NASA Image of the Day

Thursday, October 1, 2009

Dawn's Interesting Definition for the Day

Botox: An exchange of cellulite between the depressed and the truly twisted.

Monday, September 28, 2009

Spit and Apples

Oh, afternoons.

The bright sun belied the crisp of leaves, and slight breeze, as we lay the blanket amongst the trees. Strangely, I was unafraid, despite how intensely you were staring at me, smiling. Of course I was unafraid: it was you, and I had no need to fear you, despite your quiet, and mine.

You kept saying, "You know, I've never really been on a picnic before. This is almost surreal."

I laughed, and said you could not possibly be Canadian, never having been on a picnic with a woman before. You said that no one had thought it a good, valuable use of time. I sniffed, somewhat contemptuously, at the idea of someone being so pompous. Life is not complete with at least one picnic in one's life, particularly if one appreciates the simple perfection of feeding food to another person, savouring a swirl of wine on the tongue - with enough time to taste the one lovely glass of it, which accompanies the decency of a good meal - or something. (I tend to elongate, when I try to summarize what I thought at a given moment. I think in layers, and it gets difficult, particularly when you smell like strong sandalwood soap, which I adore, of course...)

I remember you said that you thought that cheese, bread and apples had never tasted quite so exquisite, as I fed them to you, but you kept rubbing your face against my leg, so I kept having difficulty getting the food into you, which was terribly frustrating, although it left me tingly, as I recall....I sigh.

In any case, I said I wanted you to tell me why you thought I was interesting, after all was said and done, and you got this funny smile on your face, when I said that I found it odd, considering what perfect specimens of womanhood with which you were constantly surrounded. I wasn't being mocking, or jealous, when I said it, either, as you know - which I think is a terrible waste of time, like being petty - just rather introspective, since I am not particularly stunning, physically, although I have some decent qualities, and my chest is still fairly decent, at 45 - which takes some work, and a small investment fund in good support bras, frankly.

Then I said I loved your hair, because you looked like John Lennon, and it made me want to roll us both up in the blanket and fall asleep, after some major exercise, as long as we were naked, and it didn't get too cold outside, that night. Also, I was somewhat worried that a dog might come and pee on us, for some strange reason, which I think ruined the romance of the moment, although you spit out your apples, and wine came out your nose, for a full five minutes after I said it, while you laughed and tried not to choke. I had to pat you on the back, and I got quite concerned, when your face started changing colour, although I really would not have minded giving you mouth to mouth, as long as you didn't try and bird share your chewed apple with me, which probably would have made me feel rather sick. (Some things are meant for one person to savour, and discuss with someone else. It's like sharing gum you've picked off the road; there's a reason your mother warns you not to do it, after all. It turnes out it's a little nasty, darling. Ech.)

Anyway...where was I? Right; apples spewing. When you had recovered from humourously regurgitating at a particularly awe inspiring moment of possible dramatic necking, etc., in which we did not engage at that particular moment, because you said you thought a bit of throw up had become lodged in your throat, which I thought might have ruined it, somewhat, despite me dying to, after all....well, then, you sighed, heavily, with tears in your eyes, and said..."Oh, ask me another time." (You were still trying to breathe.)

I said I would, and I mean to, one day soon.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

Scrubs for Peace

Azure and agile, spark and murmuring silently, muse and moment,
Only speak.
Speak, and there will be a movement, here, in my quiet, that I have hidden,
Kept safe, guarded and shielded
Against Death.
Held here, in the ink of night, ink of heart, ink of flame and of flower,
It has watered the garden of forget, the blossom of try, and the field of hope.
It has danced, when my feet could not, dragging, like the awkward placement
of Me
in My own life.
I feel I intrude, somehow, without you.
See, here! Here is this small mountain, raised towards your hand. It is a proud breast, this.
Strange, how skin is current, then, after all.
Strange, this soft sweet now, and warm, and breathe,
When all the earth is shrieking with
Permutations of its Own Agony.
I want it to Heal Itself.
Circle's half, here is my piece; hold my hand.
We'll not know who is Assisting.
It's Irrelevant.

Self Defence

"What do I look like, a pussy?", he said, glowering.

She paused - as was her wont - thoughtfully, pursing her lips, and narrowing her eyes at him.
The words, when they rolled softly from her lips, were punctuated by perfectly enunciated consonants.

"Well", she mused, "my only other alternative was asshole, and it seemed rather rude, frankly."

Three people, struggling mightily to control their sudden coughing, left the room, as the door clicked loudly behind them. A muffled kind of strangled sound - rather like screaming laughter and choking - sounded from the hallway.

She smiled at him, fondly.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009


"What do you dream?" he said, softly.

