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The Blog Bog

The Mag Rack


IT'S BEEN SO LONG

since I've dreamed
anything that was
not nightmare

This spring
with goslings in
the roses, tulips

and crocuses pushing
color thru crystal
ice, I hardly

notice the wood
ducks. I don't hear
geese in flight.

I used to dream
goose music, scan
black ripples

walking back
from the pond.
Before I photographed

the last light
glowing in dark
woods

the sun gulped.
Just one tree
on fire as

if glowing
from within


_____________________















ARE YOU UP FOR PARTYING?

But keep it a secret. He's
in his bad boy mask. I can't
resist that persona as if
the others weren't magnets
too. But it's part of the
black dirty hair, too long
jeans. What is it about this
kind of man that women
crawl to them? I can see my
self on my knees, even in
fragile fishnet tights. "Party"
I don't think it's a birthday
party with candles and
I doubt he wants to take me
out to ready my poems
tho some time ago he did tell
me he wanted to talk about
about them. To party suggests
drugs or sex a little rock
and rolling. The idea doesn't
sound bad. Then, like in a
dream, plans change
and it's over

_____________________
























PARTY, DO YOU WANT TO

weeks after I'm sure
he'll only hold me
in class. "Party, but
keep it secret." It
doesn't matter that
he's married, must
have been guzzling
vodka when he asked.
It didn't matter that
his wife would be
back in town the next
night or that one of
the young Asian girls
was/is so in love, is
like a Geisha to him.
Doesn't matter, just
that he asked made
me feel alive. Doesn't
matter that it does
not matter

_____________________


   Mermaid
Mermaid swimming a labyrinth © Corina T.v.M.
























ON MY SISTER'S BIRTHDAY

I hear Delilah's dead. Delilah-
I almost wrote "delete" because
everything delighted her. It
can't be Delilah who beat
advanced stomach cancer,
delighted in everything that
grew my tangerine blossoms.
This woman who brought me
special herb tea for sleep.
She sang polishing the dresser,
arranging my barrettes in
a new pattern each time.
Delilah singing a song of her
home, telling me of the
flowers in Guatemala,
the fruits sweeter than anything
here. I think of her daughter,
the dog she adored, but
mostly her laugh, husky and
bell like at the same time
with a little giggle. "Any
body home" almost a song
I won't hear ever. Gone.
Over as any touch from
my sister

_____________________