Dressed in Night

I clacked the zippo shut
Against the night
Salty scent of rosinol lingering
and lifted my feet to the desktop
flicking up the brim of my feathered navy fedora
and leaning back in the boss’s leather;
I watched grey smoke ribbons rising
Backlit by city lights


* * *

About yesterday. FAIL. Going back to work after 16 days of vacation, plus a structured structure was more than I could take. I will try to pick up April 8’s ottava rima this weekend, but no promises.

As for today, well, I spent the whole day (between teaching and you know, work) winding up a tale of the gal with gams walking through the office door and not knowing what to do with a gal gumshoe, but honestly, this was the only part that didn’t seem utterly contrived. So, here you have, LD’s version of “noir.”

See you tomorrow!



Plunging into National Poetry Writing Month using the NaPoWriMo prompt for today [if you’re interested in playing too, check out the site: http://www.napowrimo.net/ ] Choose the first line of a poem and go from there. The poem I started with is Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s “Hymn to the Night.” Now that I’ve borrowed his first line, I’ll go back and read his piece. This one was a fun and familiar theme for me, but I think (perhaps) I found a new image, possibly two. Enjoy!

I heard the trailing garments of the Night;
wrapping myself in her rustling hem of stars,
I eased out along the milky path of dreams,
a way so thick with experience
that it curdled up between my toes,
soothing tender flesh.
I pulled her cloak tight about my shoulders,
and slid down the length of a seam on galactic tide
where I drifted in time to her dream Dance
until she furled loose the tail of her cape,
dropping me into the embrace of Morning.


Poem, write me

A couple of weeks ago, in a dull moment, and passing 1,000 tweets on Twitter, I decided to collect up all the tweets I’d ever tweeted and “do something” with them.  (The full document is nine pages!) This week’s post is the first product, though after culling and sorting, it’s clear that there are two or three or more other possible pieces left to go.  I’d call this still in draft form, but it is nearing completion.  I suspect I don’t use Twitter the way it was intended, but that’s the beauty of the internet: its uses are fluid.

Quickie translations for non-bilingual readers: chanate = crow; chencho = local word for mockingbird; golondrina = barn swallow; margarita = daisy; and colibrí = hummingbird. Have a great week! ~LD

Poem, write me

Monday morning, full moon falling
lullaby stars
shrinking into desert flame
a hundred thousand dreams fall together,
dangling by a thread of ether —
Wide universe, slow move, fast dance, long sleep.
The stars have barely risen and still
the night insists on ending
Moon don’t say goodnight…
morning comes up around the sun, chilled by starlight.

Golondrina, chanate, chencho, margarita –
daylight, daydreams, dabbling free
in elderly sunlight…
Oaks, cedars and sycamores…
flycatchers, house wrens and inca doves…
I would like to be in the barn swallow coffee klatch
‘tween greens and feathers there’s no room for bad news.

Chanate sawing, chencho singing
Chencho, chencho,
where do you go,
when the sun is high and leaves are burning?
Checho, chencho,
where do you go,
when the moon is low?

Colibrí love on the porch
before the heat gets high;
covetous cats chattering cheerfully;
strings of mimosa flowers
doodle bug houses of sticks and mud —
to be only four again
when “backyard” meant freedom!

Save poems for another day — full moon, full moon!
Trapping moonbeams with my fingers
Moon in my hands,
sun in my eyes,
dust in my lashes,
poems dribble over my lips,
to fall and break on my pen like glass.
There’s my old friend, the moon…