After Hours: Angel’s Metamorphosis and Angel’s Honey Dust

This week, I revisit a poem, “Angel’s Metamorphosis,” that connected with a very dear friend of mine, the first lines a bit of a Casablanca moment, “Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”  Here I pair it with its companion piece, “Angel’s Honey Dust.”  If I recall, the original poems were matched to the wonderful art of Michael Parkes.

Angel’s Metamorphosis

the sky, today,
penetrable and deep,
I reach my hand
into its perfect blue
in search of a star
when found, its light
warms my open palm
azure drips off my arm
until a puddle floods
our spot of the earth
where we begin to play
with our new toy
above us an Angel plays.
dancing, metamorphosis.

Now she is a Carmen Miranda teddy bear

Now she is a flying saucer.

Now she is you.

sleeping naked
in my arms
my hand traces
constellations on your
satin skin
stretched, tingling
on the breast I linger
touching the nipple
reaching to the universe
part of the Woman,
loved wholly
dancing with angels
whose gentle purr say
life will renew

Angel’s Honey Dust

one feather falls
from the angel’s wing
into my open palm
I dip it in honey dust
and brush your breast
with a sweet taste
for lips discovering
softness of skin
for the first time
a new spirit
rises from
our delicious oils
one breath
ignites a womb.

We drink this delicate nectar.

We hear music of bird and bard

We rejoice the sacred bond

dancing with angels
in deep, penetrable
rhythms, richer than azure
constellations rise
from the mendacity
of earthbound life
to love wholly
this Woman
born from dust
into a renewed
dream of life
lit by chosen stars
and created
in tender union.

A Balloon Let Go

For this weeks revisit, I return to a poem written in response to a poem written by Gina at Singledust in March, the details of which I do not recall, but likely it started in a comment in response to one of her poems last spring.  If I recall, this was well received both at my blog and at Poets’ Corner.  (Oh I found the source of my inspiration: https://alifelesslivedblog.wordpress.com/2017/03/28/dverse-quadrille-heart-string-balloon/)

A Balloon Let Go

The balloon our sorrows filled
like helium floating upward
we held earthbound too long.
I looked at you and with eyes
swimming into one another’s
heart. The wordless answer
spoke by opening its hand
giving the sorrows flight
until they burst like the sun
rising on our horizon
whose orange melts
across the darkness
allowing the deep blue
meaningfulness of day
to arrive
to stick our hands into
to find the star
to light the remaining days
like an umbrella of softness,
under, we hold one other close
when the rain falls as
little drops of inspiration
drawing us closer and closer
until we melt into one
flash of lightning
at last, released.

 

In Response to a Poet’s Love Song of 1/24/17

This week, I share the poem that introduced me to Christine last January.  I am always startled by old poems and wonder, “did I really write this?”  Perhaps I did not, life’s changes make us different people even if we believe we are somehow connected to some strange version of our past selves.  Just stories, all of it, persistent memories that don’t want to let go of our present self, perhaps thinking they own the clue we need to make the best choice in this moment, more than the self that is alive and present today.  Alas, how did I get there from here?  Please take the time to read this poem and follow the links to our baristas pages to discover more of their great writing.

In Response to a Poet’s Love Song of 1/24/17

My body now wakes up on its own at 4am
Somehow, transformed from insomnic
To discover the backside of night
And find it as pleasing as Goldilocks
Found the third bed eating the third porridge.
When I talk to the old poet in my journals
Or in files found on my computer that don’t
Remember being written, he chuckles at the
Absurdity of the idea of me waking early
To do anything other than take a piss.

My body now wakes up on its own at 4am
The acoustics of this silence are similar
Yet so very different. Waking creatures
Are more for meditations like these than
The beasts that haunt hours that aren’t stilled
Inside a heart that hears only its own beating
As it tells tales that ache with longing, with pain
That never really was felt, only misunderstood.
This depth, this texture, this darkness marks
The underside of my eyes just as well, thank you.

My body now wakes up on its own at 4am
Still needing coffee in my oldest possession
Aside from stuffed animals hidden from view:
The coffee mug bought at a convention in college.
My hand still holds the pen, a new lover from Japan,
My sensuous mouth still spills familiar treasures
That makes me fall in love all over again. I adore this.
But now, I feel a presence, like eyes glowing through
A window. I am seen. Seen, my stories take me on
Journeys I didn’t even know I wanted to go on.

A response to https://braveandrecklessblog.com/2017/01/24/poets-love-song-romantictuesday/

With additional thanks to: https://thereluctantpoetweb.wordpress.com/2017/02/16/the-backside-of-the-night/
for being inspired enough by the phrase backside of night to hopefully start a meme

and
What is the Best Time of Day to Write Poetry?
for asking the question that got the whole backside of night thing going to begin with

Checking in with The Reluctant Poet

This week, I revisit a response poem to our Cafe’s very own Chuck, The Reluctant Poet, one of the first poets “catablogged”.  Chuck had enthusiastically embraced an offhand comment made on Mr. Davy D’s wonderful blog about writing during the backside of the night (i.e. the crack of dawn, just made this “butt” connection, sort of makes the whole thing a little more amusing).  I followed his neon breadcrumbs of enthusiasm to The Reluctant Poet and dug in for a week, reading everything he had posted (and now feeling grateful that he hadn’t hit his current stride!  I would still be reading…).  Nonetheless, Chuck had a small handful of poems then and now he is a presence here in the cafe and all around the poetic world at Word Press: discovering, sharing, writing.  He truly embraces the core values of the Go Dog Go Cafe: community, inclusion, and a passion for poetry.

I think we can all draw inspiration from that, no?

Checking in with The Reluctant Poet

What is reluctant about, you, Poet?
Reluctance for me to know your words?
I can relate, Poet, I can relate.

My words remained tangled up inside
Wanting to find places to run and hide
I can relate, Poet, I can relate.

In November, a memory wouldn’t let go
Its cadence and rhythms, so you sang along.
I can relate, Poet, I can relate.

In December, the wind gently whispered
Lies in between the rustling autumn leaves.
I can relate, Poet, I can relate.

In January, it was the universe that spoke
And lied to you that you are but a scribe
I can relate, Poet, I can relate.

In February, you found the backside of night
And waited for your muse in the silent stillness.
I can relate, Poet, I can relate.

Now we are in March and you drop a pebble
In the pond to watch its ripples kiss my shore.
I can relate, Poet, I can relate.

Poet, that ripple sings to me of your universe
Like the wind whispers the truth you hide in lies
Like memories we cannot mistake as they run away.

Enough reluctance, Poet, I can relate after
I listened to you sing to me what matters in dreams,
Whispers and memories that you gave life in words.

A response to a week spent with: https://thereluctantpoetweb.wordpress.com/

Her, Poetry

As I continue my sabbatical from posting new writing, over the next weeks and months, I will share with the GDG some of my favorites from the past years or some that have been well-received along the way.  Of all my poems posted on Word Press, this one, originally posted at Poet’s Corner, has been by far the most well-received.  It is an older poem, written many, many years ago… perhaps even as far back as the ’90s, but the carbon dating program on my computer is off for repair… instead of speculating about seemingly insignificant facts, please read this oldie but goodie, Wolfman Jack!

Her, Poetry

I do not write poems for her,
true,
she completes the poem.
Words cannot replace
her presence.
Emotions inspired
by our love
told by the twinkling
wealth of night.

I do not write poetry for her,
true,
she lives the poetry of life.
Words cannot explain
her presence.
My warmth,
the fire she lights.
The fire she feeds,
her smile.