Sept 20, 2016: As both Ariel & CC Willow, I am preparing for the upcoming Artists in Action‘s 2016 Paint The Town/Write The Town Show, also in Salem Oregon. Exhibit will be Oct 5 – 29 at the Elsinore Framing and Fine Arts Gallery. I plan to submit both paintings and , as Ariel, poetry.
Reception will be the evening of Oct 5 (night before Westminster opens) and I plan to be there.
I am very pleased with the poems I wrote for the six locations I was able to attend. The Write The Town Poetry Reading, by participating Mid-Valley Poets Society will be Saturday Oct 8 from 3 – 5 pm at the Elsinore Fine Arts Gallery. Come, drink some apple cider and hear Ariel read!
And, yes, the Write The Town poems, like the art, will be available for purchase! All poetry purchases will go to The Mid-Valley Poets Society, a chapter of Oregon Poets Association.
August 12, 2016. Soundcloud has lost my audio files. I will start rebuilding the today. Those poems with an audio file will have their file highlighted as a hyperlink. Clicking on the poems title will open Soundcloud in a separate tab.
These are personal – often exploring roles in interpersonal relationships such as family, friend, lover, enemy.
- crasher (audio available)
- Hardship (audio available)
- sleeping under a storm (audio available)
- Questions (audio available)
- Isn’t It Nice to Have a Friend AKA The Skipper (audio available)
- Words (audio available)
- The Formed Eye (audio available)
- The Greater Sin (audio available)
i don’t like Self Doubt at my party;
he came uninvited,
tagged along with Self Pity,
hid behind its big ego
and slipped in.
didn’t even use protection.
and now, the morning after,
he’s telling me i’m too fat
and why do a let a little thing
like the common cold or bruised ankle
stop me from much needed exercise
as if getting sick was a personal failing.
Self Doubt sits on the couch, scratching it’s belly
and begins to pick, telling me
i should have done something more
than coddle myself all week –
“it obviously wasn’t successful.
you’re still sick –
and look at everything you let slide” –
having chose me, he is now set to prove
i’m not good enough.
according to self-doubt
i’m too fat
i’m too old
i’m too boring
i’m too incapable
i’m too lazy
i’m too …
i’m too busy to listen to him anymore.
he is out the door and will not get the key.
During the first crash,
stockbrokers and their investors
having been stripped of all
jumped to their deaths.
In New York, I once watched a Jill jump
or rather a Jill fell.
The 5th floor of my new building
is based with a ground cushion;
plantings that would treacherously soften the impact.
One could easily get carried away, live another day.
No way to make it to the sidewalk
unless one really threw themselves, took a running start
threw their arms in the air as if to catch it;
an albatross with broken wings trying to fly.
The PAD poetry prompt for April 9 was “under the weather” ..
sleeping under a storm
i see a black mass between me and the door tonight
living and aware, a sentient hurricane;
and dreams of spiders white as bone when my eyes close
i could easily be a tree wrapped in webbing this shivering night
a proverbial ship on the storm
for these crawlers and their fleshy mandibles
perhaps that is why i feel alien legs on my skin -i see nothing
brush nothing, slap nothing – yet still the skittering forays
like raindrops racing down on a window, gathering force
a flashlight will not reveal them, nor a mirror, i tell myself
“don’t turn left”*
it’s an atmospheric system that will pass, a wind bringing
unpleasant temporary guests; this hurricane waits just beyond fingertip
measuring, testing barometric drops and highs of pressure
the air gets thin, it’s hard for lung walls to breathe
and i, also testing measuring, trying to identify friend or foe
wait it out, batten down the hatches, tell myself it
could be phantasm, could be a dream, could be i finally shattered again
a tropical storm drowning an isolated island – they do recur don’t they
it would explain how i feel like i’m wading as i pace the room
or could just be a fallen hair, lying on skin too attuned, too reactive
a thin strand of hair blown, bobbing as the fingers of wind flick at it –
i shed hair all the time – minute variations of atmospheric pressure
blowing strands across my skin –
that would be rational, a logical supposition to explain away
heightened thoughts in the dark, a theory to shine light on …
were i not bundled in my nightclothes and heavy blankets, no skin exposed –
battened hatches, remember –
and the hurricane not lurking there smirking and persistent – i feel
i made no impressive impression, my rationale not
withstanding full gale winds of this inky night –
how did i not notice the numbers on my clock being a tornado sky green
oh i want to sleep – hibernate into non-awareness until it passes – but then
i see bone white legs bloom from between pillows, glittering uncaring eyes …
and i’m sitting again – contemplating –
willing this to dissipate, flow north, return me to becalmed waters or dry land
telling myself it’s not really there isn’t working – and besides
even the flashlight’s beam confirms its swirling and threat
i don’t speak to it, however: what effect has shouting to a storm ever had
on a storm – no, only patience wins out, enduring, waiting it out
in dug-out shelters, even the cats have huddled under the bed
*Yes – Whovians – you are not mistaken. That is a Doctor Who/Donna episode reference I stuck in there.