"You", she said, quietly.

"Why?" he said, gently.

"Because" she answered slowly.

"Often?" he said, hesitantly.

"Enough, and always", she said, honestly.

"Is it good?" he asked.

"The best", she said.

"Do I wait?" he said.

"Unbelievably", she said.

"That's good", he said.

"I know", she said.

He smiled.

"Like life", he said.

She smiled.

"Now", she said, and kissed him.

Saturday, September 12, 2009

Make Up

What is this instant, sheen-like spin, that settles around my mind like vibrating protons
Urging blood flow, within the sphere that is my imagination's cortex?
I would say bees, but they are nothing, and everything, like electron mix
Of next, coaching towards Total Self, and Other Self, and Half.

Mad science, when pressed; yet not anything I am prior, only yet.
If air move dance is yet, and perhaps pause is then, then now can only be sigh possible
Hitting Matter.
Oh, then, Reaction is Opposite, and Equal, Truly, madly, Deeply:

Vortex, born Star, Genesis, and Shangri-La of Touch and imprint, and Mac.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

Dent Progress

If I press my hand against your cheek, a remembrance of my body imprints, momentarily, upon your skin, and then you become yourself again.
I am just a momentary dent, in the beingness of your body, springing back into itself.
How different, my soul, when I softly open myself to your murmuring exploring,
And all that is new and wonderful about joining, and searching, and striving for more than dent - to closed eyes, to opened eyes, to staring, breathing
Straight stare, total tremble, at once, while so, at gaze staring back -
Is in the sigh, that always waits
For mine.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009


Top speed, 32 miles an hour, Dawn sits astride her brand new e-bike (a prize won at work), excitedly strapping on her new helmet in the dark, so that none of the neighbours see her introductory ride...

Good thing, too: as she hits the pedals to initiate the brakes (which aren't located there, of course, as she remembered them being, on the bicycle on which she first began to ride) before actually going anywhere, panicking, she squeezes the ride hand control...which also happens to be the accelerator - how surprising! - slamming into the driveway railroad tie, and ingloriously managing to fall over, as the bike shoots towards the neighbour's porch, without her on it, rather like a sailing hand held car - without the remote.

Somewhat predictably, it moves amazingly faster, without an actual body on it. (Cough.) The body sits blinking rather awkwardly on the asphalt, looking decidedly relieved that the very first attempt at learning the controls - without an actual manual, with all visible directions in Korean symbols, on the actual bike - occur in the dark, without anyone actually seeing......

Three tours around the neighbourhood, after learning where the headlights and the horn are, and not mixing them up, finally, along with a worn down battery later, she also discovers that there is no reverse, and that speeding up while going around a corner can result in a Flintstone like-movement which causes foot dragging and a small amount of swearing, in order to avoid flying into a car or a sign. Also, sticking both feet straight out, like the flying nun, does not, contrary to the balance of physics philosophy, make things steadier, but it does cause both a windshift and a shimmy while heading towards the side of a barn. Again, experimentation in the dark is a blessed thing, and no actual collisions occur, as the finite aspects of learning where the controls are, and discovering the joy of small circles instead of reverse, becomes a learned, and precious dance movement on wheels.

Hurrah to ebikes! I think I'll like this.....wink. Ah, the speeding wind through the hair, mashed underneath my beanie!! Is this what the Model T felt like, as the scarf flew through the wind...? Be still my heart! (I think I came close to losing it, when I stopped jamming the pedals backwards to stop....grin.)

Saturday, September 5, 2009

Oh, in Autumn

Oh, in autumn, when the leaves are painted with impending sleep
To brighten the sky, before the world draws in upon itself,
And Winter blankets all with a cool pause,
There is still time for crisp apple's juice, blinking stars,
and rose-cheeked smiles, amidst summer's plenty,
As we stroll down these quiet country ways,
Clasping hands among the trees,
Murmuring to each other of yesterday's youth,
And not minding its

Thursday, September 3, 2009

The Day after Your Birthday.

"What exactly gives you impetus?" He said the words softly to her, but the quizzical look was genuine, and urgent.

She breathed quietly, drew her lip up over her teeth, sucked in the offending lip briefly, narrowed her eyes, and stared up at him. He was standing over her, shifting slightly awkwardly from one foot to another. She thought he looked slightly like he was waiting to receive detention. She smiled, and he stopped shifting from one foot to another, smiling back at her.

"Your ass", she said, blinking at him. He coughed, suddenly. "It's a perfect personality." He blew air out of his nose suddenly, expecting pith and profundity, and receiving an example of it, wondered at its simplicity.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009


September 2, 2009

Well, I was going to write a poem today, in celebration, but I kept seeing these little blurbs on all of the rag mag pages..."What do you think of Keanu Reeves?", to the point that I was moved to paragraph: an infrequent, if enjoyed, stylistic stretch.

