Scribbles on the Wall

Pocket Full of Innocence: A Journey Into the Past

2010-04-14T09:50:00.001-07:00

Baaba's Song

Smoke curls like a midnight train
out from her window frame.
She crushes the cigarette,
wipes at useless tears,
and hangs her head in shame.

Baaba fell
from the shelf today,
now just pieces on the floor.
She puts on her jacket,
takes a walk,
ends up knocking
on God's door.

On the street
where no one dares to sing
she goes looking for a tune,
and only finds
the death of innocence
beneath a hunter's silver moon.

She stops inside the cathedral,
screams in silence,
and hides her fists of rage.
Father Anthony looks at her,
shrugs his shoulders,
says it's just that way.

Baaba's come of age.
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Baaba's Redemption

bless me, Father Anthony,
but have I sinned?
trying to understand
all the ups and downs
where do I go from here?
and do I go?
once upon a time
I laughed like a child
but these streets are too bright
so who am I to be and
is that for you or for me?

Papa forgive me
seeing you lying in peace
as a blessing in disguise
our love was hard
as granite and
the etching
carved deep rivers in stone but
the Artist never turned away and
time softens
harsh edges

sometimes rivers run dry
then come back to life
with brilliant green things
'cause you always reap
what you sow
you reap what you sow, Mama
did you see the legacy?
the pragmatist
the pioneer
the athlete
the artist
the idealist
we grew, we blossomed
we thrived
under a clouded sky

bless me Father Anthony,
but I survived and
I've tried to grow up
(really)
but God still smiles
at the child

Baaba rises like the sun
every morning
and gives out love
like gumdrops
Baaba shines bright
Baaba's alright
Baaba, take a bow tonight
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Daddy Hit Me

he took my mind
and beat it
through the floor
why, Daddy? was I bad?
Mama cried
(did Daddy hurt her too?)
she said, "honey,
save your soul if you can"
once Daddy came home
late for supper and
threw the cold pan of chili
at the wall. Mama told me,
"your Daddy's a very sick man"
so, I never punched Daddy back
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Oubliette

the shadow priest
stands under
the watchful eyes
of wooden martyrs,
smoke angels,
and a dead god

Unus deus
Spiritu Sanctus

words are the breath of life
tears are holy water
(rumblings of the soul
require exorcism of self?)

Unus deus
Spiritu Sanctus

drones never question
methods of the hive
the shadow priest
kneels to kiss the altar
and trips on his vestments

Sancus Domini
Mea maxima culpa
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Symbols

If sunlight
is God
If the river
is Life
Who am I
to be standing
in either?
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Recital

jangled tunes
play hopscotch in my head
white and black firing squads
stand in sentinel silence
fingers dance tangos
with skirt hems
the rug rushes by
(Presto! Vivace!)
under my feet
coffin wood slaps
my behind
"just take a deep breath"
(in with the bad air,
out with the good)
from dark corners
Scherzo appears

Mama is proud of her little girl
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Piece of Mind

"Stick to mendin' fences,"
she said.
"And never mind the plow."
But Mama,
Can a fence make a difference?
Can it matter now?

Sweat drips onto the auger,
dazzles
like an iridescent bead,
and disappears into thirsty dust.
The plow blade gleams
in hot sun.

The hole runs deep
into musty earth
waiting, a hungry mouth
to swallow a rough post.
Weeds, like stealthy Lilliputians,
grow silently
around the rusted plow.

There is now a wall
to keep the outside in.
On the porch there's lemonade
to be drunk
from sweaty glasses.
There's something in the field.

"It's a fine thing to have your fences mended,"
she said.
"Never mind...
never mind...
Oh, what was I trying to say?"

Really, Mama.
Would it make a difference?
Would it matter anyway?
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Shiva

I put daisies on your grave
and mourned the
could-have-been
the time I spoke
you refused reply
you were the cloud
against my sun
still,
if you had stormed
another
thundering curse
or spit
rain in my face
or burned
again
with your lightening lies
it would have been easier
easier than this
easier than crying
as I kick the earth
and turn away
without a word

but you chose silence
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

In 2003 the following haiku poem won the Seattle Japanese Garden's Tanabata Haiku contest and was later published in the local Japanese community newspaper, The North American Post.
Mother & Daughter

in bright summer sun
my mother and I walk the garden
two lilies, each a different color
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

The Finale
(and finally)

a million
white pieces
of applause
drift
toward the stage

"Bravo, bravo!
Magnificent, really!"
grin
"Oh, did you like it?
Honestly? Did you?"

Pride is kissed upon her cheeks.
She smells roses.
Accolades shimmer
in her ears,
a thousand tiny crystal bells.

She throws back her head
and laughs.
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011Encore

I've said it,
have I?
Words
desert me
as I see
my eyes
reflected
in your tears.
Reap what you sow.
Rape what you so.
So what?
So, who cares?
Love,
and I do.
Love you always.

Close the curtain
again.
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Woman At The Well

sound without motion
your words
dull my senses
like drones
on a sticky day
stake your claim
go ahead
no more games
you must know
romance is dead
wings without flight
and as useless
put to shame
by our undress
in just one night
erase my name
from your list
you pay too well
I'll never change
okay, it's over
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Light of Day

She walks against the wind,
fighting tears with each step,
as rain spatters
new patterns on her jacket.
I weep,
therefore I exist.
Happiness
is a reward for guessing
the right philosophy.
Love was a stranger
when she met him and
cordially opened the door.
Love was comfortable
with himself;
he casually draped his legs
over the side of her chair,
nonchalantly glanced
about the room,
stopping every so often
to stare at some thing -
soaking in the well of her.
He taught her to dance,
arms flung open,
wings catching air,
face lifted,
a perfect sacrifice to the sky.
He taught her to expect
sun and green grass.
He took her to the water
and held her under until
she stopped breathing,
stopped fighting.
She thought,
"So this is love."
Clouds,
dark and inevitable,
are promises not kept.
She wishes for home;
wishes she knew
where home was.
She walks against the wind;
each footfall a hollow echo
of memory without
substance.
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Leaving Him in ‘98

I broke something precious;
smashed Ming against the door;
trampled on shards of shattered vow;
unnerved, I ask to go.

Release me from your want,
from cloying, needful coils;
let me run against the current;
please, I ask to go.

