Stars

 When I was just an olive sparrow living rootless in Texas,

I met Kris Kristofferson and some hay-blond woman with a kind face. I asked Kris, "Are you going to Willie's picnic?' and in that train engine rumble of his he laughed and said, "Hell, I see Willie at his house!" I never saw Kris Kristofferson again after that, except once, last night, around 3 a.m., in a cemetery just off Woodward Avenue. I asked him, "Where's Rita?" He said, "Oh, I couldn't rightly say, but wherever she's at I expect she's singin' " We sat together on a marker for Howard Greenbriar, husband and father, our beers at our feet, brown glass sweating in the grass, their gold-and-yellow labels giving them the appearance of votive candles. Looking up, I said, "I can't see the stars." Kris told me, "That's the lights, babe. We're like belled cats lookin' for angels." It was bright when I woke up. I wondered what happened to the hay-blond woman with the kind face. Her hair wasn't dark like Rita's or mine or turning gray like Rita's or mine. A friend texted, asking if I was going to the Kristofferson show that night. I texted back "Hell, I see Kris at his house!" But the truth is, I haven't seen a star for a very long time.

_______________

The part about meeting Kris Kristofferson in the first part of this poem is true. Or maybe it was just some rando who looked and sounded exactly like him.

The Night Jar

For the longest time,
the tin and phosphorous stars seemed to hold pose in the sky--
the jasmine night blooms dismissed notions of mourning,
and yellow-white candles embraced their wicks
as if flame were dreams,
and their bright sleep knew the gods' blessing to continue, endless.

For a charmed while,
the moon shrugged off her chill, orange-warmed by breezed leaves--
the nightjar hid herself along a wet-black branch above us,
and though she seemed to be only rhyme and rumor
tucked between pointed wings,
she carried her children in her mouth to move them, secretly.

For just those moments, however sustained or brief they really were,
everything around us bent kindly our way--
all green things, and all feathered,
brought us our own names and the desired other's
to build ourselves, our keenest hunger, and our softest satiety from.

We were there,
for the longest time,
for that charmed while,
for just those moments,

and then?
Then we weren't,
and the way back had burned behind us
as inevitable and harshly bright as sunrise.
_______

for Mag #205

The Spider Bride

I am Night.
I told you so from the start.
Half-asleep all the time, 
lit stars spill from my lips as I talk nonsense beside you, 
never with any notion of what I say,
not remembering,
but no less la magnifica noche for my failings.

When we make love, I hold a spider in one hand.
She is no bigger than a white lie,
and as light as a first doubt.
She is silent, something I can never be.
Perhaps you will choose her,
your spider-bride,
and leave me reading my empty palm by wick light.

A black cricket may linger in my hair to seduce you.
Duplicitous and sleek, she could show you
the way to loose silver moonlight from my red tangles.
Then, in the morning, 
dressed only in my blue silk robe,
I would find her set beneath the paving stones near my door,
as people appear and chatter until I can no longer recall my dreams.

There you'll be, low in the early sky, smug Sun,
ascendant and arrogant,
insisting that even my long shadow
is more your child than mine.
_______

The weather buyer

The weather buyer met me in a public place.
I sold her an August night's breeze that had passed across your bare skin,
but I kept the sheets, cerulean blue
and the deeper indigo of your remembered embrace.

The dealer in hearts approached me then,
but I lied, and left alone,
saying you were waiting.
_______

55 lonely teardrops for the G Man.

Music Box

I brought a music box in from the snow and raised it.

It called to me in the deep blue nights, and I wrapped my body around it to give it lullabies.

It gave me being needed, and there we were--

flesh and cylinder--

a blizzard of simple melodies in the middle of the night.

_____

55 words for the G Man. 

 

Loving The Ghost

Before loving a ghost,
understand--
it will be a tricky business.

A ghost will not wear the dress you like.
She will ignore
the meal
the Merlot
and the Mozart.

A ghost does not believe in the future that you've planned.
To a ghost,
the future is feathers made of fog
on a bird that flies away before it is born.

A ghost will not wear your ring.
She will not bear your child, or even your touch.
She is an airy
indigo
butterfly
that can hurt you, and will.
_________

for Real Toads word list. I used "indigo" and "butterfly".

