Category: Uncategorized

The essence from the depths of moonlight
cascades upon my lithe figure that was once daring and proud.
This heart of mine cannot reawaken, even under the calls
of the bashful, hypnotizing nightingale
perched upon a branch of oak.

The moon above, mighty and gleaming,
snickers at my stance and cackles under her breath.
This vast field of dandelions rushes past my ankles,
itching my bare feet and limbs.
Oh, they stare, they look, and they glare.

I must’ve been a great show to overcome
the loneliness of existing in this reality—
something I cannot relate to, but something that I wish to.
The moon listens as the stars blink.
They begin to illuminate more and more, as my wishes
dissemble deeper and deeper.

The gust of wind says hello, passing by and tickling my shadow.
A smile stretches on my face, and I gaze at the dandelions withering away,
dispersing their utterly delightful bodies
into a swarm of feathers and pale dust. Some hit my face,
some dance on my grave—a goodbye to another ending once more.

The moon has lost her audience, the only remaining, my pitiful soul.
The stars hide and dim. The moon, lustrous and smirking.
I listen to the howls of the forest wolves echo, and the flapping wings
of the nightingale that flutters away,
to a destination unknown.

My mind collapses as the silver of the moon drizzles down my spine,
into a puddle that reflects my stance—
a mirror of nothingness, not even a speck of silver.
They all continue to dazzle and put on a show.
I wilt and perish to the void, nothing more.

The coconut oil in the glass jar
is wet as soup
so we go swimming
in the poison ivy
of our relationship
that suddenly caught fire,
trying to cool off
the recent explosions.
As we slowly burn,
we try to thwart
the inevitable end
in ash, looking
for a fire escape,
hoping each word thrown
is laced enough with love,
with best intentions, to bring us
together amidst the solar eclipse
of collapse. We cast
rejoinders but the walls,
once holding us up, together, melt,
until we can see through them,
their structure disappearing
beneath us, around us, within us
until only a ghost of us is left,
a hologram of an ideal pair. Seared
into the museum of our memories,
in the hall of exes, each vacant ember
remains like smoked potential,
contains an unborn phoenix,
on display for future
investigations of arson.

We drove for two hours
to the badlands of Cleveland
searching the streets and the alleys
just to find our way
to find a safe way
into The House of Wills.

We were met with armed guards
all meant to protect us
milling the grounds and
defending the building and
they dissuaded the worst that would come
from attacking the models
as we all collected in the lot at
The House of Wills.

It was cold and broken and
old and hurting but
its energy glowed in warm light
I felt no fear and
no apprehension, just wonder
for all I would find,
deep within
The House of Wills.
It didn’t take long
for those inside there
to make their intentions known
they only did so for so few among us
and I was welcomed as one of their own
I was gifted with offerings
so simple and humble
and embraced by
The House of Wills

Respect was my mantra
respect was my prayer and
I treated their home as my own
what once looked broken and
what once looked abandoned
lifted to life on its own
something so simple as
the flicking of ashes
out the window instead of the floor
endeared my spirit to
The House of Wills and
it called me as one of its own.

Deep down in the morgue or
up in Mr. Wills’ bedroom,
the Doll Room, the balcony and stairs
all seemed so different but
not one bit unnerving and I
roamed the halls as a welcomed guest
of those that still live there and
those that still love there
me so far removed from
all of the rest.

But back to the Doll Room
again and again
in there I felt a warmth and a draw
so back to the Doll Room and
within its power
I felt all the family and
I felt all its pain and
I offered a solemn acceptance and prayer
and for all of my wishes and
all of my gestures
I was given a gift of my own.

One of my many blessings from
The Ghosts of
The House of Wills.

When it came time to leave
I was almost saddened
still I walked away better than most
I collected my gifts and
I left my own offering in a
gesture of thanks and respect
a sadness for leaving and a
wonder receiving all that
changed hands that day and
my heart was now full and
my spirit was easing
as I waved to all my new friends.

Some came to visit and
stayed for some time and
they came to me
inside of my dreams
we talked and we smoked
and sat down at tables
playing cards and discussing this life.

All of it wisdom and
none of it nightmare and
all of it welcoming love
I was accepted and
I was supported
as wonders were drawn and exposed
those wonders and questions
that keep us all guessing and
push all the blood to the flow
but here they all were now and
here they were offered
on the table on top
of the cards.

I dreamt that I bought it
and now it was mine this
wonderful beautiful place
I dreamt that I owned it and
made it my home and
I returned to
The House of Wills.

I chased out the vagrants
with the help of old friends and
transients rushed down my halls
scared to bejesus and
scared of unknowns and
they ran out until there were none
all of them gone but
all of us still there
settling into our new home.

We were now all together
in dreams and in Dolls
in balconies, altars and pews
we now lived together
complete and content
embraced by
The House of Wills.

Grass grown tall green slicks drizzle wet,
new planted seedlings shakily take hold,
crumpled mulch retains soil covered mold,

run tongued dogs
checked for ticks
lap water bowls.

And I am left with trowel and rake
to gather weeds in sunlit rain still cold.

How easily

I have

forgotten

where

to start

in nature’s language

to uproot

the untranslatable.

After checking each other
for spit-up stains, we head to an Italian place,
glasses of red wine, gnocchi,
in a booth by the window.