This guilt will not contain me;
still your tears will stain my heart;
I loved you once for kindness;
killed with such, I ask to go.
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

To Tell You

last night
we talked on eggshells
and circled
into nowhere
I tried
to tell you my emotion
but
words split like ice
and melted to tiny drops
what am I trying
to tell you
that I'm not saying?
it's just a turn
on this madly spinning carousel
(I chose a horse named Silence) -
when it stops whirling, and
when I'm weakened with recognition
of my futilely frantic search
will you be there
please
to help me off?
because I want you there
or I need you there
or both
but who am I
to tell you?
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

What Was Taken

in the sanctity of the moment
there is no choice but
to let go of you and
dance to a rhythm buried deep
where lyrics scar
melody is a haunted hush and
you can't hold my hand here and
whirl me through the paces and
you can't walk me out of
this mutant, blood-stained waltz
I am alone
swaying
shuffling at the underside of gloom
still weeping in the frost-burned glare
of what once was
and then was not
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Harold’s Song

your colors are
an Autumn sky and
trees that clash in peace
fire is beauty dying alive
in a smoke-filled
evergreen breath
as crisp air singes
tears on my lashes
clouded grey artistry
pulls against the blue
and twines fingers
thru a palette of leaves
leaving me fogged by
a canvas scented memory of you

~for Dad~
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Stuff From a Shelf Life: A Journey Into Every Day

2010-04-14T09:48:00.001-07:00

Too Much To Say

my silence is so rarely
the voice
with nothing to say
most often
it is a river of words
that flood
too closely together
the volume of the torrent
deafening, falling
mute
upon these stones that weight
and trip my saying something
or anything
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Gypsy

I have wandered
into your land -
its verdant cry
has pierced my soul.
Mine are
the dust-covered colors
of a violent sunset;
see my skirts swirl
ablaze in the summer wind.
My heart is
a magician’s cache
of tricks and turns –
invisible to the eye,
startling with their vision.
My wit is
a dark night cast
with stars that shine
promise of other worlds.
My eyes are
a noon sky –
have stared too long
at suns and moons,
have seen days
become years.
I am deeply ancient.
I am tabula rasa.
I knew you
when you were born, yet
discovered you only yesterday.
I will always
be this curious and wise
gypsy woman –
dancing in the wind,
walking on fire,
wading the river,
listening
for the lush pine grove
that whispers in the evening,
that sings my soul’s music
in a voice that is yours.
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Bastard On The Bus

the guy on the bus says,
"Hey, that's vandalism"
as I admire
someone's spontaneous art
he's wearing
perpetual bachelor cologne
and I'm hoping
the next stop is his
he's invaded my morning,
squelched my contemplative mood
he's a sore spot on the gum
that commands attention
bastard
oppressive cloud
he's left me with nothing to write
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Cold Stars

his smile
was a galaxy
that chilled me
like so much
empty space
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

For Jess

the splintered glass
of endless tears
the rending
of my life’s garment
a rug pulled
from underneath
and
no air, no breath,
no sweetness
could satisfy
the absence
of your laughter
once more
I’m expected to say
goodbye
too soon, too unfairly
yet your friendship
was worth this aching price

For Jessica Herman,
who is sorely missed.© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Kiff

laughter as dark
and rich as
an African night sky
he swaggers by
hips in rhythm
with the surf
"kiff, kiff" it whispers
in longing for his touch
each wave
a different mistress and
each one
throwing kisses
on the sand
reaching for his
laugh
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Mid-Stream

we pee
behind doors with gaps in them
she recognizes my scuffy sandals
under the divider
"how's it going?" she aks
and I stop mid-trickle
I'm not sure
which going she means
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Ocean of Tears

one day
I will watch
your tears fall
and let them
pool with mine
the ocean
does remember, see?
buoyed upon the water,
in a golden moment
we will look back
across the water
at the dreams
we once drew in the sand
and
we will laugh
a thousand years
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Be Yourself

every morning
I paint my face,
this pale
uncompromised
canvas
a dab here
brush stroke there
in surrealistic hope
that the world will see someone
else and somehow
still see me

at night
a little more
glitter here
gloss there
maybe you'll see someone
else and somehow
fall in love
with me
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

The Song

Oh,
hey,
life-
ain't she a one?
she string you along
like a beaten dog,
still stupid enough to be loyal
she lead you on
with that seductress smile
she the mistress of innuendo
she got no mercy,
but she sure a good time,
hey?
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Reprise

Decrescendo
into daylight -
eyes open to
fragmented dreams,
sunlight,
morning coffee,
and today's feature story.
Nylons and high-heels
out the door,
the subway waits.

poco piu mosso
another day...
another day
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Saturday Night at the Laundromat

Policing the laundry,
machines spinning
an endless cycle of dirt
that measures the days -
you with your things,
me with my things,
our stuff mingling
like so many mis-matched socks,
and we just wait to fold.

The dryers hum a litany.
You roll your eyes heavenward
to say if there was really
a real god
there'd be no laundry.
This is why
I am thinking of atheism
(that spiritual fig leaf)
as I fold underwear.

It's all too real,
this business of our lives,
the place between
pleasure and progress,
where we are stuck
in a minefield of mundanity -
we worry about the steps, but
nothing ever does explode.
Hey, the towels are fluffy,
the sheets are warm.
It's absurdly important.
Yeah. I, too, wonder
what the whales must think of us.

