I am just an old woman who has read
And written poetry for many years.  
It is like daily bread to me,
Sustenance on which to feed
And to fill a deep soul need.

Poetry is like the essential oil
In an exceptional perfume,
Refined down to its essence.  
A distillation to what is pure.
It is the molecular structure,
The scent of the blossom.

Its scent deeply impacts all  
Who are privileged to inhale it.  
Smell a high quality rose otto,
Immediately you know it as a rose.  
You do not wonder what else it is.  
It is a note of singular distinction
Because it has been distilled down
To the very soul of the plant.  

Good poetry makes you feel that.
It does not rely on cliché,
Nor unsophisticated childish notions.
Poetry must not be superfluous.
But must be succinct, the essence
Of the feelings being expressed
Without the fluff.

You must tear a poem down,
Rewrite it, set it aside for a while
Then come back to it with fresh eyes.
Poetry is work and an inner struggle.
We must be willing to give the time
Each poem needs from our loving attention.  
They are our children, born of us, part of us.  
No child should go nameless,
Each one deserves a name to be given it.
We owe them nurturing as loving parents.

Here,
In this womby-tomby

Safety of my coverings
I begin to realize,

I don't want to remain unborn.

I'm not a cat, you will see, you wussy!
And I'd not be trapped anyway,
With that ball of string, I already played.
It is a tired old game for stupid *******.

It is often true that you
Must sink to the bottom
Before you can rise upward.
Swim!

"How strange it is to be nothing at all,"
He thought, looking down to see
If there was actual flesh and bones.

Bad childhood memories have fathers
Who caused their births
And mothers who allowed them.

What made
  us beautiful
Since we were never
  likely to happen
Yet here we are

There is never an end without a start

In the moments
  we are meant to share
We are carelessly
  forced apart
Until we all can share one heart

Our star was rising,
Our sun, at its zenith

As our hidden desires,
Secrets of our hearts

Revealed under
A moon in culmination.

Dreams are the substance
As shadows move
But the darkness
Seems never to lift

Until suddenly
With the start of clarity
It becomes beautiful poetry
And flows across the page

You are left wondering
At its ability
To gather itself
And become reality

I come to you with a heart like glass.
You choose, the velvet box or the hammer.

It’s easy to love
From afar
Where you never will know
Who they are
Really.  Truly inside out
Sinew deep

It’s harder to love
Up close
An in your face true love
Seeing warts and all
In the big
And small hours of a life

You, you, you!
You, like a box full of Paris in springtime
Blossoms blowing in the gentle breeze,
A spicy dance of can-can at Moulin Rouge,
Or meandering along the banks of the Seine,
And a stroll down the Champs-Elysee
As far as the Arc de Triomphe along the way.

You, a luxuriant lounge on The French Riviera
And traveling in Provence-Alpes-Cote d'Azur.
You are delicious clean air that fills the lungs
When the smell of lavender is everywhere.
Come! Float along the course of the Roia River.
Un titre tu es mon Jardin de délices!
Toi, toi, toi!

Tu es mon seul désir. You are my one desire.

How long has she sat there, jam spread across her face?  I just looked
in!
The ice cream, there in the freezer has two deep finger marks dug in
it.
I don't even have to guess.  I saw, in the middle of the night,
By the light of the fridge a little girl who thinks no one sees.

Having been caught she says she didn't do anything.  I know what I saw.
"It's all right sweetheart, because it is all yours.  Whenever you want.
Anytime."  I buy her any and everything I think she might want.
I just want her to be as happy as is possible, feel secure, and loved.

I lead her to the bathtub, instruct her to clean, knowing
That I will have to wash that sweet face that I love so dearly.
After all, she made cobblers, cakes and pies for us when we visited.  
She wiped my face, washed my bottom, did my precious, Granny.

The silence passed between the two
As a mist encircled like a glove,
Fingers reaching for something.  Love?