There’s a flurry or two, Christmas
lights strung across Main.
The marquee on a local theater
seduces: Ultimate Elvis. Tonight Only.

We buy tickets, take our seats
just as the bedazzled impersonator
wraps a scarf around the neck
of a blushing bouffant-haired retiree.

Pompadour swept high, new jumpsuit,
every other song: White Pinwheel,
American Eagle, Orange Sunburst,
Chinese Dragon, Black Conquistador.

With a hip-swivel-pelvic-thrust, Almost-Elvis
belts out “Are You Lonesome
Tonight” and we smile
because tonight, the answer is no.

During “Love Me Tender”, she lays
her head on my shoulder.
At the start of “Heartbreak Hotel,”
I flash my best lip curl.

We kiss, as the man crowned Best of the Midwest
croons, “The Wonder of You”
and tickle each other during “Teddy Bear,”
drawing glares from neighboring blue hairs.

We lip sync “Suspicious Minds”
and “All Shook Up,” passing
an imaginary microphone between us.
Then, we’re on our feet

for “Shake, Rattle, and Roll,” slow dancing
in the aisle to a bellowing encore
of “Can’t Help Falling
in Love”: sunglasses and sideburns.

At home, she puts her finger to my lips,
“A Little Less Conversation,”
pins me down on our full-bed,
which tonight, feels king-sized.

In the darkening dusk, two boys,
brothers by their bickering,

each equipped with sand pail
and toy fishing net, comb

the shoreline for treasures,
crabs and conch shells and seaweed,

so bent on their acquisitive task
they forget to look up at the moon

hovering far out over the water,
a round yellow diamond.

i. THE BLACK SHUTTLE IS PASSING OVERHEAD

ii. The Chumash (California) referred to meteors as Alakiwohoch,
which simply meant “shooting star.” They believed a meteor was a
person’s soul on its way to the afterlife.

iii. The black shuttle is passing overhead, sent each month into space to
orbit its cargo over our heads, and then to rest – coffins stacked like
hives, pumped with foam for stability, all with little spring
launchers to push them home (toward earth). An idea of
Amazon.com and Tesla to enter the funeral business and top each
other with the most expensive funeral: quarter million per, after the
Chumash conceit that shooting stars are souls passing to the
afterlife, coffins with carbonite beds, sprung to burn in terrible arcs
across deceased family’s night sky. Burial in the stratosphere: clean,
sudden, awesome, and godlike. Will wait for favorable skies.

Nancy reads me her poetry straight out of her journal.
Her crisp sentences speak like straight pins of words.
Her grammar never melts down, nor is it obscured.

On the college newspaper
she corrects our errors with pride and a hint of irritation.
“There should be a comma here.”

Her room is as neat as her sentence structure.
Her blanket always covers her bed evenly with no creases.
Her walls are blank.
The objects on her nightstand are purposeful and correct.

Even her body is evenly placed.
She wears her clothes straight through.
No curves or angles to her waist,
just pant seams in one straight line to the floor.

Nancy’s voice is both soft and skeptical.
She drinks cans of Mellow Yellow
from neat cylindrical cases,
stacked in her closet.

Her favorite films on VHS line up on the TV shelf:
Blue Velvet, Fried Green Tomatoes, Beaches, Steele Magnolias.
She’s watched them all over and over,
grinning through her favorite scenes.
This is her emotional education.

She invites us into her room to watch with her.
She sits on her bed,
and we sit in straight-backed school chairs.
Her arms fold, and she looks at us
to see if we would cry at the right spot.

When the film’s music swells in the third act.
We feel the heartache of the time past,
meeting my eyes with perfect clarity.
Now Nancy has been gone,
the same amount of time she was alive.

Like the whirl of wind appears, you disappear, but the existence of you was keyed into my
soul; if I were never to remember, I’d never know the feeling of whole

Like the whirl of wind disappears, you appear
Truly still, effortlessly silent,
Like you’re becoming the entire atmosphere I’m in,
It’s almost deafening how loud you become,
Every thought, my mind’s sky, holds the quality of us,
Intertwined, open, and undone.

I can feel it now, sunlight feels like joy,
I can smell it now, fresh air smells like freedom,
I can see it now, those eyes calmingly smiling,
The sweetness of presiding.

The whole time, I am still,
Breathing calmly like a river open, taking you in,
Falling and fulfilled,
Witnessing the tightening swirl of you around me,
Letting go, relaxing, closing my eyes, and resting.

Meet me in my dreams, what was is disappearing,
New skies I feel within, my mind returning to exploring,
Listening and wondering, but still in sleep, there’s something of you outside me that remains,
I’ve been living life within your embrace, like the skies I’m in,
And now I’ll live life with your embrace, this warmth I know, locked in.

Tavisha

When I sat down to write a winning sonnet
for a contest, not a flirtatious smile,
I had framework with squat to hang on it.
After staring out the window a while,
awaiting the arrival of my muse,
mumbling, Come on, it’s only fourteen lines,
perusing every leaf and cloud for clues—
Inspiration! What I needed was wine!
They tell us wine is bottled poetry.
The beguiling bouquet of cabernet
would surely lure the sprite to sit with me
and whisper with each sip what I should say.
Farewell ambition and apprehension.
So long hope for honorable mention.