-can colours
you left behind
and some mornings
i almost find you
in the mix
of oily blues
that you said
you loved so much
when you looked
into my eyes
and lost yourself
in the hint
of light
peeking through
my constant sadness
and shining
back at you

i am doing my best
watching babies
growing into
children chasing
all kinds
of bubbles
of experience
across the back lawn
until the skies
darken
and storm clouds
rush toward them
at an impossible speed
quickly turning their
dancing ways
into something
even more frightening
than the end of days

i am doing my best
to hold off
the sickness
and the infirmity
of age
doing what i have to do
to keep these secret flowers
blooming in a heart
so fragile
that i can only guess
when each bloom
will turn from its
moment of beauty
and wilt to seed
in autumn's
collapsing sun
until each suffocates and fails
under winter's frost
that covers each
and every one

i am doing my best
to be the man
i promised
i would be
holding fast
to the railing
on the stair
that led to
the bedroom where
we lay in wounded
puddles of love
and where every desire
seemed so
easily satisfied
until the hope vanished
into blank stares
and every shared dream
disappeared
along the trails of
desperate dust
caught in the half-light
of some make-believe moon
filling every corner
with killing lies
that no amount of healing faith
could ever again
truly redeem

Thursday, May 7, 2015

beyond your dreams ...

i've been watching your dreams
spill in cinematic waves
across the pale white sheets
here in the bed
where just moments before
you whispered something
indistinct and fell
into the soft purr of sleep
and left me to be
the solitary witness
of some fairy-tale you
the you of
your life
as it might have been
without all the
crippling insecurities
and all the painfully
fractured memories
you have packed
in your suitcase
of life's
broken promises

and i have seen
the story of your sadness
become transformed
with a sudden splash
of seemingly
limitless beauty
into an unfolding vision
of a young and somewhat
giddy girl
dancing recklessly
across the ambiguous
thresholds of time
through all of your past
and right up to
this sudden sleepy moment
a midnight metamorphosis
eclipsing what was
with an unfaltering revision of you
renewed with some strange assurance
that you might
exchange all the days
when you were broken
for the happiest
parts of a lifetime
that fit
so perfectly
together

and i shudder as
this vision of you
turns to me with
such pure and
luminous eyes
blinking
once or twice
in a perfectly clear
and hopeful longing
that this fantasy of you
this more perfect portrait of you
is the you i see
through night or day
through sleeping or waking
without ever guessing
that i would so easily
and so disdainfully
dismiss all your dreaming away
since what i truly see
in the you i love
is so much more
and then
so much more
again and again

Thursday, April 23, 2015

when the writing stops

when the writing stops ...

it is four in the morning
and i confess that
this poem comes and goes
i have moments
when everything is clear
and then it all slips away
into the sudden insecurity
that if i write from the innermost
pulse of my heart
you may not understand
what i am saying
or worse
not care
but you see
i long so much for your attention
that my aching fingers
freeze like larkspur
caught in a sudden frost
and i can only watch
as the blue inky stains turn to bruised yellowing black
after so much tireless scribbling
after so many words written
then scratched out
only to be written again
filling every empty recess
of a blank page
so many words pouring outward
from an empty life
etched in a repetitious struggle
to convince myself that
by writing to you or for you
my life is not empty at all
so many words that somehow
shape what i feel
but even as i grasp at this hope
the words falter and fail
as each line and curve
as each stroke and dot
becomes fluid and restless
and each breaks apart or congeals
into unrecognisable smudges
the unintelligible testaments of failure
that dance off the page
until the paper before me
is blank again

Sunday, March 29, 2015

i don't want an angel ...

i don't want an angel
an ethereal Material Girl
with something of an angle
wispy if not lispy
and wearing eyeshadow a little too blue
full of feathery words
that drop in clumps
across the mattress
in the afterglow . . .

and i don't want a Holy Mary
Mother of God
with her tightly-crossed legs
and a faraway look
in her eyes . . .

and i don't want a silver-screen goddess
with platinum hair
and a taste for diamonds
who always seems ready
for a John, Bobby, or Teddy
but who inevitably
and regrettably drowns
in a bubble bath of unkindness
that she unwittingly drew for herself . . .

and i don't want a princess promiscuous
who races from her boring life
in the fast lanes of Paris or Pakistan
and barters her once royal pussy
for a little leftover notoriety
until her hopelessness explodes
her lifelessness falters
and like a Slinky in a fashionable black dress
she ends crashing down the stairs
just before the winds of gossip unwind
and blow away maybe 50 birthdays or more
and though some might eulogize her
with the twisted metal frame
of a silly Candle In The Wind metaphor
the sad truth is
you can't blow out a candle
that was never really lit . . .

and i don't want an I Got You Babe
neither Bono or Ono
with her fingers of glue
that stick to my prick
while she closes the shutters
around my life . . .

and i don't want a Fat Bottomed Girl
with her diva disregard
and her sense of self-importance
that drags me along
like a Basset hound on a leash
in the fart lane of her
cross-stepping runway walk . . .