So..."What do I think of Keanu Reeves", on this, his 45th birthday?


Here is effort and success, in the face of fits and starts: indeed, in spite of them.

Here is respect for craft, sincere submission to the progression of it, in one's self, and a genuine love of challenge within its confines. It is a lack of fear, and a striving, within its midst, and amongst its practitioners.

Here is compassion, and encouragement, and appreciation, having achieved a level of success, and this same combination of states of mind, within one's own sphere of being, for others'- without patronizing them, or minimizing them, or characterizing their own striving, their own evaluations, and valuations of their own work, as unimportant. Here is true comaraderie, and trust, when exploring, creatively, from another, as a result of that implicit, and noted, respect. Here is real regard, and sharing, as its reward.

Here is passion, restrained, and ardour, controlled, to just such an extent that it is a part of vitality, and effort, and need, extended - and becomes a sense of, (in connecting with that sense of being, in the face of Death, and Loss, and Pain,) its defiant excitement.

Here is Quiet Admission, and Wildness, in sync, meeting its Other in Places, and Faces, and Moments, and its gentle protection of them, in a personal, and loving way.

Here is the Coolest of Breath, in the Heat of Life, and Love.

Here is Keanu.

Happy Birthday, Charlie. Many more, filled with all of this, and more, is what I wish for you, on this day.


Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Cloud Busting

A streak across the is breath, there in the blackness of night canopy;
Breath - when you spoke a moment so near my neck that
The hair stood on end, straining nearer to your lips:
Fast cilia, waving, and fine that
Shadow suggestion made my
Quiver, in its
And then, the earth turned....was turned.
Suddenness, and I had
Taken Your Breath for
with just a glimmer and Twinkle in my Eyes
For Comfort, amidst the
Pure Jewry.

Friday, August 28, 2009


In this strange moment of victory,
Vetted pit of animalia discovered,
Amidst the viciousness of vile and venom,
When I cannot celebrate, only vomit, and I turn to you, my darling,
For a kind of sanity,
Remind me, with quiet depth and rumble,
That I am feeling, still; am loved, am something other than
Some wild animal, bared teeth, wild eyes flashing,
Seeking prey,
For the squirming innocence of birthed filth that will be
Our reminder of
Nature's error.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Ambrosia Latina

See that star, love?
In this ink black night, when jewels adorn the sky that is this blanket, keeping,
It blinks, and, sending twinkle on twinkle on twinkle
Waves for me, washing, separates space into moment.
Perhaps this quiet touch, soft as liquid ambrosia reaching for your lips,
With trailing fingers painting,
Languid, lingering, limbering, (in measure, for oak's aged finest)
Will speak what I might, in my absence, caressing,
And, eyes closed, swirl and dance in the glass,
Like warm honey on a liquid night of
Bees knees, whispers and
Christmas sighs,
Suddenly there.

Saturday, August 15, 2009

Inverted First and Last, Steamed and Sauteed.

This could be the first time I have tasted.
Before, the food, like the movements I made, filled space.
The space was me, before you: a void, with lined curves and spaces covered with something alive that made a white spot, when you pressed it hard, seeking pain.
It was an absent reaction, that; a kind of spasm protesting a state of prefrozen fish packets, with freezer burn.
Funny: I never thought of myself as a frozen dinner foil packet, stored too long somewhere...
All shrunken peas, like small heads, glaring out, balefully, and horrid dried flaked bits of chemical potato slices, jammed in, for something akin to a lack of boredom, ice crystals glazing the whole mess, with congealed gelled sauce of mystery meat eyeballs dumped over the whole thing, like some angry food processing plant workers' finger painting.
No wonder I worked nights, ate chicken sandwiches, dreaming of nicoise, and rammed cabbage salads down my throat with green tea for two years, until I shed the other self I grew around me, because I was so startled at it all.
It was very strange, stepping out of myself, and all that baggage of loss and agony.

There you were....with a beard, and everyone shocked at facial hair, which made me feel safe. How can you possibly explain something that silly to anyone, while I was becoming a less supersized version of myself? I cannot explain being shocked at my own'll have to, for me, oh Thespian Mine. I'm still afraid I'll dislodge something, if I do it.

