Burning Butterflies

These butterflies glow with a cold blue heat
that sets all the bones afire.
They rise from behind the solar plexus
and from the space just between the hip bones
spreading outward upward downward inward again.
Feel them alight in the knuckles of the hands;
the roof of the mouth
the knees, the soles of the feet,
everything burning airlessly.
Eyes may well up water
enough to drown Vesuvius, rescue Pompeii
and avail nothing
to quench the flutter of glowing tissue wings
confusing the heart’s steady rhythm
and suspending breath in the throat.

Well, happy Valentine's Day, everyone—

Today's all about The Romance, isn't it? Depth can wait until tomorrow morning.

 It can be a lot of pressure, trying to affix feelings to a single day. For me, this is my grandmother's 

birthday. But I wouldn't refuse any honest gestures, would you?

If you've had butterflies over someone, you know how this feels. 

If you haven't, I hope this one helps you understand someone who has.

Love, always,

Kathryn M.

74. "Parsque est meminisse doloris."

I cannot side with our friend Will in this:

That lively form of life is but the dross.
In memory’s cup’s a sweet, and anguished kiss—
Alas, your Love remembered, so your Loss.

Over the last two days, there's been a good deal of conversation

following the death of a well-known singer, with whom I happened to share a birthday.

I'd like to offer this response to Sonnet 74 of W. Shakespeare, to honor the memory of that voice.

The Flowering Desert

When, after a long dry spell,
a cloudburst breaks over the Mojave,
for days afterward
the sand is dotted with color,
tingles with tiny exquisite blossoms,
and desert insects move busily among them.
Two weeks hence,
the memory of that precious downpour
stirs in the dreams of seeds
resting beneath the shifting grains
as they parch,
awaiting another distant, drenching dew
and barren to a casual eye.

The Girl in the Closet

He kept a girl in his closet for a while,

Warned her it would be dangerous to come out.

“Things might happen,” he said.

“One day it will be safe, but not yet.

I must seek out the dragon and slay it.”

It was fine for a while:

He would visit and talk about life after dragons,

But soon he forgot about her;

She starved and stank.

“Get out of there, will you?” he said.

“You’re smelling up the whole house!”

She had grown so weak by then

She had to be carted out in a wheelbarrow.

blessing: love for a friend

may it be to us each
not shallow, but light
not heavy, but strong
not dark, but deep
not divine, but mystic
not flawless, but true

and may it be to us both
not cautious, but respectful
not silent, but quiet
not solitary, but unique
not eternal, but timeless
not painless, but compassionate

and may it be to us together
not suffocating, but warm
not giddy, but electric
not easy, but free
not chance, but opportune
not costly, but dear
and may it be to us all.

PROLOGUE

I wish you happiness
blazing, radiant, liquid joy
so much that you can't contain it all
so much that it just overflows
in great, deep puddles
all over the universe
and people can't help but slip and fall in
and splash around in it
and get it all over themselves

eros et amor

giving time is
giving love is
being there for
just a moment to say hello is
to say I love you

making love is
making music is
giving something just because
you have something to give or
something to live for

From a Poetry Friend

In my work, I am fortunate to encounter some extraordinary young poets, whose work deserves a look. If you're here now, I hope you'll take the time to give them a gander! To wit:


Broken Filthy Doll
By M.C.

It's hard to admit I was treated like a doll
As I was immobilized and let the game play with my feelings
Worthless when done with, nobody catching me as I fall

My only blame, I knew what I got myself into since the start
Stupid standing behind the glass, labeled "brand new"
Who wouldn't take me, who wouldn't later tear me apart?

I should have known better, dolls don't feel
Dolls are made of hard procelain, but I'm not!
I'm too weak for you; these wounds just won't heal

If I could have chosen a better master
But dolls can't as they don't speak; they're chosen
I'm now broken, nobody seems to care, I'm a disaster

Truth is, I wasn't even treated like one
Dolls have values, take a look at their price tags
I, unworthy, taken for granted, had none

I'm shattered into pieces, broken by filthy hands
So difficult to repair, only time will tell
But now, I'm just a broken filthy doll nobody understands.


A note from the author:
Many women whose emotions have been taken advantage of inspired me to write this poem. Some men don't care about their partners, aside from sex appeal. In this poem, the speaker, who thought she was in love, lost her virginity and was left the night after...She blames herself for not realizing beforehand that any man would want her merely because she was not used by someone else...

A note from the blogger:
I dig the dawning insight that the narrator had thought of herself as a doll before any of this happened, and the implication this holds about the surroundings that educated her self-concept...

(untitled)

look at the trees
they love indiscriminately
the sun warms our backs
as gladly as it warms our faces
and burns as brightly
through the dark of night
as it does in the day

As Above, So Below?

(for C. C.)


Is it the Armature
or the Clay
or the Sculptor

Is it the Author
or the Line
or the Space-Between
or the Page

Is it the Particle
or the Wave
or the Field
or the Observer

Is it the Dancer
or the Step
or the Motion

Is it the Architect
or the Plan
or the Scaffold
or the Bricks
or the Building
or the Builder

Is it the Singer
or the Song
or the Sound
or the Commission
or the Composer

Is it the Beauty
or the Eye
or the Vision
or the Idea

Is it the Boundary
or the Volume
or the Contents
or the Remainder

Is it the Sky
or the Stars
or the Space
or the Spinning

Is it You
or I
or Someone Else

Is it the Words
or the Meaning
or the Utterance
or the Breath
or the Speaker
or the Intention

Is it all of the Above
or Some
or None?

Toolbox Blues

When a hammer’s all you’ve got
every thing looks like a nail.
If a hammer’s the only tool that you’ve got
every little thing looks like a nail. (But I just gotta say)
Getting pounded on the head by you
sho' 'nuff is getting stale.

Here's a lanterne from Greg

 who always seems to get to the heart of the matter:

I 

write these 

poems to 

reveal myself—

Hi.

(untitled)

let’s go out 
and put our palms 
onto the earth 
drain the troubles from them 
and breathe our distress 
into the grass 
then on our backs lie down 
look up at trees 
and smile at sky 

Daisies

Look at you! who smile your simple happiness on all who see you


My blessing on you
Who bless my eyes
So, blessed are all the beings that helped you grow
So, blessed is the soil where you took root
So, blessed the hands between here and there
And so, twice blessed the hands that chose you
And brought you to be blessed.