Tra-la-la   Wednesday, December 12, 2012


Lots of  good stuff this month, not so much as recently, but probably the new normal.

My latest  guess about my recent and recurring problem with fonts might be that the template does not like for me to  cut and paste. So I'm going to quit that and type everything directly into the template. Since about half  of every post was cut and pasted to the template, the result of directly typing everything fresh will be either shorter posts or less frequent posts.  Since I want to keep to the weekly schedule,  I'll try shorter first.

I'll  be  pissed if this doesn't work.

That said, here's our reduced posse for this week.

good enough
Wendy Lee
Lover's Duet
I'm thinking soft this  morning
Tabbis: Angelof Self-Determination
Colopatiron -  Angel of Liberation
what I  would do about the mess  we're in
Marge Piercy
Implications of One Plus One
lying in the sun with Susan
Piggly Wiggly promenade
lotsa hots
cinnamon dreams
Jose Emilio Pacheco
Anti-Postcard from Rio de  Janeiro
The Toad
the Buddha's dog
Jane Mayes
from Places and Spaces  -"Silver City and Beyond"
Jan Kramer Dunlap
Owed to the Toad: Safe Sex in Texas
DeEtta Sayers
squirrel  patrol
Franz Douskey
Dog Days and Delta Nights
scattered in the wide night sky
Kristine Rae Anderson
Eve's Version
Angela Armstrong
Nocturne Dipped in Pineapple Juice
Jennette Barnes
For Neda
what kind of god is this
Molly Peacock
The Return
yada yada blah  blah
Charles Rossiter
Your Body Glistens from the Bath
Arlene I. Mandell
Middle Age

The early morning has  become my best  time, up at 4:30 or  5:00, walk the dog. If  it's a good morning I pick up  a poem along the way.

As with these three poems from  two mornings last week.


silver light
in a star-stuck sky

dry leaves
fallen  this  week
crunch and crackle
beneath our feet

like a gray shadow behind us


the night is

street lights, porch lights
red and yellow and green traffic lights
softly shattered in the mist

the sound of our footsteps
lost in the fog

cat waits at the bridge
for our  return
like a clear-night shadow
in the earth-hugging cloud,
the wispy-shifting
of damp morning

this third poem not  thematically like the first two, but,  like them, written on an early morning walk  last week.

good enough

the feel
of soft skin,
the taste of it
on my tongue...


not really...

but good enough
for this long, cold
and lonely

Here's a poem from my anthology, Passionate Hearts.

The poem is by Wendy Lee. The anthology included no biography, so I'm not either.

Lover's Duet

What began as an urge to satisfy
something primal in me,
became a desire to unit deeply
with you,

I rose in love to your touch.
I lost myself in the fullness of your kiss,
the silky glide of your ars,
the strong harbor of your thighs,
the heat of your body
inside mine.

I opened to you
as you opened to me,
parting barriers unfelt until
we pressed freely beyond their sphere,

You moved with love,
holding me firmly,
giving me pleasure,
carefully stroking me fuller, harder,
more vulnerable.

Beyond the rattle of the clock
and the confines of the room.
Beyond cumbersome egos
and the constant pressure of earthly concern.

Into an ancient rhythmical dance,
a duet of quickening passions,
breathless friction,
breathful sighs.
Your joy beckoned mine,
and mine yours.,

Steadily rocking,
rolling through cannonball  bursts
and delicate pulsations.
We came cheek to cheek,
sharing a sweet throaty song
of I Love Yous.

This next piece is an old poem taken from my third book (second ebook) goes around comes around, published in 2011, a collection of 2010 poems.

