A Carrie Retrospective

[champagne1982]

Sleuth Reynard

For a long while I wondered about little things,
like the names of male foxes and another word
for a family of bears. Why worry? It's good
to ask and seek an answer. Do you know?

 

[champagne1982]

Marvellous

I marvel at the strength
in the yeilding flex
of the hidden spine
inside a youthful birch.

It acquiesces to the wind
then riffles its leaves
to face the sun or turn
against the rain to come.

This hour will pass
unremarked and silent
as trees stand against
the chilled autumn gusts.

And we marvel at the tree
and wonder at its power
revealed, when the trunk
remains true and unbroken

 

[champagne1982]

Jazz Band

Do you want to read this dance
out in front of a tight quartet?

The drummer heats
piano man's cool
while Mr Bass sends
a scale down below
the floor.

Vibrations tingle my hips
as the music slides
up from tip toed shoes

Croon now with silk tenor
punctuated in a shivery
riff tweaked out strings
to calloused fingers.

Stand still and sway our dance
until applause starts our breath.

 

[champagne1982]

The Puddle Beside The Drive

The walk swept clear with atmosphere's
broom shines with wet cement gleam
in streetlights' early evening puddles.

Earth gives way to fall and seeps
damply into footsteps and soles
when autumn's bright gilding
drops and dims to lifeless chill.

The cold gale comes so soon
to wail and bemoan the bright
days' passage into this sleep.

Dream on through sun's descent
in healing dark be still. Let quiet
hold warmth in close then, wake
to springtime puddles' morning glare.

 

[champagne1982]

Crépuscule Parisien

Through twenty rare sunsets of precious
metal clouds and flower-hued horizons,
dreams never slipped away and a journey
tugs, still, at those lines bound to unconcious
yearning for a chic hotel room in Paris.

Café au lait et petit pains. Oui
s'il vous plait, oh, s'il vous plait.
Prostrate splay on Egyptian cotton
near a feathery shadow dancing
across upholstered walls and draperies.

Bring me to that place beneath
the Tour d'Eiffel against the Seine.
It's down beside Pont Neuf and just
across from L'Isle de la Cité.

Sunsets there are dusty amber
but just as precious as rare
brilliants shine in prairie sunsets
only once in a lifetime.

 

[champagne1982]

Bringing sight to the blind

I woke up and the sun
was just about to toss
its javelin right into the bullseye
of my retina. Cripes, it's like
I'm gonna be blind for days
when that ray jabs
into my head.
Bright light and I don't always
get along, it's like we don't see
eye to eye. Well, more like I
don't see and of course, being
inanimate, the light can't either
but you know what I mean.
As soon as that dancing spot
fades out I can see
a pretty nice day.

 

[champagne1982]

With Tequila, Anything Is Possible

Arid deserts make water based bodies
rest out of the dry wind and relentless
sun lest the foolish bake into idiot jerky.

Suck on a cervesa over under a mesquite
where flat top buttes shrink the sky like
heavy table legs fill up floor space, leaving
less room for barbecue, flamenco and fiesta.

Siesta over and we look out on liquid
bodies dancing in the sultry evening
as the idiot jerky rehydrates with tequila.

 

[champagne1982]

The Fifth Terrace

Caramels and jujubes, a scent
memory of guilty greed. A hidden
package inside a pocket, so full,
lies slip off a tongue stained with red,
unearned sweetness.

Repentance fills the space
inside once regret is emptied,
after being caught, the apology,
more difficult than earning

repayment. Costing an eternity
with greedy face ground
into dust, until earthy concern falls
away, making room for light.

 

[champagne1982]

Pilot Tracks

What's it like to needle the blue
until you've embroidered
contrails across the sky
as if it were linen and your path
the silk trailing behind?

Once I watched in envy
as the pattern flowed, effortless
and endless but now I merely
marvel at the luxury
to waste such time and skill

tracing contrails across the sky
and seeding clouds to make rain
where only Sol touched before.

 

[champagne1982]

18

He sits, a beer where a text book
should be. Another rig manager threw
him away, his attitude sucks
and it's been a hundred and two days
since he's been home and the winds
sure can blow cold, way out here.

Joe said you can't keep a job
if you don't get outta bed and Dan
laughed as they rolled away
in the truck... Fucker forgets
who carried him back to the room
Monday night. So, Wednesday after-
noon he waits for the busfare
in the bank. He'll go home a while.

