Power in Play and Ink

Brendan, over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, invited us to “write a poem about power in [our lives] and the world… about power or creativity or instinct… heavenly or earthly powers…” I don’t know of anyone who’s heavenlier or earthier or modest(ier) than moi. So, as you might’ve predicted, I birthed a wee poem about things that feed my power:

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There is power in mind-kissing
words and wit, which quickens
hips and heart-bits.

There is power in dancing
to well-fingered tunes, which kindles
brain and groin.

I find power in song and story…
in loving play… in lusty ink…

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a wee note…
– It seems that I also find power in ellipses… *cough, cough… cough*
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden and Poets United.

“…dancing, and seeing into the darkness…”
The Craft, by Patricia Ariel

Of First Dates and Frankensteinish Crabapple-Rose Bouquets

My sexy Piano Man and I went on another first date… and my hair could barely control its excitement… Either that, or the wind was feeling artful. Seriously, three minutes into the ferry ride from Manhattan to Staten Island, my hair looked like it had just exploded.

I pretended to be very vexed, and the wind behaved itself for about five seconds…

…but I made the mistake of grinning too soon…

…and my hair ka-BOOM-ed again.

Our yearly date went as usual—we shared a ricotta pizza (mushrooms, olives, green peppers) at the place we had our 1st first date, and followed the cheesy yumminess with homemade ice cream. After that, we headed towards Silver Lake, the spot where my Piano Man and I proposed to each other and have partaken on many first gropes.

We walked by Mundy Avenue. This bit might not be as cool, if you’ve never read Fables.

My lover walked on a tree that fell over a creek a few stormy summers ago…

…sat on a huge rock…

…and I noticed a nail quartet that had been hammered into a pine. Poor tree.

About a mile from the tree, we met a huge turtle. Well, we met 2 huge turtles. But since turtle romance looks rather disturbing, I figured that it would not be a good idea to post pictures of the loving couple *cough*. Say hi to the female…  pre-disturbance.

Once we got over the shock of seeing huge turtles making wee turtles, we continued our walk towards Silver Lake…. where I climbed a crabapple tree. The ecstasy of getting up on that tree without feeling the excruciating pain I felt last year (when I wasn’t trying to climb anything) was glorious. The memory of it is making me grin like a lunatic.

At some point during our journey, my Piano Man rescued some roses that had been recently crippled. I grabbed a half-snapped branch from the crabapple tree and brought the beautifully freakish bouquet home.

When we stepped out of the train, a man who seemed to be drunk enough to set his own breath on fire, looked from my face to my Frankensteinish crabapple-rose creation (which my Piano Man was carrying), and said to me, “You are very lucky, both of you.”

I nodded my thanks, but said nothing (since my mouth was dying to ask him if he meant that my Piano Man and I were both lucky, or if he was seeing two of me… and I suspect the latter might not have been very polite). But I did smile at him, thinking, Yes, we are.

Then my Piano Man and I got home, and made each other luckier.

Of First Loves and High Heel Shoes

“First loves are high-heeled shoes,” he says. “They affect flesh and spirit—straighten spines, tighten thighs, make you walk like you own the galaxy. Your first changes you forever. No other will ever make you feel like I did.”

I watch him,

remember myself

wrapped in him.

“Once,” I tell him, “the sight of you pulled little moans out of my middle. The memory of us (skin-to-skin), your scent… made me want. But I don’t lust after the way I used to feel inside your body. First shoes are just shoes—perfect (once), but irrelevant after they no longer fit.”

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the wee notes…
– Linked to Friday Fictioneers. Visit Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ blog, to enjoy interesting tales. Then follow this LINK, to read what others have written about my old shoes.
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, where our sweetest Sanaa invites us to write about love, using a common everyday image.