This Storm Won't Pass

Getting her words worth, she spins the volume button
till insanely loud becomes the norm, she figures now you will listen
And even better than listening - her desired action - you doing the action part
she doing the resultant 'humph' which suffices for thank you
such that it is - a vast relief - flash floods its silence over all the premises
The howling wind signals her departure by slamming the door
Like bombing victims, we emerge from our fox hole
examine the surrounding damage from kicks and fists
Verbs leave deeper scars than can be immediately seen, don't you know
The walls have survived, changed forever by lashes of tongue and anger
She is gone for now - we laugh and analyze - maybe the result of too much sugar
Or too much indulgence by others - we all know what we know
 What we do not know is what to do with this knowing - we are blind towards action
We throw out 'shoulds' as in she should, they should, we should - into the air
We watch our ideas to see what floats and what does not
Certain in only one thing - we have not seen the end yet
the golden light of realization has not broken through these storm clouds
She does not get 'it' - she does not see - she only knows this way to be

©Frank Coughlin May 2011

Almost

Funny you didn't call back.
I almost didn't want you to.
Almost, like that moment
in the front seat of the roller coaster
when the rest of the train
is still climbing
but you have crossed the top,
have begun to descend
in a still state,
and for that split second
before it becomes exhilarating-
you want it back-
you want off the ride.

© Joseph Brunary May 2011

FuzzY Goddess Riding a Tiger With Too Many Hands

She is a fuzzy Goddess riding a tiger
She has too many hands
I cannot begin to tell you all that is
wrong with this picture
This tiger does not seem happy
For tigers do not carry women
especially ones with too many hands
She must be a Goddess
for I am attracted to her
I wonder what those hands could do
I wonder how she got on the tiger
Mounting seems out of the question
Probably floated down from heaven
Then Tiger looked back and said Oh no not you
not the one with too many hands, oh why me and
why do you have to be on me
Yet if it was me and not the tiger
I would say 'oh yay, she rides me today'
I would hope she did not have a whip
because On my back is where I want her to stay.
Poor Tiger seems in pain, most likely from the strain
Of an eight armed woman riding him in the rain
and thinking come tomorrow, she'll be riding him again
She the glowing Goddess with eight busy hands and nothing to say
He the poor tiger and me the one who happened to be in the way

© Frank Coughlin May 2011

Woodland Dream

Wind gentles its way around
quiet interrupted by the moon
light dancing on the forest floor
of the things that come out in the night
I am one of them. Moonlight reveals me
even in these woods, thick and tall.
I, who is waiting, sit cross-legged in front
of the long dead fire. There is crackle and crunch -
leaves and twigs singing, the song of the approaching one.
Then she is there, besides me, stroking my hair,
whispering in my ear. I have waited for her,
but I do not give in to her charms - she cannot sway me
we both know that, yet she plays her game to the end move
A lesser man would go mad with desire, charmed by fairy magic
to his mortal end - this fate is not mine nor will it ever be.
She comes when I come - to the forest where we meet -
the crossroads of worlds, hers and mine - was here
we once merged, our hearts joined and magic was made,
was here she found her match in the mortal frame
was here she found her twin flame.
She has finished her dance of allure, her wordless speech,
showing me all I could have and would have if only . . .
But it is not today that we will end together, she knows that
but she is elemental, fairy and musk, she has to dance this dance
she has to present her gifts, raw and naked that they be
she has no choice but to do her best.
At last, she ends and sits across from me - meeting my eyes and knowing
that I sit here once again to remind myself of her even if today is not
the day of my going. I kiss her with my eyes and then I rise
with heart filled by seeing this joyful and mysterious one.
The wind lifts up and fly I must back to bed where my body rests.