Recipe

I live
in a tiny house with gingerbread trim.
I live
on molasses cookies
and moonlight falling across my body and my bed.

I come out
to tend my purple night blooms.
I know one song;
I sing it to myself.

I keep seven cats. I sleep until noon.
And always,
I think of nothing, and no one
but you.
_______

Ouija Circle South

He hadn't been there to see, and so didn't believe
in the empty, loss-scented envelopes
that arrived each day by post.

Each pastel,
each precious
as a past nursery rhyme.

He said, "you are excitable,
hysterical,
to believe we have a ghost."

and my mind saw my womb
wandering waste
in the night.
_____

for Real Toads Open Link Monday

This form is called a Shayzen poem. Combining the undisciplined, scattershot doubletalk of Fireblossom with the stingy taciturn snotty monosyllables of Mama Zen, this form has been hailed by the avant garde even as it has been panned by the literary establishment. The Shayzen can be used to get stains out of carpets, it can rid your dog of bothersome fleas and ticks, and can even be worn as a fragrance. Do not read Shayzens near an open flame. Talk to your doctor about Shayzens. It's our form. Eat your hearts out. You may now touch the hem of our garments.
 


 

Family Politics

Little Red Riding Hood
chopped some wood
to build granny a house to die in.

She built it and said,
"Bring your own bed--
the one that you made and must lie in."

Red Riding Chick
went all sick,
past the point of reviving;
Granny asked
the admiring pack,
"Am I so wrong for surviving?"
_______

55 for the G Man

Sweet Things

Fox sleeps
Under a whipped cream moon
Dabbed into the sky
By the baker Goddess.

Fox curls
In her deep blue bed
With her kit's heart beating
Soft against her side.

Red fox, white fox,
Mad fox, mine,
As you dream, I'll whisper sweet things
Thirteen times.

________ 

Owls

When the black-barked night trees
Withdraw their arms
Into themselves,
Like monks in concealing sleeves,

I know then,
That you have loved the Moon.

There are five owls,
One for each hour
From midnight until dawn;
And each has her special care--
Your face,
Your lips,
Your hair,
Your hips,
Your heart.

Lacking branch, my owls occupy brevity.
One note only do they speak--
Moon, moon, is what those traitors say,
Five pretty purveyors
Of perfidy.

________

My Petition To St. Creola

Beautiful St. Creola,
Our Lady of the Sea Shore,
The pockets of your blue linen smock stuffed with dawn clouds,
Intercede for me,
I beg you.

My nights have become unpretty, pungent, abrasive,
Like tar roofs,
Patched and leaning,
Unable to hold the rain.

St. Creola, patroness of all that is lovely and ambiguous,
I cannot decide
Between My Love in the morning, her skin warm as east-facing Italian stucco,
Or My Love in evening, wearing moonstone earrings and making a bird perch from sea ripples and snakeskin.

She is the bootleg water-dove,
The posey nightcatcher.
I am the indigo bloom, and your adherent.

St. Creola, hear me.
The stars turn at your command,
The skies open at your pleasure;
Let there be a rain of cormorants, sapphires, silver dust...
Let there be your own jasmine scent in her dark hair;
Let there be bells,
And within their ringing or their silence,
Her answer.
_______ 

linked to dverse OLN #33

In The Land Of The Blue Wolf

In The Land Of The Blue Wolf,
We were together.
It was supper time,
The street lights were on,
And the buses were lit from within like candles in glass.

Two moths, we found the store window you were looking for;
We spread our wings against the cold panes.
We spread our love around each other.
The stars wheeled slowly above our heads.

In The Land Of The Blue Wolf,
We tilted our chins up and sang as only girls can.
I loved your olive-skinned throat,
And knew that I would stay with you, then,
Even though the road is long
And the night would never fall so sweetly for us again.
_____

Nocturne

Where do you go
When you are sleeping?
While I am watching?
I want to know.

Who is the you
Just beneath your skin?
Behind your closed eyes?
The one concealed within?

I want to know,
And so I stay close by...
As you breathe untroubled and slow...
Yours the breath, mine the sigh.
_____
for Gay Cannon's Form For All