Woodnotes

Last night I fell asleep

before you came home.

I dragged the dog out for a walk

but he hates the cold as much as I do.

He pissed all over the kitchen floor,

he despises being alone.

He ate snacks before bedtime

wallowing in loneliness.

You wanted to have sex

while I had creative writing on my mind.

My blue journal sprawled between

my thighs,

I want my head there, you said.

My pens took precedence

Patience was playing from my phone

I ignored you. I fought your lights.

You take it personal, but I’m a writer

and you know that I can’t interrupt

my flow. Sex came and went,

making love is for another lifetime.

I took the kids out for dinner

ate avocado rolls

veggie burgers

St.Louisbourg burger

with onion rings.

I said, it’s hard to be an artist

to be in a relationship,

I am preparing them

for the heartache, but it’s

Too late.

If the one you’re with

does not understand what a woodnote is

or what defines you.

It’s a natural musical tone

or the song of

some bird

no one cares about trees

nature is becoming extinct.

The young and old have their heads

filled with useless information

school shootings

young wolves writing poems

academia taking the back seat

poets knocking on your door

I am locked in;

dead children

another statistic.

Here we are sleeping together

never at the same time

chaos in our fear.

Writing prompt: word: Woodnotes

#februaryfalls18

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Freedom

I wrote it on the beach

while staring at the ocean

but forgot to send it

deleted it somehow

and poetry faded into

the sand under my feet.

I hear what you say

but I’m nodding at the sky

it’s talking to me

so be silent.

listen. i told you to

stare and you did,

listening to the wind

and how the earth moved

with the clouds.

You breathe deeply.

she was the one

who never got

away from your thoughts

and she was the one

that reminded you

of me. no spells

required. it was

word play. tricks

that poets perform

on cue. i trust no one

but my lover

who knows every

mole on my skin.

every beach is different

yet the same,

and every man is you

and every woman

is me.

That freedom of

saying you’re mine

or I’m yours

or other lovely phrases

that confuse the horizon

are Purolator express

packages of signed poems

I sent to Pakistan, London,

Lebanon, and other exotic

places that poets meet.

Remember how we ruled

the scene with teased hair

and duMaurier cigs

no line ups, no hash tags,

no texts, no pictures?

You just wanted to

get next to me.

That was all

that mattered.

Now everything matters.

My shoes, my hair,

my fake promises.

Yet you see nothing

but what you

have always seen

and that is one

of the myriad ways

that I love you

in every song.

June second

the lights are red, but i want to go up

into the sky. drive right through

the pink and purple all night long.

this is my porn. you text me

your naughty, i’ll dream

in the fucking clouds. it’s june

second, two thousand and fifteen,

remember the 80’s? i relive them.

another full moon? do you

really care all that much? stop

howling. i feel it in every cell.

you’re fucked up.

I think my imagination

is so wild

even you

would run away.

but, you stay, you

make me believe

that the sunset

was a masterpiece

and the darkness

its palette.

the moon controls us

like love, we’re

helpless

to its pulling effect.

catch me tonight at

nine pm…its’ my son’s

award ceremony,

but i’ll still be falling

from the sky.

don’t forget to look up

and extend your arms,

even if you don’t see me.

long ago

long ago you came to me

with broken wings and sexy words

you made me smile

brightening up my day

with your jokes

enlightening my nights with your hands

you said all the right words in all

the right lights

daylight, nightlight, afternoon delight,

you grasped it all

as I slept naked

and woke up to your grip,

the beginning you said

is worth the end

and kissed that spot on my neck

no one cared to

the back of my neck

I hid from

you found the tracks of my veins

with fuel

in your engine

full for me.

I know I disappeared

did not mean to

but the sky

called out to me

when I ached.

I know I hate you

did not mean to

but you pulled

me in so hard

I fell on you

and I let the love unfold.

Even if it was a change of

a pillow case

or a shake of a sheet

we lay in it for a while

and your scent

is what I miss most.

One day in another life

we will meet

and you will find

all those places on my body

that you missed.

Sonnet #1

Let us think of a road far off our path,

where we could walk holding hands in full view

and not feel the hatred of other’s wrath

while the letters remain in my pocket too.

Love will be aflame along the grey road

and a subtle caress will become law.

On your back you will carry my full load

sensing the drive in me is purely raw.

The streets will be silent full of false hope,

while our fingertips travel each other’s skin.

If we walk away we will stop at the rope

reach the line that tells us we can never win.

Here is one last wanting thought for your ears

there never was a road filled with these fears.

hip and cool

In the darkness of the day I can feel his arms around me

as far as he is

he can duck and press the gas medal

quickly, urgently, not even a riot

could stop him from ringing my bell;

he can come up close to me

and kiss me with his fluent tongue,

charming words,

hot love escaping his pores

as he races to see what the fuck

I am up to today

with my theory of the day mood swings

poetry readings in crumpled sheets

playlists of old tracks of my heart

that still make me pounce

on the front line of his soul.

Every city sinks at one time or another

every colour turns blue

shades of grey

are just a fantasy

memories float on the river

of my small city

(who the hell collects postcards besides me

who the hell cares for seashells

in the middle of winter).

One hundred pages left in my galley

but I have to check on my sanity

from time to time

escape the characters in my head

that live and breathe

without my knowledge

never wanting their story to end.

It is never enough to love for eternity

not even  possible

to have one love

all a mere rock on the bottom of the ocean

no one can see.

