consuelacooks

cooking, poetry, and unapologetic intense moments in a life

Category: National Poetry Month

Dreaming big, and dainty, winsome, poet-honey.

Sometimes its the sound of it. The way it drags across skin, sand and other deterrents
Sometimes its the perfect way it slides into spots, unaware
Sometimes its the way it shoves down into the horizon, plowing day into inky black
Sometimes its the way it slows me as a walk out Midtown door in morning time

Last night I dreamt of someone next to me
In t-shirt sheets whispering instructions
On how to get to Mexico. It wasn’t so very far.
Completely unlit we only shared territory and exhalation
Wilting blue covering head neck chin and so forth
We vaulted the window with unseen pinions,
Alighted in some desert place.
I could see who it was then.

I was surprised you followed me here.
My compromise for Mexico was justified and
the scorpion dancing the jig, told me
we didn’t have far to go
You picked a far off orange tree for rest
And my palm was traced by your forefinger, unique
“-comer de mi boca, comerme mi peligro.”

It was a subtle kiss when it landed. Thirty seconds or more
We were less than an inch lip to lip.
Then the distance closed,proximity was everything
It tasted of three things:
ice, lime and sweet honey.
You whispered a small prayer, there, over my eyes
some Latin ditty meant to seduce
( Your hands rested in chastity on my sunburned knees)
(My hands, aching, did not rest, but remain good at heart).
When my lids lifted back over my eyes, of course, you were gone.
Gone to some other dream, I suppose.
Ginger, freckled, Sandman.
And again I was in some foreign place filled with wet trees
And fog like fingers, alone.
The sun was makin his descent, and I heard some creature moan for moon

Call me back. I ‘m gonna be baptized
By that rain, hold it holy, like the Grotto, in my hands
and pray for economic mercy, digging in the dirt mercy,
medicinal mercy, theatrical mercy
I’m gonna burrow my black head into those metabolic fantasy trees
I’m gonna have to be sucked
sucked into that river again
where I have to swim for light
where I have to find my feet, lashes, breasts
again.
skin brown, freckles ablaze, muscles sore, time snarled
and tree after tree after mountain after hipster after hippie after sea to shining sea after California, Oregon, Mount Saint Helen’s, Memphis, Portland, Chicago oh

Oh, oh.
I’m with you
I’m with you
I’m with you in charred remains of great lands
I’m with you in bunk beds
campfires, estranged houses
under those crazy stars with the bugs that light in symphony for us
splash me in that rain, get me wet up to my hazel eyes in it
drown me in what is right in front of me,
teach me angel ways
Cataclysmic lovers, poets, carnal midnight madmen
I love you
(And god’s fingers are here
lipsticked in drag-queen red,
howling a sticky ballad
every celestial vein)
(And those crazy Thracians!
Philomel in her hut,
having those things done that he did
and then  all becoming those crazy birds)

Maybe we can do that
become those birds– when we get the nights back,
When the explosions stop.

Just so you know,
the house in our dream was made of glass,
each several window blown sugar,
each strand of sugar spider webs,
each web the finest dew line,
each dew line the stuff of dreams
I have the smell of it by my bedside,
It produced tributary tears in the getting of it,

To report an outage, call quickly.
And wait. Wait.
It will assemble. And things will be free of bands of paper, case, and cage.

But I knew it was you, Velour bottomed and cat cradled
vehicular comrade and cloud kissed
Street sweeper of The brave new world!
You spoke in tongues and the bribes were left unanswered
And the bush burned and tomorrow came
And I tasted hope metallic on Soft palette
It swam with so many other sweet things
The treble of your solitude suicide in my ear, your eager million dollar hands on my face, the halo of pursuit in the covers, the dim light of morning and
Beethoven only a whisper and a promise away.
This was the stuff that the cinema can’t even catch
It housed too much paint and long fire to be funnelled into in any dark room
It canvassed a field somewhere in some land sans gravity, eloquence, and
Free of heat and cold where rivers run pure plasma attacks and fish leap to the sky

And
Just
Keep
Going going was the night in the way of the bells and the grand ball
Where ladies dance and Gatsby he watches and documents from a balcony somewhere
And you and I took our time
We took it and woke up alone with possibility in our beds
hope on our porch
light, that blue light, los latidos del corazón,

the light of what you touch is what we have,
air we heave,
world we grab: mashed in dirty fingers, stuck in beards, lost in sheets
The here and the danger,the four days,the sound of a whisper
Etched here
in blues

on the palm

of my hand.