in the night;
no longer black and white
but shades of gray, And I don’t know the way
back from the deep recesses
of the mind.
Too much time.
Isn’t It Nice To Have A Friend
When feelings boil over
and you get bit by Rover,
When you get mixed up in your roles,
and in your pants you find four holes
(one in a very embarrassing place),
then you find a zit in the middle of your face …
When you find a ripped-out pocket in your coat
(and you no longer have your note),
When your pet tarantula gets free,
and your brother goes crazy
(thinking he’s The Man on The Moon),
and you think you’re going to join him soon …
When, in matrimony, you hope you’ll lose another brother
but instead you gain a sister(with a little brat you end up baby-sitting to boot),
and it seems no-one gives a hoot . . .
Isn’t it nice to have a friend
to whom you can talk to with no end,
Then you can cry on her shoulder
and she’ll say you’re not as crazy as any other
person in the world,
And you can depend on her word
that things will get better soon
(even that Man on The Moon),
She’ll assure you the teeth marks don’t show,
and she gets a needle and sews up each and every hole,
Tell you your face will clear,
and your tarantula is under her chair
(She doesn’t faint or even jump;
her phobia can wait till you’reover your blue funk),
She’ll tell you she’s glad that you’re around
and soon you’re laughing on the ground . . .
Isn’t nice to have a friend?
~Dedicated to my soul sister “Willy Whippor Willow Jr.”
What are they?
What do they mean?
Why are they so
fragile, yet so
They’re so small,
Just little lines
lying next to each other,
just a few of these sticks
has sparked rebellions,
gave birth to
A few words
killed over three billion lives,
almost an entire race,
a few short
A few words!
what is this
The Formed Eye
The fog is in the fir trees,
now dragging its slimy belly
on the bank.
Even the dirt keeps breathing
a small death.
Taken from the ocean,
the river turns upon itself.
in the dark time, an eye
begins to form.
Let us go then, you and I,
the Cambridge Ladies who live in
who never dreamed of incarnate
gaps in time and space,
but of a world of knights,
wizards and Love.
Let us go then to imaginary gardens
with real toads in them.
But the flowering lily pads
are moody, lapping their glossy sides
as if trying to hide
the slightest flaw, but
And the warm eye in the sky
and there is no light.
I knew not that you
had covered my eyes, as
you led me down a path
of twists and turns; a
descent follows, endless and
One must have a mind of winter,
biting clear and cold,
who sees, who steps, who calls in a
blessed rage for order.
When sisters separate, they haunt
each other: you know in
not to sing.
The Greater Sin
I would not
Who am I to
refuse you forgiveness?
I am not better
I have not progressed
more than you;
not if I let
jealously wrinkle my soul,
not if I hold
that is insignificant
compared to losing
that we have shared
through the eternities.
You have begged and begged
in the past months
And I turned you aside
wrapping myself up in the hurt
… and hypocritical righteousness.
Mine was the
that of no mercy.