Now? I search in vain to add to my collection of Butter Cookie and Caramel spray cologne, thinking myself some kind of freak dessert, like a wild raspberry tart for Sunday tea.
I may even design a whipped cream beret, and flaunt it, while driving the new EggMobile down Main Street, daring myself to try out the electric windows again: Ms. Creme Caramel, grooving to George Clinton and varying versions of "Peg" blasting out of the windows at three a.m, as I careen down the road....sadly, the dog died two years ago, otherwise the picture might have almost been pastoral, except for the still-perpetually shocked farmers, the electrified funk and acid jazz wafting out of the raising and lowering glass, and the secret way I have of keeping time with internal technological devices with which I have recently become adept. I pretend they're very small flip tambourines.

I've only just graduated beyond Amish roll up window status, after all, and I am the only person I know who is still fascinated for minutes at a time with the fact that I have windshield wipers on both ends of my's an odd thing to explain at parties... this wild positional cleanliness. (I feel I must qualify this, and roar loudly, lest my shattered reputation be further mutated into truly decent, newsworthy, rag mag tart status.)
It makes me feel wild, like ...oh...I don't know:finding a hotter Szechwan sauce, just to see whose eyes will tear up first - knowing I'll win, of course. It's the same with horseradish, so you really should just give up now, and accept it calmly, with suitable male grace. You won't though; you'll make me eat suicide wings until I can't breathe, and try and kiss me at the same time, you beast. And me attempting controlled weight! Ah, life; ah, struggle...ah...lip locking in mid-tingle burn.

I, contrarily, am the only person I know who promises a complete body cleanse with every meal consumed. It's become a very odd source of pride, like in Homemakers, or something...I fear you're laughing, now, in the doubly funny way you have of doing nothing, and exploding inside, retaining gas, until your ears feel like they're going to blow out, so no one knows you're roaring inside.
I worry for your arteries, frankly.

Oh....cook me stir fry, and eat butterscotch sauce off of my navel, till you make me yell, and we'll call it a day, you darling, darling wonder in my life. How I adore you.
I'll even be the Cherry on top, if you promise not to throw financial reports at me.


I am of spring, of flowers, and growing things, and possibility, budding green of shoots and yawning, bursting out of the sleepy earth;
I am of fall, in crisp golds and greens; olives and burgundies, and all good celebrations of good work and plenty like honey and rose noses on a crisp afternoon of favourite sweaters and kisses, feeding each other with crunches of bread, sweet onion soup, apple juicy slices on warm tongues, and sharp wine nectar;
I am of winter, when ice fire and mellow fire mix and gleam in candle's glow,
and all good things and good loves, and goodness, find their Noel magic;
I am of summer, when hot sweet moments dive in water's comfort, refreshed,
and gleam with bronzed summer sun on hot sweat skin, when lips meet, and youth is reminded of itself, in the torpid twirls of passion and rhythm, on a fevered night.

I am all these things, and more, to you; and I have seen them, reflected, and known, somewhere,
the circle's match, and measure, and May, in the Deep Quiet and Flicker there.

Dawn Nevills, August 15, 2009

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Character Development: Photo Bucket 1

There the Olympic flame of globed light flickers,
In the gloom and mist of smoke and mirrors.
The smells - tantalizing mix of wine and women, scents and
sweat and consumption, amidst the idea of possibility, lounges silently
The ember is just another part, and the eyes are far away, even as the smile
Extends, like a slightly languid version of itself...but not to the visage:
No, not yet.
The lamp's gleam reflects another part, another place, another past - another
Other, and Of, and Beyond.

Darkest Charlie, waiting.
A sigh escapes on the other side of the glass, in time with the breath, escaping into the dark, clouded,
Dark and Light of Dragons, cavorting.
Breath, like watching Love, intermingling, even then, in struggle.

Monday, August 10, 2009

Stone Soup, and all that:An Argument in Favour of God

Having just watched, with a certain amount of intrigued interest, as an artist, an internet interview with shock rocker Marilyn Manson (who also happens to be an extremely talented painter and visual artist), I could not help but muse rather quietly, while driving home from work the other day, about a vehement debate about the "viability" of God in today's world.

What was supposed to be a learned and somewhat scholarly sounding older gentleman kept quite vehemently pointing out the "implausability" and "presumable inviability" of what he termed, for want of a better term, the "Christ Myth." The term, in and of itself, is an oxymoron, for we know that Christ Himself, is not, in fact, a myth at all, but a documented person who lived, breathed, and completed His Work in this world, much like Ghandi, John Paul II, and any number of respected and venerated persons in history. In using the term "myth", one simply must ascertain that the word "myth" is used, in conjunction with Christ, to make a sweeping assessment about the body and life of His work, and the various disagreements about the depth, scope, and clarity of his Relationships in doing so, "miracles" and all. What is real is that this work is "documented", much as the supposed scholar kept trying to skirt around....Thus, the word "myth" itself, is inaccurate, regardless of the scope and measure of the work itself, and what it involved, miracles, et al.....