 

[champagne1982]

About 3 inches of snow -

whitewashes dusty park swings
and tar stained sidewalks
preparing for green and red
puddles of reflection.

still falls to smooth each crack
and broken edge into round
appeal. A bride's bosom of rise
and dip, begs to be sullied.

all at once in a land so brown
stuns the eyes to tears. Daylight
turns shadows blue, contrasts
blurred into muted tones of winter.

reclaims landscapes painted guady
with the brush of summer, now faded.
A used canvas cleaned and ready
to display the artistry of winter.

 

[champagne1982]

The Wind Denies

The grape ivy crawls along a spear of piercing sun,
seeking warmth in winter's light
even though the moon hasn't left the sky
and the day is but a transient thing.

It's cold outside and the frost sparkles pretty
on the twigs, each leftover leaf clinging
helpless, shivering in suspended animation, as even
the wind stops when winter deepens its freeze.

I cheer on the hapless ivy tendril as it twists
through space, doomed to fall as even light
fails to support its quest for more

and the leaf on a sleeping birch, tenuous grasp
on the highest branch failing, even as the wind
denies it gentle hands to carry it to the ground.

 

[champagne1982]

escapism on Sunday afternoon

submersed in a shallow tub
of sensory overload
a pond lily floating
in a bath of stolen solitude
no one else can have this time

not if I don't let them

wallow in the glorious heat
lapping over breasts, twin
Mount Augustines rising
out of the sea, perfect cones
divided by a fjord snaking
through a rift valley, a scar
over the fault tenuously
holding it all together

escape to exotic climes,
with scents of jasmine
and the touch of bath
oils emulsified in waves
of this houselocked Caribbean
take me away

 

[champagne1982]

Love Poem?

Well, maybe. I could write a thousand words that say how I feel, but that is inadequate somehow.

Beginnings listed on a sheet of Egyptian cotton:

the way you draw your tongue up my spine, leaving I love you in wet calligraphy,

your eyes, the sheltered harbour of calm acceptance I see when we both take our rest beside the dock,

the storm of emotion held tightly in check as if you know that to express them aloud would put me in a thrall, so deep, that without you, I would die,

the strength of your thrusts, you know I won't shatter even though I ache after,

the maleness of you,

your scent, of course your scent, delicious musk of lust and soap,​

I could go on and on, but this is just a beginning.

 

[champagne1982]

Wooden Crosses

Beside the little steepled church
stand markers of another time,
wooden in this day of marble
floors and granite countertops.

Homogenized and white,
the bread and milk of progress
reaching here to touch
the churchyard on the corner.

Stoic in the snow and neglect,
people not remembered,
stripped inside the sandstone
walls of residential schools.

Where does the cross fit here?
Nameless and crucified their nails
of drugs, bingo and booze
hang you on its shape, impaled

on a Christian stake of tithe
and damnation, while Sister Moon
and Brother Sky laugh in honour
of your heritage. They mourn you.

I cannot find your name,
it's been painted away.
So, here lies a native
soul, let the wind remember.

 

[champagne1982]

Floor Hand

from five to nine you commute
to the wilderness and push
muck that freezes to your shovel
faster than your breath
to your bellaclava and yes
your fingers will freeze off
but for the promise of hot
potatoes and steaks thicker
than the slab of concrete
you stand on all day
and Oh God that sweet
girl's pussy all hot and wet
and ready to make you forget
how fucking cold it is.

 

[champagne1982]

Tool Push

It's like babysittin' a bunch
of ADD kids somedays
when they're still runnin'
around, packin' and you've
waited for over twenty
long minutes that you coulda
spent in your own bed, warm
and twisted up with her.

You're outta town for forty days
and nights. Christ has nothing
on you, baby, you do it all
the time and God knows, the devil
tempts you the whole time
you're out in the wilderness.

If that cook and the housekeeper
don't show again, the next
camp help you hire'll be makin'
more than the drillers.
That won't do, no, not at all.
No point in dwellin' on it.
Round 'em up and drive 'em
out, the 21st century's
version of a trail boss.

 

[champagne1982]

Look what I found over on Maria's 13 o'clock (dark-er poetry) thread. V1.0 of "On Waking Up Before Dawn!

On Waking Up Before Dawn

How is it that we often find the woods
a place where night wraps tight
her sheets and tucks us in beneath
a star bright canopy? The milky way
spills from the centre of the darkness
to fall over the horizon and beyond.
I fear what waits, close on the other side,
I have been and back again
and knew only dreamless sleep.
Whisper now and promise me
there is more that waits over the edge.
More than the centre of the night.
More than cold, dark sleep. Wake me
into your morning on the other side.

And the final version posted

 

[champagne1982]

Childhood

I grieve right now.
You are going past me
in the wrong direction.
Stay with me on my path;
it will be lonely
without you.

