Saturday, December 26, 2009

The Wind in Her Hair and Something That Has Nothing to do with Cooking

Her lipstick is gone
dotted on coffee cups and napkins
her mascara, eyeliner and shadow
worn in the wind, washed away.

Her skin stands bare
stripped from it, all the things that,
she would believe, would make her more beautiful;

only nature defines her now,
highlighting her cheeks with the rosiness only a cold wind can purvey
her eyes sprinkled with light freckles
and her brow kissed by the gentle sun

what remains now is a countenance
that would make my heart beat for the first time

she is living,

Dreaming of a meal,
wrapped in paper and string
waiting for the love and flame
that would come, once a familiar hand
pulls the door open and the light comes on.

Soon sweet smells of onion and olive oil,
butter and lemon dance together, dotting the air
just above the pan.

Diced this and that now enters,
bounding from the board to the steaming range
color and texture form

cream swirls and swoons
making potatoes soft and smooth;
rosemary and basil dot the milky white.

The dream progresses and the sounds of
clanking pans, and thumping, chopping, knives increase;
the hands are becoming frantic, frustrated
and the ingredients keep multiplying

it seems that too much has entered the pan
the potatoes boil over
and the steam becomes thick, black, smoke.
The sauce is breaking.

Swift footsteps approach from behind
and second set of hands dash from spoon to panhandle,
knife to ladle and the flames calm,
the potatoes reduce their froth
and the sauce renders

The second pair of hands now come near,
covering the first, interlocking and stroking gently;
like the flames, the panic dies down
and the light turns off.

The dream ends, eyes flutter open
and the two pairs of hands lay between them
still interlocked.

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Rain, Desire, Adventure, and Love

Rain has fallen silently in the night.
it has come and gone, whisked
from my windowpane,
by a swift wind
and now some distant desert country is
suddenly moist and cool.

I am unaware of this
save a small feeling of content
in the back of my head,
the remnants of rainfall on my path
and the prevailing wind.

But the rain is due for another show
and along this trail the wind changes once more
darkening the skies
like cocoa powder dropped into
the pearlescence of milk.

The air is dancing about me-
harsh bits of pebble
skittering along a red rock road
and the distant barking of an unsheltered
dog scratching at a back door.

Storms breed unease in many
but this day, this moment, I'm smiling
for the cool moisture drawn from
the swaying trees is licking at my face
and the warmth of drink still remains
tucked inside of my coat.


A cigarette glows
and the Countess reclines further
into the

She is staring through you
her gaze is blazing with
greater fire than the smoking thing
in her lips
and you feel the heat slowly moving
from your head to toe.

On cue, a silver tray floats in
and the smell of single malt libation
wafts from a set of crystal,
clinking slightly as it's set
the room.

Your eyes never break gaze
as you stroll towards your life preserver
hoping that with the slug
you'll manage to remain afloat
in her stormy eyes.

After you've downed the third
you make your way to the arm of her chair
pulling out your own brand and
as you set it in your lips
a lighter snaps on just below
her face is

Pausing to see her face
in the lighters flickering light
you are made aware of every hair
on the back of your neck
man overboard.


He sits in a rich velvet chair
surrounded by the blue haze of pipe smoke
and the walls lined with books, are barely visible.

The gentile whir of a phonograph in the corer
announces it's journey to the next song and
as the silence breaks,
filled with the gentile scraping of strings,
he settles into the next, worn, page.

Despite his plush perch of velvet
and the delicacy of the music
his eyes are wide with horror;
sweat dots his brow, and his fingertips
are white grasping the binding.

The smoke, books and chair
are nothing to him now as he
flashes down the Amazon river
spear and darts blurring by his pith.

The natives are restless.


Hundreds gather
swaying to the swing of a big band
high heels dart by, spats embrace shined shoes and
legs rush in and out of a great club.
Conversation is growing thicker than the london fog
just outside.

The brass section is waving,
great golden instruments glinting
in the light of a stunning crystal chandelier
casting it's rainbow of color across the hall;
the smell of champagne
hangs in the air.

In the middle of the floor
a single white dinner coat and
a captivating, red gown float in small circles
drawing the eyes of the high society crowd
their slander slows
and only the gasping of lonely hearts is heard.

They two are separate, unaware of the room
dancing on a private plane;
her face is still,
her gaze is fixed
and her smile is all the music he needs.
The light dims and a soft spotlight is upon them;
casting a moon-like glow,
highlighting their love.

The band has fallen silent,
no notes could compliment
and any great solo would be lost
for only deaf ears remain.

The couple dips and trots,
spins and tightly embraces
and, when the music in their hearts comes to an end
they each bow
and walk off
hand in hand.