And this, as they say, is the conundrum....

What I found most quietly entertaining about the vehement denial of the "Christ Legend", as I like to call it, for those insisting upon myth as a descriptive word, without realizing that Myth, rather than story, is misleading, literarily speaking, is the ease with which the supposed scholarly gentlemen, bound and determined to refute Christianity in general, managed to contradict himself - not once, but twice, in attempting to construct his argument.

Ultimately, what it came down to, was the fact that, like transubstantiation misunderstood and misexplained as simply a physical repetition of a process fulfilling a simply physical need in the act of Communion, rather than a sacred ritual celebrating the simplicity of Spirit, and its Presence, in the simple act of sharing and breaking bread with one's brothers and sisters, and all of the legend, tradition, and responsibility inherent in allowing that Presence to work in one's Life, and its continuance in renewing that Life by the act of sharing Bread and Wine, was that the man thought on only one level: physical.

And what I say in response is, simply, this: when you are moved by Christ, in even the simplest way, you have allowed that Spirit to work in you, and around you, and within the Greater World in which you live, and have an impact. Certainly, from a scientific standpoint, no little green man lands on you, like Gazoo, bonks you on the noggin, and says, "Get to it, bucko, or you're up shit's creek"; one is simply moved, after contemplation, like Wordsworth's explanation of The spirit running through all things, and connecting us with the Greater Creation of which we are a part, and a product of, with respect to the Greatest Artist of all time: God. To be moved, then, by a Life that spoke of the deepest connection with, and the deepest reverence for, each other, as a part of that tapestry, makes "Myth" the greatest misnomer of all - even if you are simply speaking "etymologically."It is a denial that one is a part of a part of that work; that we are alone, and apart, and completely disconnected from everything else that moves, and breathes, and functions around us, be it flora or fauna. Certainly, disconnectedness emotionally and intellectually is a product of our inability to, or painful withdrawal from, hurtful examples of this disconnectedness, but it is a huge disservice to one's self to deny that one can still be moved, and, thus, to have an effect upon, either one's self, or upon another situation.

This is Being Moved, just as the Breath created the first movement of matter in the Heavens by a force inexplicable, but omnipresent, even in the idea, simply, of collision, scientifically. We are not simply void, and when we reconnect with That Which Is, like Yoda, what we accomplish in His Name is greater than we can hope for, or imagine...a kind of "Pay it Forward" that still speaks of possibility in the face of chaos, patience in the face of rage, and tranformation, personal evolving, and new beginnings, after pain, loss, disappointment, death, and brutality at its ugliest, emptiest worst.

It is hope, unextinguished, in ourselves. Surely, there is nothing about "myth" in that, but, rather, a gentle miracle, every day, in the embrace of it, in ourselves.

Makes the story of stone soup a smiler, in retrospect, notwithstanding......

Thursday, August 6, 2009

Throat Hum Beginning We

What is this ice fire
That spins and whirls my breath
Into the night sky, spilling like tears
on a void
With eyes?
There is matter: and mattering,
Awakes, blinking suddenly into
Fusion of silence
Linking us to each, and we to our
Magnificently, softly, sadly, savagely, tenderly;
Breath on breath, repeating,
Under each other's, over ourselves' and themselves'
and long forgotten pain
Struggling against
Oh....speak with just a hint of sound
So I may close my eyes, feeling the movement of your throat
laying on mine, in a moment of
Shared bird song, and
Kiss my surprised rounded lip beak, trilling and thrilling,
The remembrance of snow and fur and
Fire, stroked and stoked into
Usness. I shall forget I am supposed to be
Old, and you will
Smile again.

Sunday, July 19, 2009


Ambling bulwark contemplating,
Desire Eloquence First.
Graciously, Honestly, incapable, just
Knowing Love means New
Omnipotence persists
Relegating silence, thusly,
Undulations vie
With Xavier's

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Good Work, Quoth Comfort

Oh, workaday, how blessed I am,
Embroiled, like this, in Thee:
Sweet Bean juice filled cup, waking eyes,
I blink, stretch, look....still Me!
The rhythm, pacing, stretch of Time,
I leap across, face first,
And think, with quick wit, thought, and pause,
Of when I did my worst.
Not often; ethic drawn upon, Two Stalwart Stocks
With dour looks, and tempered smiles
Made short the momentary guile,
Responded to with sheepish grin, and clean white smocks,
...with maybe a sigh or two; too real! A human bean,
Reaching skyward, still.