I remember those smiles
you showed me on faces
I love and who love
me in return and now,
you drag them away,
shadowed, somewhat forgotten.

Sadness wells up from below
like the cold of permafrost
permeates the soles
of feet, even though a memory
lingers of those funny
slippers, knitted in an afternoon
to keep us warm.

I want to hold your hand
and walk the future
as your companion.
I know you cannot stay
since the hands on the clock
sweep you behind,
into dust.

 

[champagne1982]

Disco Inferno (hyper-sonnet)

I fell into a soggy sponge cake,
A poet's dark vision of hell
When I turned around I couldn't help but sniff
A horrid, burning smell.

What set light to the fuel
Causing this black, oily smoke?
Did the glitter ball cast brilliant sparks
Igniting the chest of a hairy bloke?

His golden medallions nestling cozily there,
Amidst polyester folds and wiry, black hair.

Flamboyant twists and vibrant twirls,
Tight, pastel pants draw girlish eyes
To his lean, masculine hips,
And taut, muscular thighs.

Desire burns as the music throbs
Could the cake be ruined in the rain?
Will the chains catch in a chest dark with hair
Bringing hot, torrid, post-disco pain?

His golden medallions nestling cozily there,
Amidst polyester folds and wiry, black hair.

With a grind of his hips and gleaming smile
His cherry picking fingers up in the air,
He enflames his girl's passions
With his macho flare.

She moves, a shadow of darkened grace,
Her black satin dress a subdued foil
Against his bright plummage, dowdy,
Lest the glare of the peacock she spoil.

His golden medallions nestling cozily there,
Amidst polyester folds and wiry, black hair.

Look at the denizens of this smoky pit
So powerfully entranced!
'Twas the devil's conception, this place
Where demonic Hustlers danced.

Full of sex and drugs and pounding bass,
Is Satan's Fiery Disco,
Taunting them with bright, flashing lights
Come dance for eternity in this inferno.

His golden medallions nestling cozily there,
Amidst polyester folds and wiry, black hair.

 

[champagne1982]

Naked Nudity (sestina)

I am here, awake, nervous in my nudity
this place where you always take me
where you always make me bare
naked. It seems I'm here in that somewhere
I've always been less than me
waiting for that someone to make me free.

Can exposure to your eyes set free
the carefree nymph in woodland nudity,
the worshipful soul that is me?
Yet I've been told this isn't up to me
nor can I decide if I wish somewhere,
sometime to fall down and lay myself bare.

Naked isn't just being bare
but a state of being free
from conventions decided somewhere
and of our clothes, in physical nudity.
Whisper my name and call for me,
there in that raw bliss you'll find me.

Search out the woman buried inside me.
Strip my mind and let me bare
my thoughts to the flame that sears me.
As the fire burns it sets vision free
to fly naked in glorious nudity
and find myself lost somewhere.

Okay, I know that there is somewhere
we're permitted to be you and me
nothing more but two in nudity
naked in want, our needs bare.
Can you imagine the joy to be free
yet I bound to you and you to me?

Exposed in nudity hiding somewhere
seeking for me, to promise me
with heart laid bare, I'll at last be free.

 

[champagne1982]

Smile

stretch crinkles smooth
across a worried brow
set deeper creases
at the corners of your eyes
a light lit at the fireplace
of thought, spills free
of iris and lash
to sparkle in quick brevity
like the sunset
on a chuckling brook
with the gaiety of your smile.

 

[champagne1982]

Yes Licks

We were so innocent
tremulous smiles wet
on first kiss lips

it was like I'd never
tasted sugar until your tongue
met mine and melted

candy floss and sponge toffee
don't let it end before my heart
learns to handle the rush

of adrenaline and oxygen
sent out through my mind
to answer your whisper.

 

[champagne1982]

Evening View

The sky hangs just above
the clouds as they swoop
down in front of the wind
and leave pieces
of themselves in hollows

The sun falls beneath
the canopy of misty
cotton and sets fire
to the tips of firs
standing on the horizon

Just raise your head
to look above the
cloud quilt and see
a silvered moon
face smiling down
on the infant watcher.

 

[champagne1982]

This Song

Touch me and make my heart
dance a two-step cha Cha cha
skip against the xylophone
of my bones. Then tell
me, again, that you can't dance

with that jazzy down beat
hidden behind the metallic
twang of strings pulled
tight over that bridge
of heartwood, there
because it is so strong.

I don't believe you
when you tell me how
the rhythm is all wrong
since you hold the baton
and count each measure.

I love this song. It floats
each sound, each note
built to glide
into your mind and show
you that this song
is sung -- for you.