One cut through the void with few words.
And a weight fell from off their chests like feathers
Floating down and filling the space between;

As these words broke through, "I love you.  
I love you, Dad."

I peeked in on you this morning.
You were curled into the prettiest little shape.  
Your long hair lay around you.

And, I thought, "She looks just like she did at age 10 or 11.  
Just like in that photo of her that I cherish.
So lovely, so precious.”

Every man fears the psychiatrist’s ****** cigar.
That fraudulent Freudian slip.  What freak-fantastic dribble.

Destruction of society imaged in a dream.
The apocalypse is light in comparison to his judgments.

Superlative pish.
Let this be a sockdologer.

I am the sun setting in spectacular glory.
You are the warm Gulf waters caressing
As you wash along my ragged shoreline
Lovingly lapping late into a humid evening.

I hear the soft whooshing, smell the brine,
Watch the shorebirds returning home,
Hear the earnest, varied calls and cries,
As they with singular intent soon disappear.

How dear you all are to me.

Hair in braids hanging down,
The Sun in rays shining all around.
Glimmers and shimmers on skin so fair
That glows upon long dark hair.
Bare feet tread on soil rich and brown
Pattering as they touch the ground.
The softest air in rhythm is growing
And scents of ocean breezes flowing
To a blue haze above the mountains.
This is where my heart is soaring
'Or mounts, oceans, 'n watery fountains.

When we are a child we live in that barefoot moment of fascination.
We run through open-aired spheres of delight unabashed.
We bare our skin to the honey-tones of the sun to be browned
And we allow the moon to powder our skin and face with shimmer.

Then we grow up.

We clothe our bodies, don foot coverings, and shun the rays of the sun and moon.
We fear aging, alter our skin, dye our hair, and ‘Peter Pan’ on.
And when in the pseudo-insanity of an aged body and mind that has seized us, at last,
Let us throw off other people’s expectations.  

That is their problem.

Let us once again live in those barefoot moments, so few now, so precious.
Let us mentally run through open-aired spheres of delight unabashed.
Let us bare our skin to the honey-tones of a healing sun
And allow time to powder our hair with shimmer;

Finally to allow ourselves to eat the fruit of our labors.

Like substances broken out from your favorite perfume,
Somethings apart from the whole cannot be understood, nor enjoyed.
The beautiful scent comes from the delicate balance of each component.

Ingredients in your favorite dish do not taste as good as the whole.
Try eating flour on its own and see how far you get, and yet
A dessert made with it can be culinarily divine.

Sand is nice but what is it without the ocean or the ocean with sand?
You could plunk an alpine mountain down into a desert and then what?
The delicate ecosystem will not survive for long and then you have desert.

And what of literature, poetry?  What is its substance made of in the end?
Metaphors, meter, rhythm, rhyme, imagery, assonance, alliteration,
Words, phrases, stanzas, tone and form, ideas expressed to eke out the essence.

How do we construct a poem?
Poetry doesn't have to make sense,
But we want it to.

It is that which drives me
It is not hardheadedness
Although it has been called such
It is, rather, a stick-to-it-ness
That guides me to never give up
A dogged determined outlook
Which tells me not to stop
Because ultimately all will be okay

You dope
To push the envelope.
I'll throw no rope.
You need to learn to cope
Or stop acting foolish.

Yellow scents the page
With many decades of age.
When gingerly pried open
The dry binding creaks.

Inside grows a faint mold
And it spreads in streaks
Across the brittle folds
Within the pages crease.

Cloudy wafts of odor, light
Hang buoyant in the air,
Like so much lost knowledge
Folded within its pages there.

Now is the time to
"Break glass in case of emergency"
Anybody got a hammer?

Time traveling is possible, a river said.

Traces of lives left behind in multitudes,
Bones and jewels beneath the mud,
Bent and buried blades, buttons, cufflinks,
Pipes, and dress pins upon dress pins.

The backdrop of so much history
As the Thames flows on through the
Land and hearts of Londoners.
A witness to thousands of years.