Saturday, July 4, 2009

Oh, my dearest,
It is the Fourth of July.
Today, you would be 49.
With laughter, I light all the candles, twinkling a spirit light
Path to join me in silent celebration, and think of
Your story of confused youth, wondering why so many
were celebrating
Your birth.

There were fireflies this evening;
I sat in the twilight's gleaming, as the sky poured watercolours upon the garden,
And I imagined you breathing with a certain hesitance.

In a quiet moment, when I could not help myself, there, in the dark,
With the slight mist of eve, and tumbling seconds of years and thoughts
Bringing the dark and the lanterns into a kind of gentle swaying,
there, in the silence,
I sipped sweet wine's nectar, dreaming of your lips brushing mine,
Softly in the kind shroud of twinkling lights.

The dry cling of pressed grapes, and my closed eyes
Brought them closer, and the fireflies approved,
Glinting suddenly near my misted eyes.
I was sentinel, and queen, at once,
as you ordained.
The palm trees only made it again so,
And the eyes were dark, and near mine,
And wanting me, again,
At Last.

How soft, the question. How sweet, the answer.
How gentle, the night, amidst the velvet of blanketed stars
Twinkling their sighs, and clasping prayers,
Amidst the passing years.

The sleep seems a kind encasement, dreaming.
I shall not mind waking, tomorrow, remembering.

Sunday, June 28, 2009

What do I think of You?: Answer.

I like this roundness. Said so simply, but...
It seems solid to me, the way it curves around my hand, when I press into the skin
Such a gentle peak, that rises and smiles and points to the sky.
Is it me?

Surely, I cannot be that high.....
But perhaps I'll try.
Pity: I cannot fly.

I guess, then, I will make
You sigh.......Ah....(a quiet laugh, here, then)

Morning, awake! This tired rhyming, (an impatient contempt, at self and such) when
I have pressed the mountains of your Being
Towards Me,
You Tremble at
The Being with
Me, shuddering to be
Oh, beat, Heart, beat!
(What a thing to say to me,
Coursing through the rocks of Time....)
And then, she just smiles, quietly, at last,

Saturday, June 27, 2009

Roads to Carry You to Better

This dust is me.
I blow out, across the universe, leaving specks of my thought, moments of my touch,
Pieces of my smile
Amidst the gardens of others.
If I am myself, I help them grow into their beauty, strange shifting shells,
as I see them; and
As it bursts and blooms, kindly, stretching outwards,
instead of lying curled and quiet,
Small pea seed of self, hiding. Strange Mother Being, then, Despite Void Status;
But I am just Dirt, at last,
Without myself,
Blowing quietly, Within, to the
Without that waits,

Friday, June 19, 2009

Mac Box set.

Here is a Mac box, which you present to me with a flourish.

"Your favourite", you say, simply, tearing open the box, grasping the plastic coated toffee, standing there in front of me, maddeningly, and warming the package between your hands.

Thinking the entire moment completely unfair, I stand still, saying nothing. My mouth is watering madly, and I remain rooted. A tiny bead of sweat has formed on my upper lip: tasting caramel, wanting caramel, needing caramel...and yet....I only stare, longingly, thinking you momentarily cruel.

The feeling is intensified, as, breathing softly, you shift the toffee parcel to one hand, bending it, slowly, slowly, slowly, and staring into my eyes, to show me how pliant it has become.

We stare at each other. I worry that a sheen has formed on my face, making me look amazingly like a plump girl, sweating in front of a really attractive man waving toffee in a kind of "you might get to be a fat girl again" moment...and after all those bloody salads. I wince, ..and say nothing, struggling.

I try valiantly to make my eyes look hooded, not really knowing what that means, exactly, except that it sounds very mysterious, and possibly the result of something illegal, watching the bendy movements in the toffee with a tormented, furtive glance. Raising my gaze, I am intercepted, and you smile - a trifle cruelly, I think to myself....I sigh. Oh, toffee, torturer...when, oh when, hast thou become tormentor to me! Ah...such........bent love, really.....

"Come here", you say, with a kind of gravel in your voice that has made my toes curl. There is, in fact, a newly formed cramp in one, even as we breathe.

I take one step forward, lurching slightly, due to the cramp. It ruins the drama, somewhat, but I manage to stamp, although I want get rid of the cramp. I control it, stupidly, and will pay for it, later, I know, with a huge throb in my arch.

Madly, you tear open the toffee, rip off a piece, stick it between your teeth, move towards me - and abruptly thrust my end between my lips. I close my eyes, as the caramel hits my tongue, and our lips meet.

"Mmmmmmmm." My God: we've even said it at the same time. Oh, ecstatic caramel passion, I embrace you. I would say something - but my lip is stuck to your moustache. Oh, happy sticky thrill! I feel wonderfully wicked, and wise....