 

Dress Up

There are a lists of requests

which might sway the unseasoned–

the tireless cautionary ones– from

quick approach

the thought of dress up, the tick of a impatient dream clock

caesarean  ambition, jazz records, the evening wake and walk.

surges of disquisitive early-morning play.

 

perhaps it would be the penumbras

that lovingly sit in the most hazel portions

of each eye that would glance in each several moment.

 

Each has a story one must be willing to weather.

 

(Caveat: I’m far more enticed by being quieted by yours.)

Tell me your stories when I wear your clothes

and call you pretty

and take tasteless pictures of sunsets

while we swim in Gin.

Tell me on a Sunday, and don’t wish me any paler.

Wish me sunk in the sight of you.

 

There is room.

Of that, now, I am sure.

 

 

Tue 222

This morning I gave up bewilderment.

Took new snow in bare hands, wiped clean.

Skyward gazing, seeing the brown of morning eyes.

 

It has been four hundred years.

Since in the histrionic ante meridiem

You, compunctious , penitent, shame faced

Sold me the snake oil

that gave salve for the emboldened heart

acclimatized my expectation

resurgence of disquiet

I held my heart in my hand and ate of it

(creature in a desert, naked, bestial)

 

One can’t help but remember, though

On a sweet January day

that concave part

beside the basket of ribs–the alabaster crevasse

(You showed it me)

perhaps where you kept your wishes and desires

Your conjecture

Your bliss

Your ecstatic posturing, feral

your violence and ignominy,

the sound of your voice in deep midnights.

 

Or better yet, the names and numbers of the snowflakes that would fall

in eulogy

the day you walked away.

 

It’s all so dramatic, she said.

The Whole lot.

Something comes of nothing and then, bother, bother

the whole place erupts in glamour. Clamour

erupts in the sunshine, the moonshine, the deep seated egress

-the bible of those two.

Oh, those volumes spoken in glances were so very tiresome

for two as timid as trees, windless.

 

It’s all so ecstatic, she said

The sole shot

Something comes of nothing and then, Farther, farther

The whole grace disrupts in armor, stammer

disrupts sin, confine, consign, maligning sleep cheated confession

-the bible of those two

No, shows volumes long broken in chances were so very dire, mums

the word, for two as livid as leaves, flightless

 

It’s all so climactic, she said

The blood clot.

That effortless bruise, the reminder of all that was, is– holy.

The prayer in tongues older than sound

more revealing than sight,

larger than the space a girl occupies

achromic, melancholy,

 

naming the planets, each for a sigh.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

NOPOMO 13 or God, I want my lobster

Image

Miles to Go

Each patch of skin
Is inventoried
All the stories that arrive with a touch

Tell all the nasty natal secrets
The preternatural longings, naïve mistakes, wild worldly wisdom
Anomalous wantings

Every inch has a history
They are all named and numbered and filed away
Shoved into memory
Without exception, forever locked
In my bare bones

Most steps I take sing a song of you
And I don’t even know your name.

NAPOMO day 12, or Dad

WSM

It happened so slowly, like erosion
Or some other process that wears away
Even the most minute of characteristics
Without so much as a warning

Little by little you became faint as you fell away
It seemed like years before I realized you were missing
Somewhere on the couch you occupied
You spirit gave in to deep gravity

It sank in some half world
Some retreat for the lost
A haven for the iniquitous, the abandoned, the abased
I never saw you again.

So I grew and grew
Became a woman with strong hands and fierce heart
For better or for worse knowing who I am, where I came from
I can even tell the direction of the wind on some days

Some days I think of your crooning voice
Your particular tastes
And how I must have smelled
When, as an infant you sang me to sleep.

NAPOMO day 11 or ode to a prince, not yet arrived

Ode to a prince, not yet arrived
-Carmen Mandley

Wanting to see your face
Forty years from now
Reminds me that were I not getting old
The requested amount of time would be around sixty
Or eighty.
But the part that is the best parts of all of the parts
Is that I will be able to name and number
Your sweet wrinkles
For the planets and worlds
That travel through your miraculous spine
And settle soft on those eyes
That light on me when I speak your name
In a lover’s language
Every day
For the rest of all of the days.