It's done again, and
we face another week
of things gradually
filling a basket.
I slip my hand
into yours,
and ponder
how complicated it can be
to simply live.
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Treadmill

mr. brylcream
jogs next to me
and chatters
about his physique
and how he
mountain-biked Cougar Mountain
in the mud
yesterday
the ooze
is everywhere
and how if
the weather holds
he'll go kayak-yak-yakking
this weekend
and...
yadda, yadda,
yaddada...
yeah,
shut up and run
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Walk with me – Part II

I like the power
of my own feet
I walk
smacking the ground
giving gravity the finger
pushing along
stronger than tides
brighter than sun
I hold the world
(fragile, bleeding, wingless)
in my hand
oh so good, oh so good, osogood
endless litany
of happiness in being
my mantra, my chant with every
pulse of my footsteps
oh so good, oh so good, osogood
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Before You Leave

before you leave I just want you to know

that

when the walls are emptied
of all the people who watched you-
the seductive woman in oriental undress,
the jock who never enjoyed the game,
the lost beauty queen who never felt pretty,
the sax player who loved music in spite of life,
and the wizard who brought out the magic in all of us;

when you play that song
in tribute to all the songs that measured the days-
songs that fed
the tears of an ocean swept beach,
fears, a dark spiraling abyss,
hopes that were butterflies emerging from cocoons,
and desires that flared St. Elmo's fire,
before diminishing to frustration;

when words of faith are erased
from your door post,
words of wisdom gone from your shelves,
and humor is faded yellow;

when the sun shines in that window
for no one,
the builders build unobserved,
the horn that shattered a quiet courtyard with a savage blast
and called forth glass from a midnight sky
is silent;

most of all,
when you turn the bolt
one last time in anticipation of
blue water,
color-washed gardens,
and her;

when I'm left on my own
with Eponine wounded and
weeping in my soul,
and I've shut my eyes
against watching you go;

when I'm not just an enneagramic number
in need of a fix -
I'm humanly
afraid
of
never finding you
again.
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Only This

clouds scattered
overhead
were wayward sheep
you asked me
if reality was
just a lot of
language
did you ever dream?
did you ever dare?
did you ever
dare to dream?
leaves exploded
in a million colors
as wind fueled their brilliance
a forgotten wish
come true
the river ran steady
a constant whisper
and you sang
songs of praise
answering
your own question
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Wake

i
pity
you
the
past
waits
heavily
no
current
in
your
tide
you
live
in
the
yester
of
a
moored
dream
open
your
eyes
to
the
drowning
see
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

What Makes It

if wishing makes it so
we're riding a pale horse
we're trodding down a
precarious path
along this rocky slope
if dreaming makes it real
we're walking a tightrope
we're balanced between the
tightening grip
and having to let go
if believing makes it true
we're swimming the deep end
we're treading the waves of a
buoyant gasp
in this stretch of blue
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Undone

a fortress crumbles
a flimsy façade built
to hold more in than
it keeps out

I am undone

the myriad stars
circle in a writhing dance
rending light where
shadow lived

I am undone

a wave breaks
on an ancient and solitary shore
leaving treasure gleaming
in the sand

I am undone

a voice calls
my name in silence
and without guile woke
a sleeping dream

I am undone
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Unsaid
I am a reservoir
of the unspoken -
words too costly
and thoughts too dear -
so silence,
the ever-present
unchanging
melody
that scores my life.
Where is the other end
of the broken
whistle on the wind?
What fragment lies beyond
earshot, or whisper lost
in a restless sigh?
Say the right words then,
say the right words -
(oh god, say anything
at all, but)
don’t let
the mute thunder
of a resistant heart
win the day.
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Confession’s Conundrum

I'm not asking if you do,
I'm asking if you could.
Danger ignored,
have I trapped myself
by confiding in you?
Viewing thorns,
sometimes the flower is forgotten.
Much as I've given you
black, smudged thoughts,
bloodstained deeds,
weak, worthless crutches -
I promise you
there is a mountain top
of crystalline snow,
glistening in sunshine
warm as cinder,
that stands tall,
proud,
and steady
over the muck
that ruins the valley below.
So I'm asking:
could you love me?
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Two Separate Thoughts

You've bowed your head,
bent your knee,
folded your hands,
and asked for a miracle.
Your own prayer is the miracle.
Bow your head, bend your knee,
clasp your hands -
be conscious enough
to hope for something better.
What else, in God's name,
what else could you possibly want?

*******

You own the sadness.
It's all yours.
It is the worn out
pair of sneakers
you just can't
bring yourself to give up.
You go with what's comfortable,
what you're used to.
Sorrow has it's charms
in the cracked leather
and worn canvas
that lets you know
you've been somewhere;
lets you know
you're still alive.
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Economy of Words

say much
by saying little

speak volumes
in few words

keep quiet
silence roars

economy of words-
whittling away
paring down
all I have to say

tenuous talking
baby steps
to friendship

a fragile falling
into arms
there all along
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

5 Men

you left
on the gasping scent
of blooming rose
these thorns
will pierce always
sweet agony at my side
to remind me
it's best to reach for more

your arrogance
was a fuck-all to
laughter illicit &
tears offered unmetered, but
you could never
run deep enough
to quench this fire
anyway

your door
wasn't open enough,
little realizing
my love would have
made your cave bigger,
you're so good at stoking a fire
hearing whispers, and
feeding a needful soul
only wouldn't
couldn't

you were all talk
and cock as you stood
hard upon your mountain
and when
your verbal boot hit
my metaphysical ass
I thanked the gods at
hearing freedom sing
your bird said it best,
"Fucker."

your anchor
juxtaposed against the desert
tugs at eyes
that find sun too bright
I thrive amid shadows,
but
my dark bitch
toppled your king
first time out
in the amorphous weave
of who's to know
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Driftwood (A Conversation)

do not make me open up
I am a flood of heartbeats
carried beyond reach
let the fire burn low,
without rush to flame
ashes, ashes
this forest buried in us all
when we fall
it is from gracelessness
into a morning
washed in salt air
the wind leaves nothing
but sifting sand
I stand alone
in a world of trees
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

December Pictures

fog licks the cedars
with a lover's tongue
and a mobile of geese
hangs over the mountains
you play air-guitar
homage to a decade long gone
as your son sleeps
against my shoulder

heart of the artist
eye of the beholder

a millennium is poised
in the balance
as fireworks mock
austere and distant stars
we twine cold fingers
in frosted darkness
while one tear for past and future times
slides to oblivion

eye of the artist
heart of the beholder
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Tapestry

There is no mystery to my dreaming
No hidden pathway through my heart
I am only busy weaving a tapestry
to wave before the dark

No smile of yours is gone unnoticed
No laughter lost within the storm
If the silky threads of life were mine for the asking
I'd weave a tapestry to blanket you from harm

The picture wavers, and I falter
Some threads are never meant to blend
Yet, I will hold this banner high against the wind
To show your colors brightly
The light inside your laughter must not end
For Cindy Simon
1/13/1949 - 12/7/1993
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Stuff From A Shelf Life

my life's collage is packed carefully
in crumpled newspaper and old towels
does love have given values?