I'm thinking soft this morning
I'm thinking
this morning
soft autumn breezes
on sun-warmed skin,
the soft  middle
of fresh-baked bread
crusted all around
the soft fur
behind a kitten's ear
and under its chin,
the fresh smell
of soft sheets on a wedding
the soft squeeze
of a woman,
the velvet  slide
down her back
to the rounded slope
of her rear,
the rise of her
on the soft  edge of sleep
the moist  center
of her
and the damp cheeks
of my son
at four, eyes wet
from a bully's taunts
as I held  him close
"you are a good person"
I tell him,
my voice a soft whisper
to his ear
"and a strong, brave boy
whose mom and dad love him"
I'm thinking soft this morning,
missing the touch
of  days
and softer than today

Next, I have a  couple of pieces from my poet friend, Anonymous. They are from A Cabal of Angels, published on line by Rain Dog Press. If  you would like a free copy of the book (and I recommend it), you can email Anonymous directly at this address,, and he will send you one, as well as to as many others you might wish.

Tabbris: Angel of Self-Determination

What will be left after you have truly gone: the frayed end of a thread from your sweater;
a bare bulb flickering in the closet: a dog-eared book with a coffee-stained cover? There is
no past. I'll pick now to remember what it was like; the scent of rosewater and wood smoke,
the rumble of wings against the sky as I watch you tie back your hair. There is no such thing
as forgiveness or second chances. I'd rather drink to sin; picture you at the end of the bar,
hair shorn, legs crossed high ready to start a revolution.

Colopatiron: Angel of Liberation

We talk about ghosts while the moon possums in the sky.
It is still;  the kind of  stillness right before a thunderstorm
or  a car crash. We're sitting on the swings; the playground
overlooks the baseball diamond. Colored  paper and  matches
confetti the infield;shreds  from spent bottle-rockets and fire
crackers. Longneck  Budweiser's mark first second third base
and home. The only light left is a lone firefly. You've dyed
your hair; skin, white as cuttlefish bones. Tell me your first
wish was the smoothe4st stone ever skipped across water;
how you felt yourself drown in each ripple and wave.

I wrote this last week, a duty poem. The Poem a Day rules said I had to write something, so I did. Some people liked it, so, who cares what I think.

Here it is.

what I would do about the mess  we're in
of starting a new religion,
"The Church of My War or the Highway"
is the name I have in mind...
I'll be the Pope
of My Way or the Highway
and maybe I'll secede
from Texas and start a new country,
and I'll be President,
maybe call it "The Republic of My Way or the Highway, You All"
a little variation in  the name
to avoid separation of church and state
which will be very important
when the Pope and the President
meet to determine the rules of ME
(this will be after I complete my long overdue
coup behind the Pearly Gates and send old White-Beard
packing, so full of himself since he got his portrait
on that ceiling in Rome, and what  a screw-up
he's been - just check with any of your Sodomite
friend and they'll tell you - Old My Way or the Highway
Fire and Brimstone himself - overdue for several millennia,  at
least, for permanent reassignment - maybe
with the circus in their parade maintenance department,
sweeping up after the elephants, just as we have been
sweeping up after his self-proclaimed One and Onlyness
all these years - do you think cleaning up after that big flood was easy,
ask your friends in New Jersey, and that ark, what a mess,
animal poop everywhere...)
anyway, it is important that Pope-Me
and President-Me and the Big Enchilada-Me
get together and hash out how the ecclesiastical and
governmental sectors that will have to adjust  to  conform
to the new  Enchilada rules of universal dynamics, and
not to mention,  the usual stuff like tax issues (i.e. who screws
ad who gets screwed) and general issues of foreign and domestic
policy (what to do with countries and people who refuse
the beneficence of my Grand Enchiladaness),
as well as social policies, such as, of course marriage
(included under the who screws and who gets screwed
lots to  think on...
it's obvious we need to get to work on this,
get our assistants' assistants' assistants
to do the preliminary committee work, decide
where we might meet for breakfast
and how we should have our eggs and
whether biscuits or toast, and what kind
of jam, (apple,  strawberry or grape) or
if we should just stick to bagels and cream
cheese -
the important stuff, in other words, that
has to be resolved
before the fate of mankind and assorted other creatures
can be discussed

Marge Piercy wrote the next poem from this week's anthology, Passionate Hearts, The Poetry of Sexual Love.

