my friend

my friend, across the street,
comes over,
now and then, again
to the tree,
He waits,
I linger...

ldn

old barn

barn on Best Road. Washington State

It wasn’t that the barn or the cold wind in my bones

this fall had anything to do with it at all,

it wasn’t that at all,

was more like a forest falling,

a short fall,

and sometimes when you’re pretty

and older comes your call,

it ain’t the time to be who isn’t you at all.

ldn

Monday morning

come Monday morning,

we aught to take the train,

we could be back home,

by dawn again...

and if someone knows your gone,

or that I came,

We'll explain,

that you need to be here with your baby,

on  Monday  morning.

ldn.  

Into red.

I am your secret,

You are the keeper of it, so

hold me close to your heart, and soul.

Oh wicked one,

My kindred spirit,

You who knows,

You who taunts me with mine own blood,

and guts, 

then rushes off raging like a bull,  into red.

ldn 

House of blue a dream 12/ 012013

I painted my mother's house blue,

others helped, some escaped and hid away

into another room.

my friends were there,

those who knew,
those who lived on this earth once, too

but flew

It was a shanty, her house,

with broken rafters, and a ceiling

you could see through,

there were treasures there,

hidden,

away in places she had not forgotten,

to remove from old boxes.

I found one, a gift from her father,

rediscovered, it was new.

we placed it on a shelf, from where she flew

away from her house of blue.

ldn.  

Autumn's floor

He's an old man for God's  sake,

leave him not stranded in the desert,

or on a mountaintop unclothed,

Be his cane, his companion
in the darkness

If he has harmed you,
let the wounds now go

like the leaves on Autumn's floor

that rush away at the slight of the wind,

and birth anew in the soil of you,

then live again.

ldn

Simple girl

I'm a simple girl, really,

not bandaged with cloth turbans

of yesteryears,

worn under stocking hats, 

made to look like Santa Claus in waiting

I'm simple girl, really,

living in the moment,

with scarf tied loosely, overhead, on

one shoulder dropping low against bare skin,

I'm a simple girl, really,

yanked from the mosque at noon

by heavily bearded guards, watching over, Allah's tomb

I'm a simple girl, really,

not bound by time-outs

on green grassy fields, where people play

with hearts, weaving them 

back and  forth, back and forth, back and forth

into centuries of old tapestries

where sublime colors wear burgundy,

black and blue, black and blue, black and blue

brush-stroking my soul, while whistling,
while whistling, while whistling in tune  

I'm a simple girl, really.

ldn 

the Day

for my Mona


I was born of my Faith through visions and dreams,

dropped from a noose onto angel wings

that carried me home where my soul doth bring

the blood of my heart as a gift to Him

I cannot say why I've stayed here so long, 

the tests have been plenty,

I've not always been strong,

My back has been burdened,

my soul has been wronged,

the weight of His tests tho' my song

Somehow He heard me, my song as I sung

so kept me around
from the day I lay hung when I fell from the noose,

to the ground.

Ya Baha'u'llah Abha!

ldn

in a boxcar

Interior of a boxcar used by Nazi Germany to transport Jews and other victims during World War II - WikiapediA


In a boxcar

on a  hiatus,

and although I know I'll return one day,

I can’t say when,

or if I will see you again

I may take a plane to who knows where,

secretly hoping you’ll be there

hanging around for me like the moon

that waits for the morning that comes too soon

I may board the train in the pouring rain,

sit in the boxcar where the light comes in

or hijack a ship as it sails to shore

then lie in the sun where we lay before,

or wait for you to come back again,

or sit in the boxcar where the light comes in.

ldn

Jenny

If Jenny'd had a friend, she’d not have walked away
to the river bend,

and she’d still be here today,
if Jenny’d had a friend someone would’ve known
why Jenny walked away
the day she left the playground when Jenny went away
If Jenny’d had a friend,
she’d still be here today,
so listen all you people,
who wonder now ‘bout Jenny,
but who never cared to listen,
to what Jenny had to say…

ldn

The reluctant soldier

Magnets attract,

and it doesn't take a rocket scientist to understand

why we fight,
to draw the sword of conclusion,

to know what the war is about - 

both sides push out,

so the battle continues

because the force is the same, 

and if just one of us, you or me, turned our magnet around,

in the other direction, 

succumbing to the law of attraction,

we'd be sucked into the black hole of God,

we'd be reborn, and live in peace,

at last,

never to return to this planet earth,

where the battle rages,

where we go through stages,

until the Trumpet Blast,

where we live and die from death 'til birth

Hang on, reluctant soldier!

Don't give in to the war that's over

Hold to the hem, and don't bend in,

don't let go for you're getting older, 

and if luck will have it, you'll still be around

where magnets meet, at heaven's gate, where soldier's wait

on the borderline of hell, 

where from the fire they smolder.

ldn

prisoners no more *

I understand if you have to go,

and love is taking prisoners no more

I will never abandon you,

I will always be your friend,

but I can not be your lover,

so in this I risk the end

I offer you my soul,

for in my soul is where you are,

and love is taking prisoners no more.

