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m i s c e l l a n  e o u s :   1 9 9 9   t o   p r e  s e n t

sick with beauty (9/26/99)

see the passionate words of others drift by
like so many dandelion seeds
on the breeze on the river
to work me up again
draining the last sad drops because then
i remember the rest of the bottle.
no amount of poetry
can possibly cure me of this
no beauty can possibly soothe
what wound was made once on beauty's account.
bite my tongue and turn my face away
from my own blood in pretty patterns on the page
a wound i keep reopening
just to see the blood flow
a sweet tang to it
like so many breezes on the river.

cantas' magic pipe (12/4/99)

the dripping shower sang me a song
of plink-splish, drop-drop;
chaos theory turned to music...

(plip)

(splash)

i shivered in my towel
and wondered
how it knew i was listening--

(drip-plip-dropdrop)

things happen in the laughing night
that avoid the misunderstanding day.


(untitled) (1/7/00)

beauty is a virus
contagious to touch
so go
and start an epidemic already!!


~*blossom*~ (1/20/00)

we are earth's
flower garden--
as colorful
as prolific
and as frail--
so soak up the sun
and the moon
while you may--
be careful
where you spread
your seed--
and remember
what you think
may be weeds
are flowers too.


imitation (1/24/00)

in vain effort
to mirror the sky
we make oil-slick rainbows
--so like the old gods:
beautiful, yet terrible.
and how can our
Dionysiac revelry
compare to the dance
of the blackbirds?


Verbal: Homage to Dorothy Parker (2/29/00)

A tongue that forms too many words
And does not pause for kissing
Is no friend to the lonely lips
That don't know what they're missing.


Expression (2/29/00)

I abhor clichés
And I hate overspending.
Blackberries on my lips are better
than maple leaves in my hair are better
than cherry blossoms at my door are better
than a scented orchid in a bowl is better
than a rose in my hand is better
than thirteen roses is better
than a dozen.


Eyovah (4/19/00)

Gaia's sun is dancing in the Ram
The Dragon dances now in starry night.
With widespread wings no longer quite so shining
I ride the sunset breeze in mourning flight.

Sound your death-knell keening, Dragons all!
Rival Erin's dreaded banshee wail!
Let no heart remain unstirred or wing be furled
Nor any fail to drink a proud wassail!


patience (5/16/00)

there's someone who gives me
the sweetest of kisses.
I don't know how she does it.

she tells me I love her
and do you know,
I think she's finally right.


Made in USA - Product of Canada (7/18/00)

Twenty-four hundred and eight six point eight
(that's four thousand and one in km)
means that early yet PT in ET is late -
10 becomes 1 in the AM!
It's true that the time travel's nifty
when one's lucky enough to be flying,
but to drive it would just drive me shifty,
and I don't think that I'll bother trying.
You might wonder why I would need to,
why three time zones over I'd roam,
why the prices are always agreed to -
well, wouldn't you want to go home?

I was born in the best of the states
and it's welcomed me many a year,
but my heart has been missing of late
because home is just no longer here.
So every so often I wander
(snoring my way through the plains)
to examine Ontario and ponder
if I really want summers with rains.
I'm annoyed with the French-English medley,
and poutine is a strange-looking mess;
by my standards the winters are deadly,
but it's all part and parcel, I guess.

Out here I just feel like I'm slanted -
a bit off, you know, not so radiant -
an import displaced and transplanted
who might really be a Canadian!


(untitled; inspired by kleinbottle.com) (2000-2001)

To add to dimensions one more,
You just square what you had before.
So if I've got it straight
That the strip's "figure 8",
Is Klein's figure then 64?

Thinking in 4-D is hip,
But it gives my poor braincells a trip.
So I think that I ought'l
Leave Klein to his bottle;
I'll just stick with Moebius' strip.


(untitled) (6/21/02)

slipping around in the world
as I slip between the redwood trees
at last a part of it
and not apart from it
melded into the background
of the living world
unlike the wanderers
that think themselves separate.


(untitled) (5/12/07)

on lapis fringes of my thought
I catch the velvet whisper
of Night's star-sequined cloak
as, stepping through the gate
of Twilight's garden
with the jewel of the Moon
about her throat,
she lights down soft
to dance with us.

 

(untitled) (5/13/08)

it is October, and dark too soon
in the dregs at the bottom
of that barrel called summer.
the breeze from the window
was warmer at first, and now
too chill too fast after sunset;
but it is this faded photograph
and not that wandering wind
that's set a shiver in my skin.


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