Ready for him

when he is

determination

should be written on his sleeve.

The only lovers left are the poets

creating a secret world

among the appearances

of the living

who often

seem dead. I am so alive.

Come from your frustration

and enter my highway

park

drive

and stay a while.

Write another poem.

Books not written

It will always feel

like you are losing me

as soon as you get too close.

Today I wanted to stay home

and write all day

and tomorrow

the same

but what silly thoughts

are these?

Trust me, that as soon

as you need me

it’s time to let me go.

Can you cut off

all the media?

All that noise?

I can.

I have.

I will.

I must.

Can you track me down

to see how I feel?

Can you close in on me

from everywhere?

Surround me with your strength

disarm me with your gentleness

the gap between the two

obscure

wide and approaching.

I see it from all angles

of this square

or that circle

or whatever you want to

call a shape within my mind

within a form

within an outline of my love.

For if you have my body

it comes with a soul

united.

Others can separate the two

discuss politics like sports

stir wet and dry ingredients

simultaneously

but I can save the day

with my frosting abilities

my inner sparkles that shine.

Soul and body

not that hard to disconnect the dots

that are invisible.

Reading Little Prince

again,

it appears life needs no explanation

while I was boarded up

with nails

until  you

resurfaced me.

Believe me, I have always

known how to walk into a room

full of people I know,

the trick is to do the same

with strangers.

I have always known

everything about me.

He reads my eyes and

that in itself is another

book

not written

(yet).

IMG_7743

Charades

I’m pretty good at charades

beat them all with my gestures

I’m Greek so I move my hands

when I talk

break open beer bottles

with my hand

I may seem all sweet and nice

but I could hurt you

mostly with objects

you can never see

hardly noticeable

from this distance

but naked in my bed

you could twist me around

in seconds

and see that my tears

are on the pillowcase.

I can pick the charade words

select the perfect movies

actors

sayings

and let the games begin

make a Cosmo that makes you

want more

select a playlist

for somber moods

haunting moods

slide an adjective over my body parts

and I’ll come up with something.

I hate parts of you

I detest the fatal flaws

that will come between us

like a scaffold.

I think in ancient times

and read scripts

in my mind that you dreamt about

so long ago.

I see through you

past you

and still

I want to see all the parts

you hide.

My Assignment

Is the day over yet? How

I want it to be so over,

this damp cold day

how your words are on

constant replay.

My theory is:

I’ll meet you in the bedroom

in the backseat, deep in the night

on the hood of a car

in broad daylight

on the pool table

after we locked up the bar

meet you at 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

any time we need a fix.

The paragraphs are:

kilometers become steps

on a street

a drive becomes a walk

in the forest

a pre-dinner meet.

Catching up, I need catching up.

Breaking up, I need breaking up.

Your hands in mine (or theirs)

or his or hers.

Take me off of that list.

Take me off of that pile.

I might want to live in constant denial.

I might want to wait to find my own dial.

I have my own classroom to teach

I have my own lessons to learn

children to preach

but then you throw me a fish hook

in the middle of my day

and I bite.

I like your stars

your flowing river traps

you like

my late afternoon naps.

Conclusion:

Don’t analyze a poet

I believe nothing

until it comes from your lips

the next is just a story

unfolding.

I know how a poet thinks

blinks

drinks

I know how we confuse

reality with dreams

dreams with reality

stories with broken seams.

I know how artists

stare at the sky like pornography

erotica, read it like literature,

I know how I go out of my way

to step on crunched leaves.

Do you?

I know how music

is my muse that weaves.

I’m not that young and naive

not that blind to love

but I’m tired of all the pretense

the shaded color of my fence-

I can come to you

you can come to me

we can come to each other

right above the sea.

Did you grade me yet?

Am I a good pet?

I am too old for games

just write me something

that will blow me up

into flames

until I’m a ghost

and you bend at my grave

remember the walk

the talk

the skin

the breath

the scent

the way we fit so well.

I’m a poet

dramatic/visual/erotic.

How did I do?

Coffee Shop poems

I imagine myself

dying of some

disease. A morbid thought,

I know. I tell my children,

one day I will be dust.

I think I can fly. They nod

their heads and laugh.

I stare at the birds hoping one day

I will reincarnate into one and migrate,

take flight. I want to leave this city

in the heavy winter and fly south. Meet

the other nomads and talk about

our body heat. I want to see him

naked, knocking him down

with his knack for knowledge

about my imperfections. I want

him to look past the words and

battery chargers, the truth, the

half-made up lies, the quick

good-byes. It is all a bunch of

fucking crap. I smile, falling into

his trap. I am the best actress you

have seen off-screen. The theater

is in my mind. The mirror is off

the wall in between the hooks

and family portraits you barely find. I want

every poem to be the worst one.

I wish the next one,

to shake his world, make him

think about why he leaves me

every day, why I expect every man

to be him. I want him to continue

hating everything he loved

about me. The way he saw the sea

through me, the crashing waves,

the all night raves. The days

pass slow, he wrote me in a letter,

you make think I have forgotten

all the masks you wore, but

I went to Venice too, I saw how you

were everywhere, in the art you can explore,

the pleated skirts, the Murano glass

in spurts. I have not thought about you,

I will not think about you, no matter

how many times you want me to.

I want to be you and you want to be

me. When I write a poem that

makes me physically sick, the kind

of poem you would share with no one

the kind, that even

your lover couldn’t handle.

The coffee shop is too crowded.