NAPOMO Nine or Delilah never went to the dance hall

Image

Secondo Posto

With a shake of hips and a lick of promise
He encased her mouth with dark kisses
The dance hall, a ghost town

Lights dim
He could not tell the difference for once
In tequila haze

Were it not for the daisies painting her black locks
He would not have come to
Not have realized
No memory of Lila would have come
He wouldn’t have walked away from the angelo puttana
She would have fit the bill
She would have served a turn, you know.
But he had to step away. Just for a look.
Then off he went into the night alone.

You see, Delilah only wore
The pure purple
Of crocus lilies
In cappeli neri

She smelled of the freshest beets
Dug from tart earth
Knees, knocked, severe and lovely.
She spoke of God and men, and sweet, sweet babies
(The ones who would miss her after the fever)
She dreamed of Afric, Canaan, and tremendous storms.
She spoke his name in her secrets
And called to him each morning to pray
She was sweeter than a mango kissed with the sun-

And her hands were stained with rain.

napomo day eight or nothing is certain

Image

V.

Adeline came through water in Hyde Park Gate that day.
(Wet, screaming jumble of blood and bones)
Straight into the world
(One awash with blank pages.)
Water would be the theme, it seems.
Did she know as she penned that manifesto for women?
Was it plain to her?
Did she know that when the rusty cage freed her
She would return to the River Ouse?
If so, she waited until the words ran out.
When she knew it was time
When all she could write
Was a simple note to her weary, quiet love
After he left her toast and tea and went walking in Sussex
A few particular phrases
And some praise
No heroes or lovers, but a truce
A certainty on that balmy day in March

A great truth became as soon as it was applied to paper
It rested for release while she collected rocks for her pockets
“Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness”
Blood and bones, she went in
Blood, bones and all

napomon day six?

Image

Joan (Things people say)

Awash with joy
She climbed to the top of green hill
Aching for a better look
As the siege laid claim to the soldiers

She watched carefully as each
Several comrade
Was slain one by two by five
Lambs, she thought, to the slaughter

The Godly messages betrayed her that day
Prayer couldn’t find her lips
Without words the world crumbled
The only thing left to do was ignite and wait for rain, possibly

Or for a more experienced messenger
To wind her in words more reliable

The Gods said Whoopsie. Na Po Mo Da Thre

ImageThere were three surges that day.

One, a great love.
The kind of legends.
The kind that harbors back breaking mischief in corners.
The kind that leaves two weary.
The kind where finger bruises are the thing
and food becomes tertiary to sleep and more making of the love.

Two, a great tidal wave
Encompassing town,
Beast
And burden alike.

Three, a great fire
Hovering above water and love.
Floating free on the blanketed town
And the lovers
lost under the sea.
It signaled to the Gods,
somewhere above
-the slate was clean.
That it was time to come in and redecorate.

So the Gods went bowling that day. They drained it all dry and cleared the wreckage. Made the graves and buried all lost. Planted lovely trees. Built mansions of gold. Revamped the sky and the sea to cleaner shades of blue. Washed the air with reeds of lavender. Said prayers to larger Gods to protect this Mecca, this land of promise.

And they waited.
First with sublime patience.
Each moment ached with anticipation.
A tantalizing task for the all-powerful.
The sun would plummet from the painted sky each day, exactly as planned.
The moon complied with schedules, waning and waxing like the best of them.
But nothing howled.
Nothing required rain.
All stayed feverishly still for three hundred thousand years.

The Gods were sad, despondent
Overwhelmed with sweet grief the moment it dawned on them
You see, the grievous error had become apparent.
The Gods were out of luck. They knew when they heard it.
On that balmy Sunday.
The sound.
The only sound.
The moving air came from the song.
The song that wafted up to the Gods.
The first song they had heard in three hundred thousand and one years.
This was the only sound to ever be heard again.
It came of the hollowed, barren ghosts of the lovers.
A simple song that spoke of a love lost to a terrible flood.
A song that remembered flesh and tooth and secrets.
An aching ditty that spoke of requirement.
A foreboding tale that spoke of an island never to see life. Never again.
Until hand by hand the lovers could eat each other whole like almonds.

As the Gods became aware of this error, this love extinguishing blow they issued,
They tried to make good on the deed.
But as their luck had run out, they saw.
Oh, did they see.
How immortal they had made the lovers.
How this song was punishment, penance and purgatory.
How this would become the way
The way to worship
The way to plead
The only vernacular for communication in a still, subtle world of no breath at all.

The terrible loop of lost love made half world shamed the Gods.
They begged for mercy as the specters searched in vain
For lover’s kiss that would never, never come.
A musical moaning filling each moment,
Each breath
Each godly sigh.

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