Each tide reveals historic artifacts
On the changing foreshore.
An unwritten record of discovery.
It is the city's longest archeological site.

Modern mudlarks find the clues to its use
Across the city, across the ages of time,
As a transport artery, a connection to the gods,
A source of sustenance, or a place for dumping.

Mudlarks of the mid-19th century were
“Compelled from utter destitution to seek
For the means of appeasing their hunger
In the mud of the river.”

Today mudlarking is a hobby, relaxing, fun,
But generations of the young to the old sought
Lumps of coal, rope, bones, iron, or copper
– anything that could be sold.

Time, the river, and its people are survivors.

I tell you,

This life, it takes and takes;
Of this, we all must get a grip.

With each new birth, I tore apart,
With gaping cervical rips.

And though I fed you long ago,
No longer can I hold you to my breast;

For now, is the time that you must go
And stand upon two legs.

I tell you, go, you must nourish yourself.

I borrowed a fabulous line used by Meira Love and changed the tone a bit.

Between a season
Warmer than autumn
Softer than summer
More temperate than winter
You lie ahead

A warmth of blood deep within;
Velvet-smooth linings, cradle
Precious life therein.
Whose choice, this vessel?
Before this seed is planted
We must decide who has the right
To this life inside.

Unmoored from reality
You never intended to listen
Idiots piled into your tiny boat
Set adrift in a vessel but
Was never meant to float

One rules above the doomed
Chaos kings and queens all fools
These thought they co-ruled
All paper tigers wadded waste
Who thought they could drive

As these blackout-drunks steer

Until the cycle
Of co-dependencies is broken,
It will always be like that.
But, keep doing the work,
For you can arrive at a place
Where love no longer hurts.

Their eyes
Are glazed over
With their hate,
Thick scales formed.

The voice of reason
Becomes hoarse
Stripped raw
From strain

As sanity died.

Either my poems will speak for themselves
Or speak for me, no matter, given voice
Let them fall upon eyes, and ears, and hearts.

I was never here.
You never saw me.
Mums the word.

If we were in one of those old British shows
I would lay my finger next to my nose.

With a brief tap
You’d know that
I was incognito.

I watch a line of birds move in sync
As if they are sketching an eyebrow
Across some heavenly maiden's face.

As the sun slowly rises on the horizon
Its color daubs on her face and cheeks.
The clouds become her apple cheeks.

The sunrise palette paints her pink
And a fiery sun rises to becomes
The tint for her pouty full lips.

Higher the sun rises in the sky, and
Filters streams in waves of golden hair
With long locks about her comely face.

So long as we keep that child-like quality
Of the innocence to see the things unseen
We are enabled with a sense of wonderment

And the ability to see the world anew,
To imagine, to dream, to continue on
In the persistence of hope.

She is new mown grass,
A butterfly’s gentle caress
On a blushing rose bud.

She is the scent of fresh pine
Wafting through warmer climes,
As refreshing as morning dew.

She is like the yellow-green shaft,
Blades of picked sweet grass
Held within one’s teeth.

Sweeter than a baby's breath,
She is the sparkle in lovers’ eyes,
The essence of every beautiful song.

They walked into the booth
“Pulled the lever,” pull out their gun
Then shoot themselves in the foot

And hobble away.

Now these days, as they slap themselves
Upside the head it is heard them say,
"I could have had a V8!"

When I was a child thistles grew in the countryside
And we both ran wild across the green
Me on legs, it sends out seeds and systems of roots
Yes, the thistle intrigues me with its stately air, and

Even as a child, I would lie nearby to study it;
It with its bold, untouchable beauty standing
On hollow strong stem holding its pink head proudly
I had not realized it was connecting to a Scottish soul

When the mowers came and crossed its path
I would find them butchered among the grass
And pause to examine just how tender
This vulnerable, this seemingly iron-clad plant

Touch-me-not, better left free, for one cannot hold
The prickly beauty to one's breast nor remain unharmed
If enticed by its charm to grasp its prickles and thorns
When cut it quickly dies, thus you must love it from afar.  