Implications of One Plus One

Sometimes we collide,  tectonic plates merging,
continents shoving, crumpling down into the molten
veins of fire deep in the earth and raising
tons of rock into jagged crests of Sierra.

Sometimes your hands drift on me, milkweed's
airy silk, wingtip's feathery caresses,
our lip grazing, a drift of desires gathering
like fog over warm water, thickening to rain.

Sometimes we go to it heartily, digging,
burrowing, grunting, tossing covers
like loose earth, nosing into the other's
flesh with hot  nozzles and wallowing there.

Sometimes we  are kids making out, silly
in the quilt, tickling the xylophone spine,
blowing wet jokes, loud as a whole
slumber party bouncing till the bed breaks.

I go round and round you sometimes, scouting,
blundering, seeking a way in,the high boxwood
maze I penetrate running lungs bursting
toward the fountain of green fire at the heart.

Sometimes you open wide as cathedral doors
and yank me inside. Sometimes you slither
into me like a snake into its burrow.
Sometimes you march in with a brass band.

Ten years of fitting our bodies together
and still they sing wild songs in new keys.
It is more  and less than loe timing,
chemistry, magic and will and luck.

One plus one equal one, unknowable except
in the moment, but convertible into words,
not explicable or  philosophically interesting.
but it is. And it is. And it is. Amen.

Since my anthology  this week concerns poems of a sexual nature, here are a several of my own, from my first book, Seven Beats a Second, published in 2005.

lying in the sun with Susan

quiet bay

no sound but the light rustle
of marsh grass in the gulf breeze

lies on her back, legs spread,
as if to thrust herself
at the summer sun

sweat glistens
on the inside of her thigh
and my tongue aches
for the taste of her

Piggly Wiggle promenade

walking across the parking lot
in high heels and black capri pants
that draw attention to hips
going a little broad and ass
on the way to droop
and a white cotton blouse
tucked tight into her pants,
small breasts,
nipples round and hard as marbles
nodding with each step

she struts as she passes me
and smiles and you know
she's having the time of her life,
giving all the little bag boys
mid-afternoon hard-ons,
free in this parking lot
for at least a while,
free at least until the groceries
and safely loaded into her Volvo
and she's on her way to pick up
little Brittany at ballet

lotsa hots

I've worked in August
under the noon-day sun
digging post holes
in hard-packed caliche
on the Texas-Mexican border

that's one kind of hot

I've won  six months pay
throwing dice in Reno

that's another kind of hot

I've seen pretty little whores
in Piedras Negras
hot enough to melt the silver tip
off  cowboy's dress-up boots

that's pretty hot, too

but no kind of hot
is as hot
as thinking of you and me
in a big white  bed
in a room with curtains whispering
to a low midnight breeze,
soft lights,  satin shadows
shifting over pale skin

your dark eyes shining
liquid in their knowing

cinnamon dreams

in the dim  light
at end of day
I watch you sleep
     still damp
     from the shower
curled on your side
in white linen
     like the center
of a fresh sliced peach
in a bowl of sweet cream

your foot moves
brushes softly against mine

with a quiet rush
     of warm air
     you sigh,
the sweet breath
of cinnamon dreams



hot breath

                 of skin
                          on skin

like the bite
of a velvet adder



to the touch

to the smoldering

of midnight

Here are several poems by Mexican poet Jose Emilio Pacheco. The poems are from his book An Ark for the Next Millennium, published by The University of Texas Press in 1993.

It's a bilingual book, Spanish, with English translation by Margaret Sayers Peden, and wonderful illustrations by Francisco Toledo, universally recognized as Mexico's foremost painter.


Born in the marshland of insomnia,
they are blackness, needle-sharp and winged.
Frail vampires,
a light brigade
                         with devil's pitchforks.

Anti-Postcard  from  Rio de Janeiro

Moths attempt crimes against  property
They are enemies of the status quo
Errant planets around
a hypnotic sun of deadly incandescences

The largest moths I have ever seen
were dying in the heat of El  Corcovado
gazing at me with enormous eyes of pain

Not for them the beauty of Rio
only hunger     horror     torture

they see only white-hot rock
- and this world,  ending.