My Zen World

A day like any other day
a day to start me on my way
another step in an eternal path
Being is the hardest thing,
a choice wrapped in responsibility,
do I swear, do I smile, do I enjoy
the rose is either too red or too pink
That is what I think, that is my world
What I feel, what I know, my creation
my attitude - it is always with me
coloring perception, dyeing my view
It is the only thing I really do

Base Nothing

Tao tells me quite the clearly way

Blank slate is what you were way back when

the day you were born for the first time

when time was a twinkle in God's eye

growing is what we do - now and then

adding to the nothing we once were - until the day

we learn that nothing is better than something

©Frank Coughlin May 2011

The Science of Forgetting

Let us all be business-like cold and calculating, precise and prompt
We know what we want
we know how to get it
there is merely three steps to be taken
in due time, one after the other.
Time tested and well worn, the formula is familiar
Isolate the problem - tell her you need space
time to think things out, that sort of thing
Apply the Anti-dote - give her freedom for
some new things, sky is the limit, as long as they don't involve you
You are too busy bustling, picking up prospects and testing
Above all testing, for this is the solution
finding the right formula, finding the right one
Somebody who will give you all those things that are overdue
(you know what they are -  things she will never do)
the things that drive you crazy - the things that make you ache
Step three, the step that comes so easily to some, so hard to you
because you are sensitive to others, empatheticly pathetic
this is the step of all steps - you must put your foot down
Now pretend -
Nothing ever happen
Two souls destined to be entwined forever
Never did.
She touched your soul and made you think of heaven - NOT
No way, never met you, never did those things so deep
never ever sat down by your grave - never did weep.
Fake It Till You Make It and wipe it all away
Time takes everyone, bleaches their stains
leaves nothing but ash then wind takes that too.
Now it is done - we has become I - the only one.
 © Frank Coughlin May 2011

After the Dance

After the dance is done
she lingers, casually flitting
her feet defy the convention
that home is now the place to be

They, those that made the music
pack up lightly talking amongst themselves
scarcely noticing the waif waiting just beyond
their reach - it is because she allows them room

busy packing, making and taking inventory, does it all fit
She does not notice their wives - waiting, drinking, smoking without smoke
unlit cigarettes twirling - she does not care
It is not them she is in love with - it is the magic they bring
with instruments and voice - the movement of her being
the energy of flow, floating up and down and around
Rhythm, just rhythm - no blues - blues got left standing by the wall

She does not know it - she does not care
she is seduced by the spell that was here tonight
special magic made by men, machines and angels
there had to be angels for sound so rare
Her feet are dancing, even as the floor becomes bare
Solo, she is the last one there

One Night

Moonlight on foreheads
still wet from rolling in the grass
the air is chilling ever so slightly now
an excuse to share the warmth of each other
Don't even bother thinking of tomorrow - your hands are wrapped up in her today
Her eyes are forever, pulling you closer, her lips meet you half-way
there is a melting of form or at least how you used to define yourselves
you ended at your fingertips, you ended at your toes
but no more - your limits have opened and you feel one
together, a merger not a take-over,  a link with eternity as in no boundaries
you two feel and are part of the same - union
the buzz is electric - it is as if you are insanely huge - you swear you can touch the sky
and it touches back - whoa boy, whoa girl - what have you done - magic I am sure

A New Day, An Ordinary Day

Nothing strikes you quite as hard as Ordinary
The word has a sting all its own
similar to but not quite the same
as Royalty looking down their noses
pointing in utter repulsion - Common
is what they label what does not fit
their rarefied elitist views of what is proper
yet what is common to me
is supernatural to you
what is common to you
is awesome to me
Nothing out of the Ordinary
I say then proceed on my way
My Sun is rising - another new day
My Ordinary is calling
 in an extraordinary way

Flowering Madness . . .

Flowering Madness
manifesting a-bun-Dance of fireflies flickering in broad daylight
High noon pestils pontificating powdery dreams swept upon wild winds
while we watch wistfully waiting for our turn
Tu-Lips place themselves one upon another sharing the moment and what cares they find there
Pet-tun-E-ah particulates perfume moodiness modulating between nothing and not
Puppy rambles out of sight - it is time for chasing - cat-ch ME(ow) if you can
Fortune calls right around the corner but not quite in site, out of stock(ing), pillow casing
the view ---->>> Rarify this feeling and distillate the ground - nothing holds me down
and off
I go

Not So Plain Plein-Air Outing

purple petunia bedecked

in royal gown with lacy hem

tiny dark veins embroider

the soft lavender petal

a painter’s delight, indeed

yet, I’m deterred from

my mission as

whirlybirds swirl, landing

in my hair soon joined by ants

who crawl up my legs

in steady formation.

bug species unidentified

saunter bravely on my paper

adding signature text to wet

paint, becoming martyrs

to my process

of painting outdoors.