I know people like that
My desire remained strong and I have longed
Merely to be near this wild ephemeral creature
For the air is sweetest where the thistle grows.

I thread the silken thoughts and notes
Weaving as I go like whispers
In a darkened room, in and out
The phrases go like shadows
Like broken lullabies sung off-key
I search for something no longer in me
Then, rock myself to sleep.

Hair in braids hanging down,
The Sun in rays shining all around,
Glimmers and shimmers on skin so fair
And glows upon my long dark hair.
Bare feet tread on soil rich and brown
Pattering along as they touch the ground.
The softest air in rhythm is growing
With scents of ocean breezes flowing
To a blue haze above the lofty mountains.
This is where my heart will be soaring
'Or mounts, oceans, 'n watery fountains.

You have made mistakes, and
You've let me down in the past.
At times I have been
Disappointed in you deeply.

But you have made heroic efforts
To change and to grow,
To become a better person.
In time I have come to know

That I can finally trust myself.

My grief lies below the 6-foot mark.
Yet, my hope rises above that depth
Where there are many hands to hold.
I recall that hope is an anchor for the soul.
And then I come to understand and know
That I can endure almost anything.

I could forgive you just about anything,
My precious one.
The sun will still rise in the sky,

And my heart-wound will heal
My eyes will dry.
But we will all be changed by careless acts,

And never be the same.

You ******* a kiss from across the room
Boom

I catch it in my hand, but it escapes to the moon
Too soon

I reach for you as you draw near
No fear

I know we are tethered even if we stretch
It far

You rubber-band back to me
See

Later we get into our car
Drive

Then like a wisp of fog
Disappear

Dissipating into each other
Forever together

Succeed

I love you.
I do not like dancing around that thought.
It rattles like a pebble in my brain.
It becomes a stone in a wall of the insane.

But I love you and I am fraught.
What to choose?
The possibilities of me and you
Solidifies the brickwork of a windowless room.

I love you to my own doom.

The foreshore
is where
The mudlarks go
To search
For finds of the past.

Back bent, head forward
they stroll along
In quiet meditation
Lost in reflection
Seeking treasures lost, then found.

Bringing 'past' into 'present', and 'future'.

A sun the color of a bellini only neon was on the rise.
And it was well on its way to beautiful!  What a sun!

It was swimming in a pool of extra cherry in the O.J.

The world goes round and who knows when the start was.
It's just another day waiting for Paradise.

I'm not counting time, just making time count.

Clicking off the precious days of life,
And I'm having fun.  All the while knowing

My Paradise will soon come.

We give and give of ourselves.
Without thought or reservations,

Without hesitation,
- we give.

In giving we are loving, deeply
As we drink from the well of life.

It is our inner strength that allows
- this caring.

Caring for others certainly, but
- first for ourselves.

That is where the gift lies,
- and that is how

We get our power back.

I see your sunlight
Through clouds
Before I see a sun

I smell your rain
Before I see it
Falling on flowers

I see the greening
Of leaves and grass
As you bloom, and

I wonder, what else
Do you hold out
In wonder for me

The walls of this ragged world
Are too thin, and I, with ear hear,
Listening through the thin plaster,
Do not like what I am hearing.
Someone, please call a repairman.

I see your beautiful mouth as you edge forward.
Your lips open, almost caressing the mic
And then honey pours out.

Your lyrics curl around those sitting here
Like smoke from a lone cigarette in a tray
And bind us all together.

Eyes close with tender inflection
Dragging us into his pain, again and again.
The music ends and his pain is gone

But will resurface the next time he sings.

I glanced out and there he was
Sleeping like a bug in a rug
On the hard cement ledge.

Where has he been, my homeless man?
Hospital, jail, a shelter for a change?
I was just getting accustomed to him gone.

But there he is once again in my purview.
Oh, the drama, to see a being always sleeping.
How could he have caused me such worry.