Thursday, June 18, 2009

Star Secret

There is the ink, reeling above me; void black page of melted night sky,
My mind's secret sable, seeking imprint -
And here I am, standing;
Suddenness: dragon star bursting unexpected glacial, temperate, celebration fire, lighting the buoyed above seas with twinkles, gleaming, and at peace;
Mirthfully shaking,
And I feel
You fall,
Smile sighing.

Monday, June 15, 2009

Table Setting

Luscious, this day, with fruit of grape, the juice of new knowingness staining lips with
Flush, and such:
Even the fullness of this skin cannot kiss the fullness of an orb containing, and not
Fullblown, Fullsweet, full bodied, ripe with life and Fire...
Zero sugar, zero briques....
Sturdy-legged, clinging to the blown round edges like
Silk Grassed nectar, appled and dipped,
Sliding toward your eyes, and
Taken in with a

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Melded Art

I awoke to two glimmers in my universe, shaded by the lids of Time.
Absorbed into Space in this Way, I sought to Touch the Universe, within it,
Finding, within the Ebb and Flow of Movement
The Warmth of Its Being, cradled in a
Haze of Smile.
Heartened, thusly, image became Itself, and I -
Possessed by Thought, and Void-Longing -
Its Complex Cubist Half,
What so, within the Confines of Picassoesque Layers?
Sinew, bone, and skeleton, all?
Wave upon Wave said Nothing, Breathing, except

Sunday, June 7, 2009

A and B...(and C, and D..etc..xo)

Ah, first flush, when skin seemed but a thing to be explored
A journey that never ends, as it changes, with time;
To see the ebb and flow of life within its shelter in thee
Brought a different reason to be me, perhaps, they said:
And then, time; time with different views, time with different news:
Of Power, and Others' Pain, and Shared Love of Possible - Time, and New "Us" es,
Beyond What We Have Become, to What we Can Do.
Such Realization!
The Humility a little shocking, even with the Power, but they turned, and there were
The Each's Other's Eyes, Sharing, and it was ....."Of course, Still to Do...Right?" And the nod.
And the knowingness of admiring the skill of the other - even when no one else did;
Even in the small successes, beyond the Obvious Ones: there, and there, and...there.
What Joy!
Finally, then, like a Garden Blooming with Love Flung Far and Wide
A Celebration of the Formality of It, Uniquely. Oh, Hurry, Day! More Smiles.

Monday, June 1, 2009

P Funk

I recall, and am recalled:
Seconds in a crisp fog of breath, where the lip clung to mine in the blank
Of iced air, warmed and chilled within that same breath;
Press of finger on burned arm, browned by sun, and wind, and earth, pained white;
A fleeting smile, beneath the swirl of wool, before the cool of autumn teared
the blurred vision of fleet and flight of feet, met;
Choked in smoke and smirk of clubs and clubbed, vilified and verified,
Having supported and, crutch-like, become a wooden stick wielded not for
Higher Mountains travels, but welded men, and wilder egos;
Bid farewell in strange heat of regret and recognition, inconvenient, and
Misunderstood, within the larger scheme of patience, and the Importance of Being Earned, in Earnest;
Saddened, trilling New Age Grace's Amazing Solidity, amongst the Remembering,
Organ accompanied, stopped by imaginary lumps, and invisible throat lumps,
Inexcusable in the Controlled, and
Unimportant, even as I counted the steps the bearers were supposed to take,
As it appeared on Paper.
One cannot ride that
How dry the comfort.How smug the Pointed. How
Sharp the Edge.

Saturday, May 30, 2009

Why Women Love The Zohan : a short list.

1. He's out of date stylewise, too. And yet, somehow, it's just...okay!

2. He admits you will have to pay for your own meal, but he'll dance around it naked first. He will then joke that normally you would expect to be whoring yourself in this way. You will agree, and not care. Then you will both eat dinner. He will feel a bit silly, sitting there cross legged on the floor, with the napking covering his Mr. Winky, so as not to be disconcerting, or cause you to stare impolitely.

3. The man will screw anything, whilst vigourously avoiding disease....and this is just the myriad of cabinets. Imagine what he could do with an actual HAMMER, and a decent set of don't you feel silly? (It's just really not the same, when you have to explain the damned jokes, is it? Sigh...)