        By Beverly Bronson copyright May 2011

You Wrote That

You wrote that
you were lonely that
she was gone that
time was dragging that
meant you were bored that
sometimes you think she should have stayed over that
night but of course she came to her senses when she saw that
your attention was divided (like a ready to serve apple pie that
is cut in six pieces) between her girlfriend that
should not have been there, but there she was over in that
corner, sipping a beer, looking perky and how could you resist that
temptation, even if it is only in the mind - that
should not have come between you two because that
was a secret that
you would never tell her because that
would be too cruel a betrayal, especially when you consider all that
you two have been through. But enough of all that
you were just hoping that
she would see your note posted or get your email or listen to the voice that
you left on her phone. You want her back because she is all that.

Bad Poetry - a bad poem about Poetry

This is a poem as simple as can be

This a poem about poetry

When something needs to said

tactfully please - we use poetry instead

Poetry is a place tranquil and serene

yet also dangerous and mean

In poetry, we say what we mean meant

allusion, metaphor, and language disguise intent

We rhyme because we think it is easy

like riding a roller coaster and getting queasy

Poetry is the stuff of song

lyrics and chorus stuck in our head all day long

Poetry is tedious and precise

meter and feet and checking it twice

Poetry is rant and rave

confessional - things we should have kept silent to the grave

Poetry is political and fiery and fierce

Spoken from the mountain top - at hearts to pierce

Poetry is personal, tender and dear

kept private to keep from thinking your queer

Your poetry is yours, your way is the right way

That is unless you want your poems to earn their pay

then you have to do them their way - the publishers that is

which is the subject of whole 'nother thesis

AfterShocks

It is never enough to be rocked
so hard the ground beneath you seems unstable
like standing on a funhouse floor at the carnival
Your life feels all out of place, around you
everything has been shifted into an uncomfortable change
The porcelain elephants you so meticulously collected
from seventeen different countries and thirteen states
have jumped from their perch on the southeast wall
the place where they could be seen the easiest and best
Seven of them did not survive. They cannot be replaced -
as there is no going back in time (not yet anyway) .
It is like this in every room of which I have called my home.
 The feeling of surety has been shaken loose
as if it were only something I had tacked on to cover up
reality. Is there a point to putting back everything to
the way it was? The elephants are my answer, I re-place them again
in their special nook and I wait.
For the earth's answer - which I know will come.

©Frank Coughlin May 2011

Always, You Linger Near

I am painting daisies today, one
petal at a time, and thoughts of you
linger between each brushstroke,
I hope heaven is treating
you well. Tiny white flowers swirl
from the trees, like snowflakes or
parachutes, landing on
me, caressing me with softness and
each one holds your likeness.
The windchimes start singing and
your voice, in soprano, joins in.
Perhaps it is real, maybe imagined,
but I am reassured nevertheless. 
Messages all around me somehow
lessen the emptiness and ease
the pain, yes, you are doing just fine
watching
from above, smiling down, happy
that my heart is now open and the
bliss is erasing the ache.
 
©Beverly Bronson May 2011

Poetry 367: While Waiting for Thunder

Poetry 367: While Waiting for Thunder: "Sitting in exile, looking in the mirror in the next room, she lies to me, I want to see sunshine I want to feel rain but all I see is sh..."

While Waiting for Thunder

Sitting in exile, looking in the mirror

in the next room, she lies
to me, I want to see sunshine
I want to feel rain
but all I see is shadows
and mud
Speaking with angels can be a lonely pursuit
First there is the finding of them
then there is the translation to
here and now, that place I am
Then I go back to her
and tell her what I see
there is, in her eyes a fog
and that fog is me
Perhaps today that cloud will angry up itself
Grow dark with moisture
and flash
so brightly that everyone will see
remarking at its brilliance
they will hold ears ready
for what boom may be
She says
you are my sunshine, you are my rain
nothing more, nothing else
will be

©Frank Coughlin May 2011

Mysterious Woman

Magic in her fingertips, tiger by the tail
Wind whispers her desire - softly like cat fur
against your skin - and she waits
Flowing dreamlike on the edge of your perception
Is she there when you look or is it just a trick
An illusion of the ether - look again
and you see a trailing vapor - she is smoke
caught in the wind and  you feel her
on the back of your ear - feather touch
silken flower falls petal soft past your eyes
you feel for her - like a blind man
but it is she who has chosen you
that much you know, your flesh trembles
goose bumping its tingle and flash forward
up and down your entire being and you look
in the corner - no not there - where
and you feel the wind of her breath on your other ear
She is there within your soul, she has caught you
And she is not letting go. Her kiss is on your cheek
You feel her passion rising - she will give you what you want
But first you must do her bidding.