and i don't want a Joan Jett Blackheart
some self-indulgent maid
dressed in robes of the darkest night
whose self-loathing
taints the world with
a poison that infects
everything around her . . .

and i don't want a 10
or even an 8 or a 5
if attraction is calculation
then just think what that says
about masturbation . . .

and i don't want a sad-eyed Sister of Mercy
who remembers the war
and the wounds she nursed
with snowy-white sulfanilamide
or the erections she betrayed
with doses of saltpetre
repeatedly whispering
The Lord is my Shepherd
as she led desperate men like thirsty horses
to an empty trough
and expected them to drink . . .

and i don't want a femme-fatale
a Clytemnestra, Cleopatra or Messalina
a Delilah, Jezebel or Salome
a Mata Hari dancing for me
in the other room
calling to me in a too-manly voice
that begs me to surrender
the secrets of my passion
so that all that is me
might become only hers . . .

and i don't want a pubescent Lolita
with bright red lips
pursed over an even brighter red lollipop
as if to show me
how adept she is at the art of fellated sucking
posturing her every exaggerated pop and smack
into a four-way foreplay
relentlessly appealing to an inevitable unpeeling
of so fresh a forbidden fruit
that once tasted
sours in an instant . . .

and i don't want a fairytale casualty
a Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, or Snow White
with her oh-so-immaculate complexion
her trilling voice
and a perfect lift to her B-cup breasts
all doomed it seems
to a suspiciously daunting magic charm
that sends her into some kind of paroxysm
ending in a deep and unyielding coma
that only a prince's kiss can undo
for i'm certainly no such enchanted prince
and kiss her if i might
i'm certain she would never awaken
even if i slipped her the tongue . . .

but most of all
most of all
yes, after all is said and done
i don't want to be alone
and so i am waiting
as patiently and honestly as i can
for you . . .

Sunday, March 15, 2015

if

if ...

if i knew her loving arms
i could say she holds me
like the sun holds the earth
in the darkness of deep space
but i do not know her arms
i do not know her warm embrace

if i knew the scent of her skin
i could easily write in rhyme
how the dawn's waking air
explodes into a rich bouquet
but i do not know her fragrance
i do not know her that way

if i knew the taste of her lips
i could describe just how sweetly
her kisses fall on mine
like drops of morning blue
but i do not know her kisses
i do not know her like others do

if i knew the sound of her nighttime whispers
i could capture every wishful note
and pen them to a simple song
of true and hopeful hearts
but i do not hear her softest voice
i do not hear where that music starts

if i knew the depth of her smiling eyes
i guess i could find the best of words
to share her perfect beauty
so completely rare and wonderfully whole
but i do not see into the depth of her eyes
and still despite all that i do not know
i feel her love touching my soul

Saturday, February 21, 2015

streets

streets ...

when the night comes
and you are waking
to a world so far away
when the dawn of your day
brings stars
to the skies above me
and when the moon
is caught somewhere
in between
i wander through the streets
that i have wandered so many
times before
down the back alleyways of memory
the avenues of desire
the dead ends of heartache
and the boulevards of hope
and if i lose my way
as i have before
please forgive
this heart of mine
that searches
along the edges
of love
for the last road
that i will ever travel
the road
that leads to the wonder
of you

Friday, February 20, 2015

The Yearning

The Yearning ...

A dream lost in time,
a hope beyond belief
too much passion
too much pain
with a feeling unlike grief

I never thought to feel so empty
so lost,
and so alone
I have everything,
yet nothing
I guess my selfishness has grown

it's not the moon ... the stars I'm reaching for
just a need to fill this 'hole'
for this emptiness inside me
is eating through my soul

Wednesday, February 11, 2015

the lovers ...

two lovers
lie on the bed
her left hand
draped quietly
on his shoulder
each finger silent
except for the one
bearing a simple gold ring
their lips touch
and do not touch
in a suspended paradox
a kiss
frozen in time
never quite complete
and yet so much more
than complete

their bodies are hidden
concealed by
a soft white cover
seemingly placed
carefully over them
with a crease in the fabric
perfecting a line
across the slope
downwards from their hips
to their feet
and above them
cotton netting
hangs suspended
in folds
that have yellowed slightly
with age

and you are here
as a witness
to some defining moment
when this tableaux
comes to life
and the two lovers
move in the bed
turning and twisting
into one another
as they complete
the dance of love
and if your eyes
do not fail you
you will see
the bubs of foliage
spring from where
their bodies intersect
and the fragrance of flowers
will fill the room
do not be amazed
and do not be frightened
for it is you
who have made it so

Friday, February 6, 2015

untitled

If you drop a glass, and it shatters at your feet, do not try to pick it up. You will not be able to put it back together, no matter how hard you try. Instead, remember the glass when it was whole, and when it was there to help you quench your thirst.