The Toad

It is by nature unappealing
And as it persists in the error
of its throbbing viscosity
we long to crush it

Tragic human impulse: to destroy
both our image and our opposite

     The toad
beautiful in its fashion
     views the world
     with the serenity of one
that knows it is doomed to martyrdom

This poem is from a couple of weeks ago. I thought I had used it, but apparently not.

the Buddha's dog

my return to sender stamp
some years ago, date
pending, I was, as are most of us,
shocked at the thought
that the is
a returns counter somewhere
where, at a time to be negotiated later,
the earthly essences of me
will be delivered for reprocessing...

at that point
I had been  quite sue
that life as a condition or enjoyment
was a permanent-type benefit
of being young, handsome, and eager
to please; dying being for old
people, which i foresaw I would never be,
the aforementioned essences of me
never to be wrinkled or worn


what a hell of a thing to find out
in the middle
of a perfectly good life

I have long sought to deal with this
so unwelcome truth of things, and especially
now, when,  as foretold, my essences
have become quite winkled and worn,
I have looked for models of living
and attitude which might make this passage
more agreeable...

until now,
when the best course
was revealed to me in recent days
as I walked my dog...

my silly dog
who imagines not future
and obsesses only rarely on her vaguely
remembered past

my silly dog
who finds eternity in every moment,
an eternity spent in a moment of sniffing
a blade of grass, in a moment spent searching out a squirrel
high in a tree, finding a moment of foreverness
in an era of belly-scratch, an epoch
in every moment
of her life

my silly dog who will live forever
and never even notice when forever

great teacher...

oh wise and
silly dog

My next  poet from the Passionate Hearts anthology is by Jane Mayes.


Outside our bedroom window
in the dark of a spring
rainy midnight
a lone bird warbled
its varied love song
as if it knew what 
we  were doing
with our window  open.
It trilled on for an hour
in the middle of  that night
singing descant
to my heart's melody.

Next, I'm going to my fifth book (fourth ebook), Places and Spaces. It is a book of five  long travel poems. This piece is from the fifth of  the poems "Silver  City and Beyond." The poem is about  a trip to Silver City, New Mexico, then a loop up through Albuquerque and back. The piece comes about midway through the poem.

from "Silver City and Beyond"    

     a one-lane bridge
    Mogollon from the National

the paved road ends
and a Forest Service dirt and rock
road begins

very rough

unsure as to how far
the dirt road goes before returning
to  asphalt
- none of  this  is on my map -
i have to decide whether i should
go forward
or turn back - see what comes
next, which
could be worth the whole trip
or  avoid what comes  next, which
might not be so good.

     disinclined by nature
     to ever back up, i  press

the road, i notice,
travels along the bottom
of  a deep canyon,
alongside a dry creek

it  is  at about that same time
that it begins to  rain
and i become aware of a large,
very black cloud
hovering overhead

being from an area
where everyone  knows  from
the dangers when  hillsides and
dry creeks
and heavy rain come together,  i
a relieved
when the road starts to rise,
leaving the canyon and dry creek

     the higher i climb
     the heavier the rain falls
     and the slushier
     and slipperier the road  becomes

finally after an hour of  twisting
and turning
and climbing and sloshing and
the rain stops
and  the sun comes out
and i can see more clearly the
and great gush of muddy
rushing down the hillside,
building new channels
as it races from the top to that dry
i am pleased to not  be driving

thoughts of mudslides
for a moment,  until i  decide
that i'm high enough to slide down
the mountain
on top  of  the mud
and not under it, which doesn't
seem  so  bad

i choose to think  of it as skiing
in  mud season

     setting aside mudslides and all
     other hesitations
     - it is now considerably further
     back than forward anyway -
     i come to a break in the trees
     and stop and look out and see
     that i am on a high ridge
     above the clouds, churning
     white and billowy