Dreamcatcher

she sees dreams behind her smokey,
black-rimmed eyes
red lipsticked mouth belies her inner spirit
wild hair uncombed, now why she forsakes
taming it when she primps and fusses with
her face is perplexing.
Perhaps she is still holding onto material
things seeking temporary pleasure
it is all fleeting, really,
dive deep, where the dreams reside
She touches the dreamcatcher threads,
feeling its magic
while the spider winks one glowing eye.
       By Beverly Bronson  ©May 2011

Oh Baby, Oh Baby Oh

Your eyes are like marbles, you know the kind everyone likes to trade
Their sockets appear worn, from overuse or abuse, who would know
You make Zombies look good but as long as there is whiskey
I am not going anywhere.
What is that smell - did something die
The mess on the floor covers the mess within
the wall. Did you forget to clean for about a year?
Now things are getting serious - we open the last
fifth of Jack or was it Jim, Johnny Walker is lying empty on the floor.
I think I have succeeded in forgetting whatever I was trying to forget
What was your name again ? Strange the refuge, we take in emotional storms.
I lie with you, telling you you are not so bad
That your hair looks good for being a bunch of snakes,
Is something living there amongst them ? No. it is
not living anymore. You have a face that turns men to stone but
I have no worries - I have stopped being a man a long time ago.

©Frank Coughlin May 2011

The Dark Side

Do you really want to be the one
left on the safe shore,
Do you really want to be the one
left behind.
We are moving to experimental phase,
exploring new worlds of the mind,
We are moving to places unexplored
talking powders with the best of them.
Everything you have known,
we are letting go of,
Everything you have been taught
we are rejecting.
Then we go off the cliff,
knowing we cannot fall
Then we go off on our merry way,
knowing nothing at all.
When the smoke cleared,
our eyes opened,
When the smoke yielded answers,
our eyes would not focus.
There is no way knowing
what lies on the dark side.
There is no way you are coming
back from the dark side.
Without losing,
Without gaining.
 Do you really want to be the one going ?
Do you really want to be the one staying ?

©Frank Coughlin May 2011

Siren (Ullysses’ Excuse)

Sultry girl promenades ‘round the room
She wants to hook you - she wants your eyes
Talking like she’s a big shot
like her words mean anything to you
you have your problems of your own
It ain’t easy to keep this ship on course
but ya gotta if ya wanna
get back to the wife and the life
you left behind.
Next thing, you know she’s there - this goddess - next to you
across the table with a bottle, and then there’s glasses
held high, to queen and country, and her eyes
so blue, so deep, so watery liquid - they take you down
and you can taste them as they strip you naked,
meanwhile you hear some sort scraping noise
like rocks against wood and you realize
it is already to late - you have seen too much
and you have gone too far - there is no turning back
her bed is now your bed and your men are forgotten or dead
this morning is not next morning - years have flashed past in moments -
 could this be true ?
you ask yourself while you clear your mind
She, this woman who lies with you, she is young like that yesterday so long ago,
and you, you are the age you are supposed to be, today,
As you walk toward the door, you hear her song once again
you feel her hooks pull you back, for she is what the man in you lusts for
Yet the bottle she offers is empty and
you are the warrior, that is, at least what you once were
(your men are no more, your ship is in ruins)
She laughs as she strips your armor off once again and you rage silently
for all that has been lost - for all that will be lost
and against all odds, you stumble out the door,
and curse the gods, and you fight because that is what you do,
you fight the rage of the sea and wind and you fight the ghosts of dead men you once knew.
You fight the distance between where you are and where you want to be,
and you nearly lose - you wash up on shore, half-dead
you have nothing now, you are the wreck yet somehow
you make it home to the wife that is waiting and she takes you in her arms
Then you know why you came - there is no one who loves you
except your wife. You are Home - somewhere else the Siren is crying your name.