*inspired by Luka Bloom -

Holding Back The River
by Luka Bloom

Like an arc, two lovers come
From their own place beneath the sun
That shines on individual souls
Feeds us, keeps each one of us whole
Two hearts don’t beat as one
Each one listens to our own drum
Slowly we come to touch
To share the fruit we want so much
We have been holding back the river
We almost drowned before
But love has changed forever
It’s taking prisoners no more
So we walk to the Grand Canal
A Dublin woman and a country pal
Where the city is such a perfect place
Swans glide in total grace
Kavanagh sits in a morning dream
Smiles at the familiar scene
Of your brown eyes, your red hair
Your voice so soft, your skin so fair
We have been holding back the river
We almost drowned before
But love has changed forever
It’s taking prisoners no more

mean streaks

Mean streaks scare me,
for one never knows,
where the mean streaks come from
or where they will go.

Pardon me please...

I knew the shoe would drop in the end,

that I’d be holding the bottle the fragrance was in

and not get to smell you sweet on my skin

So pardon me please if I miss you,

so pardon me please if I miss you,

now and then

ldn

The Warrior

It is tough being a warrior
battling it out from within
holding the guard
looking ahead, not to where you have been
where corpses lie hidden under your skin
staying on top of the game you can't win
It is tough being a warrior
not giving in

ldn

 

the drink before

- the Wheel, Hwy 33  - life in the 1960s

the  drink before

I'm wondering if you remember the drink before

you left me standing at the door,

you said to make it strong

like I'd never made your drink before,

now you're gone,

and  I'll never make your drink again,

I'm kinda sad, if you know what I mean,

cause you were the best thing I'd ever seen,

walking out the door,

and I wish I'd known before,

that you were the one I was waiting for

now I'm wondering if you remember the drink before

you left me standing at the door.

ldn

Locks, paper thin

 

 

I hate being tricked, really,

like the times when my step dad scotch taped the cupboards,

so he could catch the thief.

We were hungry, dammit!

Kids don’t go stealing food from their own cupboards,

because they’re bad.

Sometimes hunger gets the best of them.

Children learn what they live,

to sneak around corners into the places he'd been

scotch taping cupboards…

I mean there must be something really good in them,

to warrant the locks, paper thin.

It didn’t take long to see through the disguise,

the dis-ease.
I learned no matter the cost, to please,

to be a child too early, too wise,

a child who did not trust,

no matter how hungry she was… 

ldn

The drummer's dream

 

 

You will never lose the part of you that's yours, nor the struggle to stay on course,
if you drift too far from shore... turn your back to he wind
for that is what wind is for.

Listen to your dejembe beat from deep inside your heart

how ~~~ it drums to its own vibration,

coursing out your chart.

Only you can hear it, and no one else can know

how to sail your ship to wherever it chooses to go

It is "your" soul,
your drum,
your beat,

It is yours alone,

breathe in,

breathe out,

Baby, let it flow...

 

ldn

Cranial Sacral Work

I cannot  know how you feel without listening,

to the space between your sighs…

as you breath in,

chest rising,

inhaling,

receiving your mother’s cries

like a flower sucking on rain after a drought.

I hear you in my own heart, tossing,

around.

Exhale slowly, please,

then shout like a bull horn blasting…

(I hear not a sound.)

I freeze,

scribble onto my pad,

take chart notes, furiously,

giving you all I have left

to give through my listening.

Return,

come back.

come out, 
learn.

ldn

a dream (11/1/13)

 

 

The telegraphic post that you sent in my dream,

well I got it
You said nothing about the way you found me,

on the other side of me,

or how you lost your key

but I got it,

finally

You drank sugar and wine,

there was a fine unspoken line

between your sofa and me,

I did not cross it

until I made you a gin and tonic

It took a long, long time to make it

because I had never mixed

your drink before

I served you a glass too high,

you said it was fine

I figured the longer it took you to drink it,

the longer you would stay,

then we strained to hear the music,

but the piano wouldn’t play…

ldn

Pieces

My life is made up of patterns, 

I'd like to take a big fat pair of pinking shears,

cut them up into little bitty pieces,

stir them in a big fat gold fish bowl,

pick one out and see

if one of the little bitty pieces

holds within it the pattern that is me,

like my DNA on the cigarette butt

left from my lipstick that sucked

out the last 

vapor of nicotine into my lungs,

or the blood from the cut

that I inflicted onto the only real thing I know

when I used that big fat pair of pinking shears

to shred the patterns out of my little bitty soul.

ldn

The Bomb

*note: this poem was created after a comment from a facebook friend (first two lines) on my profile picture . With the commenter's permission,
I went with it.  (I am a peace loving person...)

The Bomb

There is only one place I want to bomb

and that is the Pentagon

I know that this statement could get me in trouble,

but what have I got to lose?

I could dig my way out from under the rubble

I could surrender to the abuse,

I could build another structure

in the vein where the needle punctures

but I really see no use,

and dammit, I refuse!

Cause, 

we're all going down and spinning around

at this planet's critical juncture -

there are  holes in the ozone

we've poisoned the seas

we're sucking up gasses from man made machines

our eyes are all cloudy

our ears cannot hear

we're screaming together in our concert of fear

our backs are all breaking

our legs cannot move

we're hanging together, our necks in a noose

and who kicks the stool out from under our feet?

You know the answer, so I will repeat,

to the man in the seat

with his boot on the stool where our world sits upon,

"There is only one place I want to bomb,

and that is the Pentagon."

ldn