unwilling to stop  earlier
in the heavy rain
i had unfinished and too long
business which i took care of

peeing on the clouds,
the moist essences of me
joining the essences of the
becoming pat of some one's
next rain storm

the grass will grow greener,
and the flowers more colorful
because i have made  their cause
my own

     and i am

going down now,
still  on the dirt-rocky-rough road,
but believing an end was in sight
and a herd of deer
cross the road in front of me

     a very large buck
     and 25 to 30 doe  and fawns,
     fluffy white and brown stub-tails
     in the wind,
     all together  as a group,
     coming down the mountain
     in great bounds, over  the road,
     then back up
     on the other side,
     winged creatures
     who,through fate or folly,
     lost their wings
     but still try to fly,almost
     with each great leap

passing through a burned-out
portion of forest,
pine and aspen tall and limb-less
black as  the coal
they have become while still they
reach for the sky,
i stop and listen to the wind,
all around deep-forest quiet butt
for the wind
passing  through these poor

ghost whispers...

Here are two poems from the Golden Jubilee Anthology, 1949-1999, published by the Austin Poetry Society in 2000.

The first poem is by Jan Kramer Dunlap.

Owed to the Toad: Safe Sex in Texas

         (or...Who Cares About Chickens
Now That We know Why Toads Cross the Road?)

Consider the poor  Houston toad:
endangered  by trucks on  the road
     in Bastrop where they
     pitch woo (not in the hay,
but on highways)

                                                          ...a grave episode.

State high-mucky-mucks were appalled
with great numbers  of carcasses sprawled
     after hopping with high jinks
     while  following instincts.
"Poor thangs, they need ARE he'p."
                                                          folks drawled.

Thus Texans decided to act
Spent o'er six hundred thousand,  in fact,
     for an underground tunnel
     in which toads can funnel
amphibian bliss

                                                              ....or get thwacked!

The second poem from Austin poets  is by DeEtta Sayers.


      At midnight
In a vast desert,
Looking up...

          At dawn light
in a huge rocket.
Peeping out...

             At teeming life
Ink a microscope,
Peering down...

He is there,
God is there.

From last week, more excitement with my new dog, Bella.

squirrel patrol

in the park,
heavily wooded
with oak and pecan,
a narrow trail by the river

squirrel patrol

five in one tree,
the dog's ears pitch and perk,
my god, she thinks,
five  squirrels - one tree

"snickerty snickerty chuck chuck"
the squirrels sing
as they frolic from tree limb
to limb,
"poor  dog,
snickerty, chuck,
who can't climb trees."

the dog,
frantic in a frantic,
pulls me into the river

This piece, from this  week's anthology, Passionate Hearts, is by Franz Douskey.

Dog Days and Delta Nights

Standing  knee-deep in  Oak Creek
while  snakes slither  like  flexible
tubing in the delicate moonlight,
everything moves slowly to  cool  off.
Too hot to even speak, while a persimmon
leaf takes the shape of water and floats by.

Heat lightning in the eastern sky gives
sycamores eerie shadows, as birds wake
now and then, unprotected and complaining,
while you stand naked, beautiful,
hair  shining, like a pitchfork of summer hay.

I look at the stars,
then at your nipples, glistening, as water
retreats over your skin. you know
my mind. You shake your mane. You
mover toward  slippery rocks and
the roar of riprap. Up, up, out
of water, the stream racing down your
skin,  leaving your body hair smooth.

Up on a flat, mossy rock, you do  a
little dance with your hips. you open
your  legs a little, then open your lips.
This is sinful all right. Some gospel
fire might find us, but there are certain
pleasures that can't be neglected,
so, call me crawling kingsnake
with a mojo moan,  as I move out
of water, rising and filling with blood.

In a moment I am flung inside,
dazzled and dizzy, at times hanging
upside down, waiting for the right
time while you buck and bite.

Shuddering deep, you throw back
a moan across thickets,  broken
branches,down by the deer crossing;
so deep, we hunt with  our mouths
and forget who we are.

