august 31

we drove t’wards a wakening day, a woman in white who put her hands like leaves inside my head and made all this so green.

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A cow fell into the Irish sea

A cow fell into the Irish Sea between two rocks
Along the cliff from the Causeway.
The others kept their snouts in the wet grass and the splash was buried
Under folds of air and spray.
The day was early, a blue sunrise yawned across the slate sea
And the tall grasses swayed.
Black crows and loud white gulls screamed but the cow was gone,
A fizz of spray under green waves,
Gulls bombed for fish,
The dim whale shape moved in the deep like a rain cloud.

A cow fell into the Irish Sea between two rocks
And I found the cow was me.
My sweet love, and you are the green sea,
All this happened ‘mid that fog of life and my world is new and frightening.
The sea was not made for cows, but there is something ‘tween us
That bubbles in red lungs,
That pounds the ocean with cut hooves
And sinks to weeds,
Something ‘tween us
That is not life but yet is true as the golden moon in the dawn.

norrebrogarde

I wished your mind might glance me through your skull,
Smooth eyes in a peaceful face. Sunset streets,
A sweet smile round as Kroner, and worth quite
The planetful. A sleepy song, a poesy dream –
Something my night eyes had already seen.
Here’s a whirl of bubbles, ‘Mummy!’ She moves
A foot. Six in the evening, and the redding
Sky is bright in those large eyes, like his father’s.
She will rise, sweep herself into her scarf
And stand at the white sink with mint and rose
Hands. Brown Danish beauty, cherry stem brows;
Venus on the Norrebrogarde, there she goes.
Where her foot might tread, eternity lands –
A street moment, a whole dear life in poet’s hands.

Only One of Us Gets to Be a Martyr- Nicholas Gagnier/Lois E. Linkins

My collaboration with the brilliant Nicholas Gagnier is up on SD:

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

Alive is not a competition but death calls to my indecision, before I fizzle out with weakening flames. 

The future has looked stranger, indeed, and yet these are 
troubled times; 
your hair dyed dirty
blonde like your mom 
said would never suit you, and 
longing to remain blind to her little wisdom instilled.

My quick red mermaid maverick,
You always were a thing between states.
A fresh face
And a scowl to snuff a forest fire,
What was it – the hand with many voices murmured, sharp as lemon –
What was it that made you stay?
Dear kind Harpocrates, yield to them
Until the curtain drops o’er this sweet sad story
I never chose to write.

Guess I’m still self-righteous,
somewhere beneath the spite. Enough so
I could immortalize the ego in your overbite, the 
hubris
we made heists of, 
cracking the dial safes of your inspirations,
only to…

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magdalene

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It was a lowly place, upon first look.
There was Madre, whose earnest eyes like smoke
Were melting in the firelight. Hands like great hooked
Anchors downward dove; on spiced air I choke,
Fresh lavender crushed upon my damp brow,
Rosemary and chamomile lifted to my nose.
Sweet ripe petals scattered o’er my breast like snow,
Pressed pinks, golden whites, rich bodied rose –
The deadly shades of birth did blur across
My scanty cave-rock bed. Shepherd’s Purse,
Bach’s flower, such Kelly-green and duck-egg moss
From Nature’s cabinet stole to blight the curse.
(She does not dress in wheat, but in starch white.)
Fresh sharp juices, orange and wild lemon,
Drizzle o’er my flaked lips: ‘Feel clean, feel bright,
Ma chérie.’ It is her beetroot face I see, in the dark evening.
When wee boys sleep, and whistle with the moor –
Dear Madre, your eyes still do solemn sing
Within the coal-black heart of this here whore.

the cherry tree

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‘I would to grow a cherry tree,’ said Jean.
‘From this stone.’ It was small and red inside
Her pap’ry palm. ‘There’s a little in between
Your teeth,’ cherry peel ribbon stuck in chalk.
‘I could put it back there, with the apple.’
That was where the ev’ning light came in soft,
Through the rosy green trees high aloft,
Verdant flora through which to quiet dapple.
An earthy pit at night, a spritz of dew,
There Jean went. ‘Grow and root, my tender tree.
Polished orbs of liquid rouge, sing to me.’
Jean knelt. ‘My honeyed bud – I stay your debut.’
It would be so grand, she thinks unseen,
To see something of mine, in red and green.