some things -
a small, wooden, goofy-faced Vladimir;
an angelic cow, all wings and pleading eyes;
a dancing Hungarian girl;
things that seem silly to be so loved,
but these bits of who-I-am
wander with me
if you open the boxes
will the tears drown you
or will they have dried to a salty crust

my heart is in separate pieces
cushioned by hope
perishables enclosed
contents fragile
some assembly required
handle with care
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Driving Home – A Haiku Journey

Part I
driving from your house
my thoughts swirl like midnight fog
one more tune unsung

Part II
I would have played it
but I was deep in your thoughts
didn't miss a thing

Part III
already it's late
I don't feel much like sleeping
words won't always hold

Part IV
you held me close and
in a circuitry of dreams
led me to morning

Part V
waking brought coffee
and a lazy afternoon
spent contemplating

Part VI
who knows what may come
a deepening of something
you are more than friend
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

She Never

she never said
goodbye
the day he
left with freedom
in his eyes
and courage in
his walk
she only said
see you, son
love you

she never cried
for him
the day they
told her the news
her eyes saw
a sepia toned
childhood
and dreams that
turned to bone
and ash

she never said
goodbye
the day he
arrived in the flag
the band played
and doves flew
she cried
a single tear
love you, son
see you
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Insouciant Smile

You are the man
I imagined you'd be,
holding your hand
those mornings at the bus stop
our yawns dissolving
into giggles
Your someday
has spattered our umbrellas,
puddled deep
around our feet
You were an old soul, but
that deep root made you reach
So, wander the streets
gather their wisdom
I hear that
insouciant smile
in your voice
You are the man
I imagined you'd be all those times
~for jas~
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Brain Storm

bright red
against the grey
a thought startles
my everyday
meanders through
in a sluggish, insistent swirl
that defies my ignoring
to push its color on me
beckons like a bloody finger
I'm drawn
there's no denying
evidenced by words
that chew their way
across this page
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Nosce Te Ipsum

I am
more than
my words
I am flesh
these tears
proof of a
wanting heart
yet
who holds you
in the deepest black
if not the soul
that flows
from this pen
if not the woman
who folds
this paper carefully
so as not to disrupt
an imperfect thought
I would have you
hold me, but
you are not here
as often as I
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Vortex

did not

expect this

washed grey unawake

emptied nothing, slanted

meandering thru ageless days

that melt slowly at the seams of

every tomorrow spent waiting for

something, the something that won’t come unless

sought, the something that won’t pay unless bought, it

is time past time to reach, move, crane, turn, journey, cross

to that something, to grasp it firmly by its tail, which is slippery

but can be had, to haul it into and be hauled into every wide awake

non-dreaming, undying moment of days that are only, only tomorrows

never yesterdays, it is a moment beyond the moment when you’ve

blinked unbelievingly then missed the magic perfection that you

know happened just as you blinked and no amount of

screaming or cursing will bring it back and oh

if only you hadn’t blinked or opened

your eyes again because you

did not expect this

washed grey

unawake

emptied

nothing

Then Morning Comes

and the filament of dream
disappears
in a glimmer of
sunlight
a single Autumn leaf
tenuously clinging
against the breeze
carried off
in a moment of
reaching
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Vox Ex Sepulchrum

I dug in and
we held hands
like always
your ash
was in my hair
on my skin
my lips and
I could taste you
again
could almost
smell the back
of your neck
almost
hear you
murmur that sleepy
deep "Darlin' "
and almost
believe your journey
brought you
nearer
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Bringing Him Home

this is not
the trip we planned
the grand entrance
to show 'em all
you ride
next to me
in echoing silence, your
voice in my head
friends wait to say
"I'm so sorry," but
I am not
we loved all we could
we showed 'em anyway
let the trees bow, let
the clouds roll, let
the river run and
darkness come, 'cause
we loved all we could
we had it all
and showed 'em,
every one
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

If You

if you wonder what you bring;
is your consideration worthy
of my fragmented, fumbling dreams, and
why I'm captive in your smile
if you ask what I find;
is your world noble in my cautious
and groping curiosity, and
how can I want to hold your hand
if you question what you give me;
if pressed to answer, I could pull a rabbit
from an oblivion of millions, and
say that, never having requested as much,
you give a damn
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

... and so November comes ...
Here we are in November. It's a mixed bag for me.

Weather-wise, I always feel like I'm coming into my own. Nothing fuels my creative went more than a blustery, cold day. The starkness of the newly barren trees only makes me want to fill the world with my own color. All my favorite fabrics come into play (fleece, wool, flannel...). I get to enjoy the warm ambiance of a crackling fire, the rich inner glow of a hearty soup or stew on a dark evening, the beautifully acrid scent of rotting leaves.

It is, in the Catholic tradition (and you can take the girl out of the Catholicism, but you can't take the Catholicism out of the girl) the Month of the Dead. It's also the month that ostensibly involves Giving Thanks. Cue the introspection. For me, Thanksgiving isn't about the parades, the meal, the football games, or even the family gatherings. It's about tallying up the events of my life for the past year and recognizing the beauty and treasure that's come my way, and voicing a commitment to continue a search for more - mostly by striving to be the best Who that I can be. It's the month in which I was born. I can honestly say that I've never faced the It's a Wonderful Life syndrome of having wished I'd been otherwise dispatched. Sure, there have been a few times in my younger days when I wished I was dead, but never have I wished that I hadn't been placed on this huck of dirt to begin with. So, I celebrate my day - not with presents and cake and parties - but with the acknowledgment that I was put on this earth for a reason, and with a grateful nod to the Universe that my life was allowed at all. I'm not daunted by the aging process or by the numbers, because both aspects only mean that each November, I get to be thankful for being offered the opportunity to continue this strange and amazing journey.

It's also the month in which my Father was born. This always makes me feel more sorrow for him than the month in which he died. As turbulent as our relationship could be, Dad and I share a love for the cold, crisp days and a crackling fire; we share the ever-present, often sardonic, sense of humor that others either delight in or find offensive; we share a deep appreciation for any natural beauty; we share a certain level of artistic flair. I also have the female version of his face (thanks for the great eyes, Dad!), and his bone structure. It's been nearly 26 years since he left this earth, and I find I miss him more with each passing year. I wish I could sit down with him, and tell him how beautiful my life is, tell him I love him, let him know it's okay. Therein lays the sadness of my November.