Call it temporary sanity. Great
horse,great  mare,
the shadows dissolve, everything
aquiver, our tongues feeling out
the mother language in primitive dance
hunkering in our wild, wet hides.

Later, we get dressed in cool, orange
light. Get back home before morning
chores,before the kids wake  up
so breakfast  is ready, and when we
touch they think we just got up,
your eyes speaking for you, and
I let my silence  speak for me.

The next poem is from Always to the Light, my fourth book, (third ebook).

scattered in the wide night sky
in the wide night sky
are pinpoints of light
bringing star-heat
to worlds like our
biological  stews
pining the universal
on some
and on others
life at its most  simple
is cradled,
protected from the
cosmic storms,
and,  on  a relative few,
creatures  who strive
and dream
like you and
know this
like some people
know God, such
a product of our longing
in the lonely bright
for a companion
of our best nature

Next, I have  three poets from Alehouse (Number  4- 2010), published annually by The Alehouse  Press of  San Francisco.

The first poem is by Kristine Rae Anderson.

Eve's Version

When Adam found me, scarlet-dripping lips,
my hands wet, stained red, pungent,
my eyes all shadows and waterfalls,
he  leaned in, licked juice from my chin,
ran his tongue down my neck, took
my fingers in his mouth, one by one,
was slowly explored...for the first  time.

Just when it couldn't  get better,
he thrust me aside - hard - on my back,
smacking wet  ground.
He crawled behind a thorny bush and ordered me
to go put on some clothes, for God's  sake.

This poem is by Angela Armstrong.

Nocturne Dipped  in Pineapple Juice

From beneath the bed, from the jewelry box
I hate  for  its false  drawer fronts, a swirl
of oil sighs loudly in a mood ring as it  circles
an invisible drain.After three  nights, I've given up

on sleep. I sit cross-legged in the back yard,
thighs embossed with chaotic weave of damp grass,
mouth open beneath my favorite spoon
looped with a heavy necklace of pineapple rings.

I'll be honest. I can't let go of what I saw
under the table: our shoes so  close together
that just  one  inch more and our laces would have
slowly undone themselves. Wherever you are,

wake. Open the window. Taste my slick mouth,
flooded with the unbearable tang that hangs overhead.

And finally, I have the next poem by Jennette  Barnes.

For Neda

Bleed, burn, break
The loyal opposition's bones:

Smash to ash and coals
All  women howling,  shrieking, seizing,

Gripping stones.

Another new poem, written last  Sunday.

I really get tired of  my believer friends telling how  sorry I'm going  to be when  the roll is called up yonder and I find myself stuck in the blazing fires of hell.

what kind of god  is this?

my believer friends
tell me that my problem
is that I have  never  been  sufficiently
frightened into  joining with them
in their faith -
that if I was in an airplane
crashing, or in a foxhole, bullets whizzing,
bombs bursting,
I  would  quickly come to know
the reality of  their god

and I can  only wonder
in response
what kind of  god is this,
this  god  of fire and brimstone
and flood and demons
and pestilence  and  insect
infestation, this bogyman god  who can only
scare his followers into believing...

it doesn't work  for me
because  I do not  pine
to be  rescued from the natural
state of life an  death
by a hallucinatory afterlife,
because I do  not fear
death as they must,
understanding, instead,
that death is the  natural and inevitable
outcome of life, that death is my destiny
as it is for everyone and every
thing, that we are all - you and me
and every one and every  thing -
the ash and dust
of exploding stars and it is to that  same
dust and ash we will all  return
when our day
is done...

we are of the stars
and it  is to the star we will return,
in that state from which
we began our current

ashes to ashes,
dust to  dust

The next poem from  the Passionate Hearts anthology is by Molly Peacock.