Poetry 367: Dreams, Undead, Fire

Poetry 367: Dreams, Undead, Fire: "It happens on the day you wake up, when the dream you held tight like a warm blanket, fuzzy slips from your fingers, replaced by the cold ..."

Dreams, Undead, Fire

It happens on the day you wake up,
when the dream you held tight like a warm blanket, fuzzy
slips from your fingers, replaced by the cold wind
of the morning, slapping against your skin,
hey, face me you coward - it yells -
in tones of harsh bluster, face me damn you
pick up your head and face me.

When the wind dies, later
and you reach your car and put it into drive
the echo of her eyes lances into what is left
of the spark you once had. There in that moment
something is remembered, that tree you wanted to climb
or that girl you wanted to date, silly isn’t it after all
these years to think about your goal to visit all fifty states
and the desire to feel a peyote sunrise.

The alchemist in you has boiled experiences down
into the raw Archetypal elements,
the girl was just about sex
the tree was just to feel high
one state is much like another from the highway
and drugs just mess with your mind.
It should be enough to have figured things out,
to have bottled experience away,
now you live in the vicarious realm -
It must be the stories of others,
you know the ones where they do the crazy things
and you are safe, laughing at the kitchen table.
But this is the day that you have woken up,
this is the day the dream stays fuzzy by your side
the blanket you have stolen back from the wind
when you grabbed its hand - faced it and said
enough is enough.
It is the echo of your eyes that burns forth
igniting the soul, and she laughs,
because she is your muse and that is what they do.

©Frank Coughlin May 2011

The Monster Within

Dr. Jekyll - I presume
so proud of himself
upon finding someone else
living within
down there in the dark basement,
the crawlspace, the forgotten
place inside the house he calls
his own. What was he thinking ?
Opening the cage that society had closed and locked.

Imagine his shock upon finding he could not control
Himself.

Urges long thought dead
desires, rages, emotions
all lumped in one mass called - Hyde.
What was he really after
a dash of the bold
a pinch of the Taboo
A taste of Naughty
No matter - what he got was all that
and more, a whole lot more
Sin without the temptation - what fun is that.
Madness, I say, utter madness.

Feart

Now the above word is a new word for me
an accidental typo or Freudian slip
still the word seems less daunting than Fear,
four letters that paralyze me
while Heart is five letters that
stimulate me
Heart and Fear please hold
hands, there is room together
for you both,
Fear painted is dark colors of
black and blood red and monstrous forms
that leer evil grins
Heart painted is the red of passion,
warmth of pulsating aliveness
I choose to paint them both
they dance and struggle with one another
seeking dominance
stop I say unity and balance is what
I strive for and so shall you.
Blacks and reds merge turning into
blackened reds and reddish blacks
My sweat and blood joins my spiritual canvas
for I want my whole self leaping in
Tears too form puddles and the
paint swirls like a tornado building
force twirling me like Dorothy around
and around I feel the madness within me
being ripped out, sucked out like snake
venom
I am in charge of my destiny and FEART
birthed into my vocabulary is
reassuring.

©Beverly Bronson May 2011

And Then . . .

You heard the story
the one about those lovers
who met across the room
their eyes kissed, melting all inhibitions
No one told them there would be math
at least not afterMath
you know the part where one and one
make one - more that is.
Next come the decisions 
is this one we keep or throw away
do we stay or break apart
Is my dream dead squashed by the reality of us ?
or enhanced by our new experience
our choices, made together or not
become the palette of our tomorrows
will we sing the blues or dance in green
bask in the sun or work the night away
There is no happy ending here
in fact, there is no ending at all
She and he - taking a wait and see
attitude - leaving me - the narrator
waiting and not seeing - how can they be so cruel
It is like reading a romance novel where the last chapter has been ripped out.
Will they learn to accept the fact of each other, you know the one where each of them comes to realize that the other will never be their ideal, that their kids will never be what they hoped they would be, heart break will be around nearly every turn, and that time will not ignore them. Yes, time will kick their asses, turn them into prunes and eventually kill them.
But that part has not been written yet
and may not ever be.
Choices are the roads we take
There is no GPS telling us the right way to go
We write our stories and hope we live to tell

©Frank Coughlin 2011