Mantre

Alone like me
Pain is just a crutch to use
To get you through a day
To remind yourself that you can feel
And you are valid, true, and real
It simply isn’t hard to see.

Ever Virgin.

Eyes on Fire

It is hard to see
quite literally-
I have, in my way
the cloudy mask of
what makes a spring
inspiring
buds and flowers
and Opera scores
an angry director
and the ticking clock of my heart
which aches for
someone to tell me “It’s okay”
the strong arms of a hug
that isn’t begged for in some way.
I can barely see-
and it hurts to try
I avert my eyes
or close them
try to lubricate them with
tears or ointments or petals of flowers
but burning there
beyond the surface
that is both dry and red,
is the real pain
lost, so lost
behind the smile I always have for you
ever so much more
yours
than anyone ever dared to be
behind my eyes
lies
the reasons why
that you will never see.

Ever Virgin.

Haiku- F.U.D.G.E. Requiem

I shall ever be
a Friend United- even though
now, from a distance.

Ever Virgin.

Words of Wisdom

Drunk man on the platform said
women are always right-
and my pink-shirted partner-
the jam to my toast
took his sound advice
with a completely serious face
as I collapsed in laughter.
Drunk man told us not to argue
as we were
about the finer points of feminist China
before asking us for some matches
or a lighter
and when he got up to catch his train
the Drunk man apologized
for interrupting our conversation.

We picked up where we left off,
my companion and I,
lost in the lives we have made-
where we decide what is important
and we pick up after our own messes
(perhaps on a delay)
and I wondered, suddenly,
when he was like us-
alive and in love with life,
alert and creative and connected to something-
and how far and how fast the fall must be.
He’s not so different than me.
I felt lucky that I know I know the voices
of people who want me near
and I
felt blessed to be blessed
by recognizable smiles across the room-
I don’t know whom the Drunk man was going home to,
Perhaps no one- but- his being there
made me walk a step closer
and speak a truer and bolder word-
he was the correct one, this time.

Ever Virgin

218~

I wish I could remember everything
about that moment when I first met you-
my eyes were stars, immediately- I know-
I wanted you in some primal way
thought that might be enough
thought I might try to make you mine
and oh! did I.
I used to watch the rain dripping down the window frames
and leaned my face against the screen to feel the wetness there,
and I would see the lights on from your room and want
with something deeper in me than I knew
than I had ever known,
want you to come out and ask me to throw down my golden hair.
I can see, behind my eyes, the way I was pushed against the wall,
so like a rag doll,
broken and silent,
it was you I pictured there.
And like the cool water of rain, my tears were the balm that soothed me-
and you didn’t hear a word-
how could you have ever doubted a kiss?
but I could not help but turn away- did you grow tired of my cheeks?
what was left was not a combination of you and me-
but was actually the work of three.
If that love had been enough there might have been,
something new or blue or full of woe-
I’ve nothing to show for my rainwater eyes
but a pile of odes
and a memory that doesn’t die.

Ever Virgin.

Spring Poem

You are the new amber soil that cushions the ground
Your voice carries across the warm breezes-
so that on this very first warm spring day-
I can let my heart do as it pleases.

Too beautiful not to equate your lips with petals
hyacinth and daffodils delicately sown,
and not to see the sweet curling tendrils of your hair-
in each and every fern I’ve ever known.

The sky, so full and bright, is like your smile,
gallantly radiating kaleidoscope emotion-
gathering in pools of sparkling light,
more rich and varied than any ocean.

I cannot see a sunrise, or a sliver of the moon,
a tiny thicket of clover or a cascading waterfall
without feeling your presence there at my side,
to love and lose is preferable to never loving at all.

Ever virgin.

Peignoir Poem

Ribbons of chiffon all aflutter,
as if the wind gently caresses
the tender petals of black lace
that cascade down the arms
and overflow at the breast
of she who dons the peignoir.

Meant to guide the graceful fingers,
whilst brushing and pinning up her tresses,
a gown for dressing before getting dressed-
the lacy garment protects her sense
and protects her vulnerabilities.
She is a goddess in gauze.

Ever Virgin.

On the Death of Shakespeare, Poet Muse

Were you of Stratford-upon-Avon- I would worship you
and carve your words into my skin- oh!
You would be more to me, than night’s eyes last kiss-
You would be the blood from which my mouth forms color-
and the sweat that glistens on the lids of my eyes-
dewy crying and each blood tear would be like the sound
of your laughter through the bedroom door.

But you were not born of that Isle, green and grey-
but at the mouth of another water’s body-
and though you’d make quite a show
of King Chamberlin’s Men,
it would only be to sleep your way through
the line of players, rolling as you do,
upon your back.

In the arms of Christopher Marlowe-
your pages, inked in passionate frenzy-
endear themselves like a bible to me, and-
I would dance, like a wind’s feather
and crash against you like a wave
to hear you speak them aloud
or, perchance to hear you breathe against my ear.

But you are not, Muse.  You are not color, nor inky page-
I do not roll your words across my tongue
and drink, like tears, your mysteries.
I do not place you, framed, upon my heart
but push you hard against my skin, and
kneel, bloodied in the gravel of your passions.
Straining through the pain of you, like a mirror.

I should not dare try to move your bones,
but to make just the one stir, I would
unmake myself, the woman that I am-
and disappear to suit your tasteful decor
and if I could give to you that “one thing only”
that stirs up your sinew and your fibers-
I would give up a lifetime of years, to do it once, well.

A far more painful love, this, Muse, poet laureate of my heart-
dwell longly and thus- for Him, I shall sing your praises,
and in his honor, my honor, for you and no other,
will be like a song that he would have written for me-
a dark lady, and nothing like a rose,
dutifully giving what diligence, is owed-
and through my fingers, I will continue on as his voice.

Haiku: Rainbow

rainbow, Boston sky
embraces one lonely girl
without using arms.

Ever Virgin.

Chanson de Serin

Je vous observe marcher par moi-
et j’aime votre bas magnifique.
Je sais que je ne devrais pas vous vouloir
Je sais que vous avez été fait pour « une chose seulement »
Je sais que vous êtes affamée de la bouche d’un autre homme.
Je ne pourrais pas éteindre cette soif.
Je t’aime
Je t’aime
Je t’aime en tout langage-
Je vous servirai aime un roi.
Je me remplirai de goût de vous, et ne serai affamé pas plus.

Ever Virgin.