The Return

When I open my legs to  let you seek,
seek inside me,  seeking more, I think
"What are you looking for?" and feel it will
be hid from me, whatever  it is, still
or rapidly moving beyond my frequency.
Then I declare you a mystery
and stop myself from moving and hold still
until you can find your orgasm. Peak
is partly what you look for, and the brink
you loe to come to and return to must
be  part of it, too, thrust,  build, the trust
that brings me, surprised, to  a brink of my own...
I must be blind to something of my own
you recognize and look for. A diamond
speaks in a way through its beams, though it's dumb
to the brilliance it reflects. A gem at the back
of the cave must  tell you, "Yes,you can go back."

This is from Pushing Clouds Against the Wind, my second book. It was my first stab at ebook publishing. Published in 2009, it was  my first  book  since the 2005 publication of Seven  Beats a  Second, so I had several years  accumulation of pretty good poems to draw from. But the formatting was pretty amateurish which often gets in  front of the text  of the poems. I did better in later books, including  getting help  with the covers.

yada yada blah blah
i thought a walk along the creek
under a clear  sky
and starry lights
and all the universe that is
might rehabilitate
my mind,
clear  it of  all the crap that
accumulates between the synapses
but the night is damp cold
and the sky is overcast
and dark,and unproductive
of clarity, or even, meager
so  i'm stuck with the same
melange of personal and
global preoccupations
that mushifies any semblance
of  clear and consistent thought...
Palestinian elections
and Israeli elections
and Iraqi elections
and Bolivian elections
and Sudanese genocide
and  Uzbek oil and
my latest lab results
and the mortgage payment
and the latest obscenities
from Bush's Washington
and the kid's student  loans
and why the hell can't  i  get
a good night's sleep anymore
and the price of gas
and the radiator  leak
and if we don't get
some rain soon  we're
going to lose all
the grass
yada yada
blah blah
i used to be able
to  tell the difference
between the picayune
and the important stuff
but now i'm lost
in a malaise
of inconsequentials
leaving me to obsess
over things i  can't do a
goddamn thing to change

Next, two  last poems from my anthology this week, Passionate Hearts, The Poetry of Sexual Love.

The first poem is by Charles Rossiter.

You Body Glistens from the Bath

in the mirror in front of me
my hands on you
your hands reach back
as we  stand dripping
slippery and delicious
our tongues and we
begin again
the long slow dance
we have perfected
like pilgrims returning
home again
to  the  promised land

And the very last from the anthology for the week. This one by Arlene I. Mandell.

Middle Age

Crashing down mossy walls
the water foams in a fierce whirlpool.
Away from the main current we wait
a chilled pool, our surface still
till we are sucked into the turbulence
coming together in the seductive swirl

and after we emerge, the roar
of the water subsiding, the breeze cooling
too soon we sink back, and wait.

I'm thinking I might take a week  or two off for Christmas (depends on how bored I  get), so,just in case I do,  here's another of my Christmas poems.


are the days
when I could climb the back
of the football field
or repel  down a sheer rock face...

a  footstool is  a challenge
as I hang Christmas lights from  the eaves
of  my house,
finding assurance
in holding on  tight the leaves of a bush
or reaching high and fast
to touch with a single finger
the edge of the eaves
as my gut clenches and my toes
grasp the inner sole of my shoes like an eagle
clutches prey as it lifts
to its high mountain

then the lights  are strung
and I plug  them in
and retreat to the  edge of the  yard
to admire my work

I sing for the neighbors...

I hate Christmas

The farmer is home from the plow; the fisher home from the sea. And the writer just hangs around, pleased to be done for the week.

Everything here remains  the property of its creators. My stuff is mine, but you can have it anyway. Just remember to properly credit "Here and Now" and me.

Me being allen itz, owner and producer of this blog.

And seller of excellent books, my own, at these places.

Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBookstore, Sony eBookstore, Kobo, Copia, Garner's, Baker & Taylor,  and eBookPie
reputable  places all
Places and Spaces
Always to the Light
Goes Around Comes Around
Pushing Clouds Against the Wind
And, for those print-bent, available at Amazon and select coffeehouses in San Antonio
Seven  Beats  a Second
Short Stories
Salvador - The Dreamer




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