And so, November it is. I will revel in it. In fact, I'll give myself to it with wild abandon. Come the 17th, should you spy a certain (self-perceived) gypsy girl dancing around a bonfire, tears streaming past a grin, hollering, "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" (and that could all happen literally or figuratively) That'd be me. Stop and say hi, give me a hug, wish me well.
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

It's Not About The Orgasm: A Journey Into Love

2010-04-14T09:42:00.000-07:00

Dance With Me

there are these things;
the slow seduction of brewing bean,
the warp and weft of the creative soul,
the heartbeat in a single well-spent word,
the rushing pulse of quickened laughter,
the circling stars, the restless wonder,
the rest between the notes,
the step and parry of the mind,
within this tango of our souls.
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

The Juxtaposition of a Mending Heart Against a Sadder Time

if anyone were to ask
was there a time
when the black umbrellas
folded
and the reign ended;
the crows again flew, stark
against the Summer sun;
the scent of roses threw
their stain along the tendrils
of the wind;
and the quiet of a day
no longer stretched itself,
yawning like a wound -
if anyone were to ask
when was the moment
that gave beat to the measure;
what drove
the cloud from the lining;
which dog ate the marrow,
warm and quivering, from
the heart of the bone;
how gracefully the slumbering giant
rolled away from the dew
of morning -
if anyone were to ask
what changed it all
my response would be
it happened as he
listened to the unspoken;
honored an unshed tear;
gave loft to the gauze
of an airless dream;
held an empty hand until
it grasped everything -
if anyone were to ask
I’d have to say
these things became
fluid
as effortlessly
and unremarked
as the wink of an eye
that is
the color of the Aegean Sea
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

First Impressions

You read Kipling.
I sipped red and
watched
your pale blue scan.
Shadow played.
Midnight crept.
We talked of poets & poetry,
art & artists,
and twined aesthetics
like so many fingers
in each other's hands.
We spoke of primes, and
later
you whispered my name,
it was nearly a prayer
at the alter of an evening
that was perfect.
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

To Taste

it might be
kids growing weed-like to manhood
or wanting to be with you
time trickles elusively
I try to hold on
it drips
honey from my hands
yawning to the ground
washed away in the rain
oh, to lick
each precious bit
from my fingers
suck its sweetness
until I am sick with it
sticky with it
greedy
wanting all of you at once
not satisfied
with delicious spoonfuls
shining gems
the jar tips again
my days
pour unremarked
I reach
to catch a taste
of lazy afternoon in your arms
sweetness
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Lunch

sitting
in the courtyard
blinded by
azalean electricity
vainly trying to
look into this
picture of you
it is my oasis
don't make me
want and
nothing to drink
give me
sweet clear water
quenching every
garden that never grew,
I fancy myself an azalea
wildly pink and
blinding
in the sun
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

A 3 A.M. Think

your heart
beat against
the pulse
in my wrist, a storm
echoing thunder
I hugged closer
thinking how easily I
could have missed you
in this tangled
bed of souls
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

5:05 A.M.

I will not wake you
as I write this
but listen to your
quiet breathing
(you are deep
inside some womb)
when you do wake
you will emerge, unfold
like a newborn colt
to wonder who slapped you
into this harsh world
for now
I'll just watch
the blankets rise
and fall
as peace kisses
your face in youth
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Bluebells

the fog of my thoughts
whorls through the mist
always back to you
and the sleepy rumble of
"I love you"
from beneath the blankets
where I've left my kisses
as the moon winks goodbye
and bluebells line the road
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Morning Calls

drink another
cup of coffee
honey
and wake me
with your song
my day's not right
without
the music of your soul
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Branded

I did not
write for you
today
you caught
my fire
words
have no gravity,
thoughts are instant
cinder in this blaze
and the only poetry
is your name
seared
upon every beat
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Choices

Quench this fire and
one day waking
you'll reach to grasp
a wisp of smoke
a pale blue shadow
of warmth that I once was

I am a chalkboard angel,
retrace the figure,
edge the outline -
even erased
the image stays, and
lazy motes of chalk dust
remind you to hold what
you're afraid to touch

You took my coat -
tattered, frayed,
worn too long,
and smothering, but
at times a comfort -
fling it away,
rags of misplaced loyalty
don't wash well

You lit the fire
You drew the picture
You removed my old garments

I wait -
choose to hold me
(time will tell)
or you will hold
ashes
dust
tatters
(time will tell)
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Do You Mind

do you mind
if I dance
to your music
I am whirling
with your beat
and I could stay
forever drunk
on the wine of your laughter
you ask me why
well, there's no reason
to the rhythm
that I feel and
the rhyme is
oddly metered
but I don't care
I don't
I'll just dance
awake
in the riot
of the moment
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Fair Game

I have never been
so childlike
as when we play
this adult game
of bite and tickle
suck and wrestle
I hand you
all my toys -
you play
selfishly selfless,
controlling
my rebellious giggles
and rewiring them
to a gasp
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Hip Pocket

she carried his soul
in her hip pocket
and when she swaggered by
moved him on an ocean
of infinite longing
to be anywhere
where she was
still knowing
he was there all along
as she strolled
smiling
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Honey Moon on Mars

I ask for the moon
he gives me Mars
always a measure ahead
of what I never knew
I wanted
always a beat faster
than the heart
think I know
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Jack of All Trades

a stranger
danced into my mist
jittered & jived hypnotically
commanded focus,
kept me rapt as
he sang my songs

a court jester
juggled planets
scattered them to orbit
apples & oranges
world upside down
I watched
as he ate my words

a trickster
cleverly shuffled the deck
dealt the queen of hearts
& tripped me up
as he caught my fall
then pushed me skyward

a man
sat miles away
caressing my soul
cradling my heart
& waiting for me
to come home
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Folding Fabric

the yards billowing
softness in my arms
spread wide, then
folding you into
dream thoughts -
patches, squares, forming patterns
of quilted
to-be memories -
a raining Sunday in bed
sipping coffee
and kisses
as the newspaper
gets crumpled between us,
forgotten
as all my random yesterdays
before you
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Ol' Dawg

days go by
spiders dance
new threads on a web
I watch you
teach the ol' dawg
new tricks
whispering her name
in shadows of afternoon sun
I would photograph you
the true picture
lost forever
and the sound of tools
never heard
so, I let it all narrow
to a grainy image
that I will look on
years from now
in our graying together
and smile back
at the lad
coaxing a stubborn ol' dawg
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Origami

