To Be an Artist

to be an artist
is to dwell in a
world
that does not exist
and yet is more
real
to our consciousnesses
than life itself

Chickadee

chickadee pecking
at the snow
for tiny seeds
the larger fruits
laying scattered
for greater beasts

scones baked in
metal bowls
over wood burning
stove
the simplicity of
hours spent
by friendly face
of glowing ash

The Feel of Foreign Bed

the feel of foreign bed
I try to make myself
lighter
give not into strange
embrace
but instead
give grudging nod
to the posts
that hold my
presence

the feel of foreign bed
exciting like the
anticipation
of a first kiss
I try to loosen my
inhibitions
surrender wildly
to hidden dreams
and crisp sheets

The Forest

the forest
is a lesson
in serendipity
the chance twists
and limbs
that take root
in our minds

rorriM

rorrim a ma i

noitcelfer erem a

pots ohw esoht fo

stnemom niav ni

esoper fo

otni ezag ot

ecafrus yssolg ym

Winter

the snow partially
covers the ground
the way your shirt
slips off your
shoulder
revealing slightly
your barren dormant
skin
but soon little children
will burst through
the skin of the
earth
and your ground too
will yield blooms
as your clothes
fall
to the floor

Blue Eyes

i am a burly
anglo-saxon
woman
with thick wrists
blue grey eyes
like the sky in
England
and a heart that
longs not
to hate
the blue-eyed
devil
in the books
in the mirror

Failure

what good is it
to write
when,



i gave up.

Regrets.

i wrote a list of all
the things
i wanted to do with
people.
i will probably never do
them.
like i never told you
i love you.

i smell smoke on airplanes
like i smell
secrets
in a room

the zipper on my dress
won't shut
and all my secrets
come bursting out

Narrative

in the lines on your face
i can see written
a story
but it may not be
the story you
tell
or mount on the walls
of your
house

Reach

why did my fingers
    stop growing
      when they
        did
          instead of reaching
            out
              so that I could
                touch you
                  so far                                        away

Dress-Up

i play dress-up
with your old
frocks
pretending to jump
into your past
but really i
am trying to
leap
over my present

mennonites eating
ritz bitz
in an airport
taste like the salt
of the earth

Snow

A terror seizes my entire body
When I see the snow
Death places his heavy registrar on my
Heart
And I shudder
Knowing the names
On the latest page
And knowing the blank line
Where lies a faint imprint
Of my name
Where Death erased it
When I released my hands
From my neck
And released a living breath
Into Death's face
Hollow with anticipation
As I lay
Chest heaving
In the snow.

Bathtime Study

i sit enthroned
in a tiny washroom
naked
scrubbing myself
with a frayed rag
my lilly white skin
turning red from the
friction

i look down at myself
scars cover my abdomen and thighs
red streaks in a sky
of white
where dust has broken
the holy fortress

my abdomen is swollen
from forced entry
womb of pain
yes, i carry pain
but when i give it birth
what will it become?

i see the shadowy outline of my breasts on the wall

Scentsibility

We miss so many fragrances
nowadays,
Fragrances futilely masked
with soaps and scents,
dyes and bleaches,
chemicals and perfumes...

Like the smells of nature,
fumes of dirt
mixed with dew on grass,
the musty bark of trees,
enfolded by sweet moss...

Or the miriad scents
aroused on the human body.
The smell of skin caressed by
wind,
or sweat
dripping like strange fruit,
from workers and lovers alike...

These fragrances can never be bottled,
or drowned in cocktails of perfumes,
for they are the tantalizing odors
of life
itself.