Thursday, February 5, 2015

fireflies

fireflies ...

the distance keeps us apart
mile after mile after endless mile
across uncharted waters
that rise and fall in tides
like two lovers
rocking rhythmically in
silhouetted shadows
etched like charcoal smudges
across the opposite bedroom wall
beside where the steamy window opens to
starlight over daylight
and daylight over starlight
and so it is
our life together yet apart
you sleeping somewhere
me waking nowhere
you turning silently under
the neat covers
almost certain
you can hear me whisper
your name
when i have not
whispered anything
at all

the years keep us apart
days, weeks, months
dropping off the kitchen calendar
and crashing like fine china
in puzzle pieces across
the marble floor
and though i wish
i could wish it away
still the gap of time returns
and crowds in between
my outstretched hand
and your disappearing fingertips
two hearts
so far apart in the count of years
reaching for hopefulness
but missing the ledge
of certainty
and sending a love
so perfect in its rosy beauty
free falling
into an abyss
of seemingly unending blackness
that ends only
with a splash
in a pool of tears

our moments together
are like fireflies
on the darkest night
that blink brightly
and light a straight line
from my heart
to yours
and your heart to mine
each breath and nervous shudder
is encased in
a sudden luminescence
that is there
and then recklessly gone
each moment caught
in an incandescent flicker
illuminating
two lovers entwined
before vanishing
and obscuring a thousand
thousand more kisses
in a shroud of shadows
but if the stars
align just right
and if the earth
relents to love
distance and time
will fold and stall
just long enough
to blend two hearts
into one
and you and i will
be together
under a
single sun

Saturday, January 31, 2015

girls divided by girls

i fell in love
with girls adorned with
freckles that crossed
the bridge of their noses
like the dabbled spots
you see on a newborn fawn
frozen in fear and lying
so very still
in the woods
girls with the same camouflage
draped across their cheeks
and even some
with a gentle splash of pepper
running across
and down
their soft tummies
but those girls
if i remember correctly
did not lay still

i fell in love
with girls who wore bleached
blond hair
piled high
and held in place
with scented hairspray
like a crown
on their heads
girls with baby-blue
eyeshadow smeared slightly
from the flutter
of their lashes
with skin draped in peach fuzz
and with the whitest smiles
that beckoned for attention
and mistook every passing desire
for love

i fell in love
with girls in denim dresses
who smoked rolled cigarettes
and on occasion
let a swear word
slip through their chapped lips
girls who hated
rules and expectations
and who traveled across
the country with nothing more
than a small backpack
and a thin sleeping bag
who ran from day's end
and only rested
late at night
in the crook
of my arms

i fell in love
with girls who wrote pretty words
in beaten black journals
and with a turn of a phrase
and a mixed metaphor
condemned the world
that they were sure
had spit them out
girls with a conscience
but who could never decide
right from wrong
and instead searched
for the ambiguity
of some dreamy
universal love
even though they did not know
or allow themselves
to feel the passion of
love at all

i fell in love
with girls who gave me joy
and girls who left me heartbroken
girls who offered careful promises
and girls who offered only recklessness
girls with stars in their eyes
and girls who hid behind an endless pain
girls disguised in the colourful costumes
of a childlike fantasy
and girls who stepped from empty shadows
to embrace enlightenment
younger girls and older girls
quiet girls and loud girls
dull girls and bright girls
girls breathless with longing
and girls moaning with pleasure
and through it all
i never found the love
never ever caught the heart
of you
the mystery of my life
the one and only girl
who slipped like the wind
past the hopeful reach
of my dreams
and vanished
with the best of her spirit
gone forever
from the best of mine

Wednesday, January 28, 2015

once certain, twice removed

once certain, twice removed ...

i miss my youth
the prairie roads
carving poetry in
fields of dappled gold
a summer's harvest reaching heavenward
to the toppling clouds
of a never-ending sky
where every imagined
beast or beauty
was caught in the reflection
of the big rivers
that poured like holy wine
into a young boy's veins
a sacrament of sorts
you'd think
but more and more
a tattered collection of memories
not quite lost
but lost all the same ...
i miss the danger
of falling in love
with a perfect stranger
unexpectedly slipping into my life
of imperfection ...
i miss the jarred butterfly pandemonium
and the nervous excitement
of hands wandering across
the skin of unknown bodies
the silly giggles of encouragement
and even the whispers of
hesitant rebuke ...
i miss the softest cheek
against my cheek
when lips wander
to lips
to share the breath of love
and breathe the pulse of life
from heart to heart
blending the two into one ...
i miss the slow waking
from solitude
into arms that wrap
across my shoulders
and coax my body
from the cold
and carry me
into the warmth of knowing
that dreamers live
lives asleep ...
i miss the missing
the times apart
the you there
and the me somewhere unknown
so high above the world
in vacant night skies
the time or distance
or both
that divides improbable lovers
from one another
the words and promises
that reach across
crackling telephone conversations
of wounded longing ...
i miss the purpose
the obvious reason
for being who i am
that i see in a knowing look
from bright expectant eyes
or that i feel in the soft fingers
that brush my hair back and away
from my brow
but mostly
i miss every day
when i might have said
something hopeful
and was silent