If my love for you
knows any bounds
it is its inability
to define the how or why
my heart
folds at the sight of you
folds like a plain
white sheet of paper
gets folded
folds again then unfolds
an origami bird
and at once
flying is possible
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Morning Song

wrap my heart
in ribbons
soft pink
and morning yellow
wandering on
wind-scented lavender
dreaming awake
whisper my name
where I can't hear
a voiceless pulling silence
take my soul, take my soul
take me, all of me
stepping from the edge
falling? no

flying, flying-
ribbons fluttering in my wake
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Raindancer

walking in the rain
laughing as
each drop
hits my face –
a kiss from you
before long
I am dancing
to an unnamed tune
spinning, whirling
to music I hear
in your embrace
the non-dancers
smile wistfully
(as I pass them,
spattering life on their cuffs)
and wish they knew your song.
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Semper Adoramus Te....Gravis

never
is a word
I try not to use
because like always
it erodes
and I would
rather spend
my small fortune
listening
to the timbre of your voice
and reading
your body in braille
than promising
to always love you,
to never leave you,
`cause that's a given
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Snapshot

a picture of you
in my bed
Cheshire grin
in response to my purr
limbs braided
and love tangled
it was a Thursday
and amazing
but nothing so surprising
as your Cheshire grin
telling me how perfect
this picture is
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Sum Total

the whole being greater
shakes your sensibility
where one and one
are not two
distance is a wicked equalizer
time a cruel negator
your skills can't push emotion
into a neat, balanced line
this is what confounds
this is what pries at the edges
of your theory and
bangs unabashed
at the doors of your conscience
well, open up, dear
throw out the rules
the whole is greater
leaving a greater hole
we're just some of the parts
it's made of
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Through The Skylights

Glance quickly
at this sunrise
the mist holds her silver orb
like a lover cupping a breast

Look, but don't linger
as she blushes pink,
the veil slipping fully from her,
revealing a pale golden nipple

She stretches
cat-like across the sky

Too beautiful to be held,
she leaves quietly
while you are sleeping
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

It's Not About the Orgasm

And she unfolded
with his touch...

no longer
needing
substance
in the
quavering silence
of lips
tracing skin

no longer
wanting
release
in the
quivering moment
of hands
lingering
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Today's Feature Story

I cried blood
for you
my heart pumping emotion
exhausted
I lay on the floor
a discarded newspaper
to be picked up and read
by the next stranger
to come along
even so,
the words remain the same
remain the same
sounding over and over
and over
in my head
flashing in black and white
bold-face print
never changing

in some corner of me
a street urchin paces
crying out headlines

GIVING UP LOVE
ONE WOMAN'S SACRIFICE

I'm sorry I couldn't tell you myself
but you've only to read it in the papers
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Waiting For the Train

I expected love from you
(you seemed the sort)
but I didn't see it
as a great locomotive
me, unaware on the tracks
I thought I was holding my ground
hit me dead center
knocked me out of my shoes
left me shaking stars out of my head
wondering what happened

waiting every day now
for the train

I never suspected
(my love for you)
you seemed the sort
to need love
but I didn't
see it coming from me
as a wild canyon river
twisting
winding
carving steps in time
you, aware
walked into the current
knowing I would come around

you stood patiently
in the rain

lucky, you say?
damned lucky
it's not often
the train runs on time
and the river
just so
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

A Tuesday

on the balcony
coffee steaming comfort
pink stealing night from the sky
hawk circling, dancing to
whoosh-honk of hurried traffic
trees hollering Springtime

this is East
it is Tuesday
nothing extraordinary, but

I have touched something unseen,
been pulled from sleep
I know
the scent of ocean in his hair
the thrum-dah of his heart
the cool warmth of cotton on his skin
the timbre and rhythm of his love voice
the look of naked desire in his eyes

calling me West
calling me West
the hawk circles away to the darker horizon

this is East
it is Tuesday
I sip my coffee
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

The Long Sweetening

take me to the place
where time begins and ends
a quiver launched
against blued dreaming
take me to the dawn
of everything
you wake me to
new morning
take me in
and spin the world again
keep me dizzied
by the whirlpool
in the eddy of your fingers
floating like new breath
across my skin
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Point of Freedom

take me
to the breaking point and
stop
there long enough
to feel the
snap
of freedom

you choose
to hear me
crying
but the sound
you miss is the
slam
of a closing door

take long enough
you miss the breaking
point
of freedom closing
the sound you hear
is just me
and the door
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

An Understanding

like fog down the mountain
your love comes
silent slow
enfolding
and disarming
you weave this mist
move in me
without a breath
without sound
so blindly
I pick my way
with care
knowing the brush of fir
and scent of morning
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Wavering

you echo through me
the gull's cry upon
a diaphanous
and lingering cloud
the sound of thunder
against desert wind

you bounce into me
a buoy adrift
on a changeable
and rippling sea
a light refracted
in a glass facade

you come and go
you go and you come
back to me

these gossamer moments
these nebulous days
these flickering dreams
are what I have of you
are what hold me
somehow
but an untethered heart
will prove transient
just as a gypsy
is given to wander
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Don’t Leave Me Yet
don’t leave me yet
the nights are lush
with stars upswept for gazing

don’t leave me yet
with June unwound
and Summer’s dance now swaying

don’t leave me yet
your eyes so bright
they bring light to my waking

don’t leave me yet
I want years, and
this is what I’m not saying
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Undefined
is he your... are you guys...?
so, she is... what?
you haven't said
I wouldn't dare
we both know
it's not lack of caring
I'd rather just
"it is what it is"
than shape something
into boxed meaning
I'd stay (mostly) intact
were you not here
in this unlabeled together-being
but
I'll say the unsaid
I'll use all the right words
in hope
of you not leaving
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Small Comfort
cat in the window
you, asleep in the chair
as the morning wends
its way like coffee steam
there are small comforts
amid the cobble and tumble
of this tripping road
and, this is one-
the cat's purr
matching your soft snore
measure for measure
as I sit sipping,
my thoughts drifting
on the tide of the ticking clock
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

In Early June
In the stoned murmur
of something
rushing through the
blood-dark sea,
there is the lost
hush of a wave
in your sigh
and a needful tide
in your command.
You fuck
the way I think--
rampant invasion
and wild aggression,
chaotic meter,
and measure gone
in an attempt to release
random longing.
You said,
“you are fucking unreal”
--as if I’d
disappear
as you came,
my existence
fueled only
by your thrust.
All curled toes
and screaming greed,
I taloned your back
to let you know
I was not gone,
nor would be going
soon,
or at all.
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Will You Stay?

I've gotten used to
your dreaming mutter in my bed
and waking to your scent
as the morning holds sway

I've gotten used to
your voice, the meter
and measure of words
and the volume of what you don't say

I've gotten used to
your jeans on my floor
and your feet
in my lap at the end of the day

I've gotten used to
hope everything, expect nothing
as is my style, but because I dare wish it,
I'll ask, "Will you stay?"
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

A Night Without Dreams

fingers
withing & yanking
my hair,
you claimed me
in a hushed thrust
of noctilucent passion
damned near perfect
it was,
as we laughed
and shared a smoke
later,
limbs tangled
in a confusion of sheets,
my ears tuned
to your tranquil breathing,
I pondered
how easily
you've slipped into my life,
and how simply
you've come
to share my bed
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Kissing You

your lips
never far
from mine
even as we speak
brush lightly
then stop to taste
your tongue
reaching for me
all the while
I'm lost
in you watching me
looking at you
kiss me love
then kiss me again
and again
never before
have I known
love
to be a fairy-dancer
casting spells
on your lips
on my lips
ah, my lover
kiss me again
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Love & Warrior

there is a deeper valley
you must ride
before you can love me
let the warrior
admit his wounds
I will weep
a single tear -
its bitter salt
to sear the aching void -
and then no more

there is a darker night
you must sleep through
before you can love me
let the warrior
close all his eyes
blindly trust
I will warm
your shivering -
the cover of
a new dawn to sooth -
sight unclouded ever more

there is a wider river
you must cross
before you can love me
let the warrior
stride into the water
I will hold you
against the current -
washing regret
and fear downstream -
birthing you
once more

there is a greater battle
you must fight
before you can love me
let the warrior
acknowledge the mirror
I will wait,
love in balance -
sure that you
will reach for your true self -
Courage, Warrior
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

You Haven’t Hurt Me, But…

the chaos
of your love
makes it impossible
to give enough
of this well-ordered
dream and, so being
I wander
empty corridors,
ruling out disorder
amid the rustle
of written words
I'm sorry to say
my love, my love
I need more
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Subway Poem

Sorry
no subway poem
today
the sun is so bright
and
my heart too full
to empty into words
that fly uselessly
in the face
of all that holds me

Sorry
no subway poem
today
let me sit here
surrounded
by sleepy people
and trick my thoughts
into feeling
his kiss
rather than submitting
to pen

Sorry
no subway poem
today
I am busy
thinking of brown eyes,
razor sharp humor,
crying, laughing,
confessing, "I love you,"
prowled through dreams
and shelf life
(yes, he asked me if we have shelf life)

Sorry
no subway poem
today
I would write for you
but it is
difficult to do
nestled here
in the crook of his dreaming
about flannel and sleepy mornings
with the sun so bright
it is blinding
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Wildcat Dreams – Part I

Restless tiger
prowling my night,
know that I am
Huntress.
I have caught your scent
and
set my sights on you.
I wait (desiring),
but watch only as
you stalk -
until,
seduced by your wildness,
I become the hunted.
Velveting paws
you push, roll, pull
and explore me -
steaming silk of breath
on my thighs, my neck and
the small of my back.
You keep toying and
I am spellbound,
wanting to be devoured.
In this consummative dance -
you claim me
in teeth.
I curl into you,
safe from everything but
your smile against my skin,
then,
catlike,
sleep at last.
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Wildcat Dreams – Part II

fingers drift
across the contour
of my need
you haunt
you pry
you prey
you fuel my release
even so
the tide of your hands
keeps me floating
in this unseen dream
of a soul that melts
in a hidden fire,
this velvet baptism
of desire
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Wildcat Dreams – Part III

Sleepless,
thoughts whisper
like leaves on the wind.
What feral beast
has caught my scent,
prowled my dark dreams,
pinned me helpless, and devoured
these bones of desire?
In the musky teeth of this madness
I do not long
for morning.
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

What If

one question occupies
not what if the fates
hadn’t sent your wave
across my hull
not what if tears
hadn’t come unbidden
as a Summer frost
not what if our dreams
hadn’t twined
in a syzygy of light
but
what if my kiss
leaves you breathless
one day
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Sweet Dreams

Come with me
when the world's asleep
and we are sent
to somewhere

Walk with me
when the night is hush
and we are lost
in anywhere

Love with me
when the moon is high
and we are miles
from nowhere
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Distant Drummer

Wait in my dreams
Of a deep velvet evening
Where stars wink in accord
I am the girl
Walking toward you,
Tears streaming to laughter,
Carrying a basket filled
With hope, promise, and desire
Fragile creatures wanting birth

Wait for me in the silence
Of the hush before morning
As comets steal across the sky
I’ll find you there
On a crystal mountainside
Holding a quiver filled
With wonder, breath, and longing
I am the girl
Walking toward you
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Eatonville (With A Wink)

all of the roads
the twisting & winding
& straight seeming endless
up hillsides
through tunnels
over bridges
the dazzling blind light
or unseeing dark
at the water's edge
of stars &
waves
the dreams of days
& days of dreams
the wandering
aimlessly found pursuit
over mountains
into valleys, across
sand-blown desert wishes
the hiking &
searching
the paved & the pathless
empty
miles in a lifetime of inches
the peaceful, the stormy, the
clouded, the shining deep
blue sky of a moment when
all of the roads
I've traveled upon -
all roads
led to you
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Everything’s Relational

there's an ellipsis
at the end of
my feelings for you
a vague unwinding
of a distant dream
something unfinished
something unseen

there's a comma
to addend the
"you're my friend"
a lesson on yearning
for a greater means
something unreasoned
something unsought

there's an accent
on this story
of you, me & love
a constant living
between the measures
something unquestioned
something unsaid, and...
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Am I Falling In Love Or Losing My Marbles?

Songs that remind me of you
roll 'round in my mind
like marbles - silver steelies,
cat-eyes, and puries.
You've cast your lot,
you've waged war
against my best defense.
Now it's my turn;
I roll out the big red one,
will myself to stop shaking,
try not to let you see
the trembling child.
This is my prize possession,
my lucky chancer, my
come-on-baby-roll-me-home-it's-do-or-die-and-
I'm-damn-sure-not-going-to-die-so-do-it.
Yeah, I roll out the big red one,
it revolves slowly in
incandescent ruby arcs
to lightly tap your steelie.
I scramble to collect them up,
(all mine now, you know) and
one of your cat-eyes
winks at me.
I gather them to me,
into my hand, and
hold on tightly,
hold on tightly,
hold on.
The deejay announces another song.
I already know the tune.
I hold on tightly, and
smiling, hum along.
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

He Claims He’s Not A Poet

you left me rolling along
with an exaggerated elliptic

you moved in, you took over
you straightened
all the pictures
on all the walls

my mind is whelmed over with you,
the hint of your essential self at the edge of my heartbeat,
at each thud-pound

eyes do more than see

when you imagine the ocean, what do you remember?
I think of salty breezes,
the low vibration of waves pounding sand
and the kee-ah of gulls

days are too short for my thoughts of us,
time sings agitation for hotter days

time takes care of everything...
Rome and a day...
empirical knowledge
the hint of your essential self at the edge of my heartbeat
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

A Sharpening

the ax is yours to grind, but
I won't whet the stone
someday you'll wonder
what all that grinding was for
then notice the peasant girl
sitting quietly in your corner
darning an old sock
listen to the gypsy
singing to the night
remark the streetwise gal
gunning for the subway
or the lover who rewired your dreams
look upon the woman
who wanders the wilderness
then wish you could be with any one of them
tempus fugit
the ax is yours to grind
here's the stone, baby
I'll be around
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Deviant Angel

a whisper
of invisible wings
flutters and beats
pulled from
the talons of reason
I am driven to
this deep wanting
something animal and
unseen
do not save me
from my wicked self
don't save, just guide me
lead me to the inner halls
show me the dark marrow
in the bones
of this deviant longing
until I am fallen
angel
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

At The Door

Baby, I'm knocking.
Let me into your house,
and leave me to wander
the basement filled
with yesterday's future.

I'll look through
all your photographs -
the pretty, the sad, the ugly, the laughing -
leaving on the rubber-banded pile
a picture of me smiling.

I'll play
your old guitar,
slightly untuned,
adding my voice `til
the blend excludes the gloom.

I'll sniff through
the musty memories
of old t-shirts and trinkets,
burying my scent among them.

I'll paw through
the remnants of your youth,
dingy, yellowed,
mis- and well- spent moments,
scrawling my name in the dust.

Then I'll sit quietly
in your living room,
sipping coffee,
`til you are used to me there,
'til you've forgotten
I was ever not there.

I'm not the thief you take me for.
I'm standing
on your doorstep.
I'm knocking, Baby.
Just let me in.
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Kabo’s Dream

stretched out, staring to
rain pattering the roof above
whispers from you
wishing a dream to reality
I reach out to
trace a smile on your lips
then vanish
leaving my audience wanting

word games we played
in a year of rainy Saturdays
Was it Bartok or Debussy?
I'm beautiful because
you called me Kate
you left your audience
wanting

wrestling conscience
and arguing age
no matter
I would have
if you had
but I really wanted your love
(there it is said)

I hope
you still wear black
anthracite eyes
scorched midnight gleam of your hair
all colors absorbed
all things possible
depth to be explored

I imagine you
early evening
at a primrose scented cafe
fingertips searching mine
eyes met in understanding
tea cooling unminded
like the dream of a girl
you never reached for

old soul
I was your ghost girl
a young dream of something past
an old vision of something new
a place you couldn't get to
but I am only a woman
and I would
if ever you
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Come Back

these tears
scald the morning,
lip service
to a day when
we danced in the sun
me, spinning
into the music
of your laughter

and now
your voice, as silent
as these walls,
will not grace
my vain wishing
for one more moment
with you,
please,
just one
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Watercolors

thoughts
within thoughts
infuse my morning
water droplets
from my hair
slow dancing
down my back to
remind me of your
touch
that travelled
the length of
my wanting
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Holding On To The Intangible

All day you've been
knocking at my door
c'mon in then
Baby, pour me
another morning
of fire-drenched leaves
and coffee perfume
rata-tat rain on the roof
and steamed windows
murmurs that rumble thunder
and flash lightning
kisses
like juice from a pear
and silk to the touch
thumb strumming
the length of my jaw
and yanking my tether
laughing as I flew

All day
I've been swimming in reality
but dancing with you and
holding on to the intangible
Sweet Jesus, Baby,
pour me another like that
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Need

I don’t care
about the women
you’ve taken to your bed –
don’t care to know
if they were
blond, brunette, or redhead,
if this one
came on like a whore,
and that one a shy little girl,
if their skin
felt like dandelion fluff
or leather,
used whips
or whipped cream,
left you limp,
gobbled you whole,
screamed your name,
or prayed for mercy.
Don’t want to be
compared to,
or an amalgamation of
all the names you’ve
slept with.
Won’t be your
first girlfriend,
wife,
slut,
or mother.
What I do want –
to throw you down,
go down,
take you down,
turn you inside out,
make you forget.
I don’t dare say,
want to be god to you,
hold you to my breast
until you lose
what makes you a man,
helpless in my arms,
content to be breathing.
Want to unleash
every screaming rage,
bottomless sorrow,
overwhelming joy,
and take the same from you –
walk all over you `til you beg my name,
treat you with such tenderness
you weep my name,
touch every aching part of you –
make you laugh, make you cry,
make you know.

What I want most?
(and this stops me cold)
I want you
to need all of it
from me.
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011

Is It?

Is it
that you are calling my name
cajoling silence resounding
in an echo
that makes me weep

or

is it
that you are pulling at my heart
tiny invisible strings
tugging, rousing me
from my sleep

or

is it
that you look in my eyes
watching visions dance
and swirl in rhythm,
treasures buried
in my deep

or

is it
that you are simply
answer to my wishes
candles, pennies, and stars
that were never
mine to keep
© Barbara Ann Black, 2010-2011