At any rate, getting back to the rest of it....this will concern you, somewhat, temporarily, but you will not engage in it, yourself, so it will simply be a "brush with greatness" moment. This is, after all, a mission to him, to bring happiness to women, and instills a sense of real hope, particularly if you have been called frigid because you abstain from anal sex. He will tell you that you are a unique person, that he will give you head, instead, and not to worry. Then he will massage your scalp vigourously - just in case you misunderstood, or became confused at the language issue, which he has difficulty with, occasionally. Your brain will be revived and refreshed. You will not develop rosacea, or experience momentary prestroke syndrome. The way he strokes your right ear will cause you to "feel the wet fuzzy" in your nether regions. You will tell no one, but know you, too, have joined the "Fuzz Balls." You will smile secretly, at nothing at all, often, after that.

4. Doing dishes will invite sexy possibilities. A man who makes housework sexually enticing is really kind of God-like. Well, Dr. Ruth-like, anyway - and the sooner you get it over with, the better...right? Wait: this is how it usually is....did we get on the wrong track, with this one? Medic.....

5. You will imagine him as Gumby. This is odd, but really kind of thrilling.....

6. Tomorrow, you will add to this list. You have become too numb for words, presently, what with all the sudden sweating, and the paper bag over your head to stop the hiccups...but clean hippy good looks make you feel twenty again, dammit....BREATHE!!!!

My Retarded Social Development

(Stage Direction for Reading Aloud)..."assume a soft, intimate, almost secretive voice while saying this, and include the reader, as ...oh...almost a confidante, really..... Begin by taking a long breath, and close, serious, and committed attention to the gift of God that is literature's road map indicator: punctuation, in all of its rapturous stops and starts. And....go:"

Confessor (don't actually say this, and start again, if you did. This is the character's name, in a play.) :

Apparently, unbeknownst to me, there comes a time in every middle aged woman's life - who has realized, with clanging clarity, that her RRSP fund sucks the boner - or, worse yet, has flown into space with the sadness egg called "I have no life" - when she feels an overwhelming desire, (having been abandoned by both sanity and any known human being who can speak in full sentences)to run screaming into the street, yelling madly of thrilling ends to heretofore steamily imagined sexual encounters.

(Some, over a long period of time, even. Bugger! No offense to those who might assume that it would alway be both thrilling AND successful. Also, no offense to those who actually consider plebean activities like...oh...getting a job, for instance. read the previous bracketed words out loud, but not this part, as its meant to explain the concept of an intimate aside...ahem. Also, don't SAY ahem, just kind of cough, instead.)

And I thought the glamourous world of scrap metal recycling security had people breathing heavily.....where HAVE I been?

Yet another sadly realized example of my retarded social progress, I fear...sigh.(don't say this last word, just actually DO it, in a way that does not provoke or expect any kind of sickening reaction like...pity, for example, which often pre empts vomiting.)

The end. (Don't actually say that last bit out loud.)

Sunday, May 24, 2009

Hark the Herald Angels Sing -inciting the drone in you

Ah, sweet seasons of sessions of silent thought!

It's enough to make even the Heralds stop and cease provoking, this Memorial Weekend....and I do mean weak end.

In fact, I'm so thrilled at the prospect of the utilization of a heretofore honourable pastime - writing - to heap scourge upon another artist - NOT - that I have decided to celebrate the true staying power of the "drone in us"....otherwise known as your friendly neighbourhood assembly line worker...or "blue collar Baby jane", as I like to call us, by outlining the positive qualities of said underpinned, undervalued, and underestimated.

The Canadian variety, particularly, boring as we may be, have the self-discipline of the most stoic rocket scientist, the staying power of a nurse, and the patience of a saint, as anyone who has managed to "stick it out" for longer than 24 hours in anything other than blathering on about an outburst of temper tantrum and a lack of work ethic, will tell you at the drop of a hat.

Let us celebrate, then, friends, the successful among us, who move beyond the day-to-day use of both repetition and the musicality of it, to achieve such mortal succesess as: books, documents, operas, symphonies, perfection in piano, equisiteness in line, meter, pitch and rhythm, and delicacy in quality, quantity, and visual beauty in any product produced by two hands.

Even as we share this stoicism, now, with our heretofore ignored brothers and sisters in Mexico, who now will be responsible for erecting the lowly pickup truck, to service farmers everywhere, let us hope they value this "sharing of space and time", even as we strive to maintain balance, ethics, and a decent working wage for the general populace, in tandem with a benefit plan, a lack of destruction of the environment, and the necessity for making a living - plebean as it may be, for those whose lack of understanding of both "robotics" and the discipline required to control one's activities within this infrastructure, so as not to be replaced by the mechanical, ever asserts itself, with a certain ....aplomb.

Ah, Keanu: ah, wind; ah....success. Its quiet self continues on, unabashed, unabated....undaunted. There is a sweet rhythm to it, is there not? If only envy was always replaced by the comaraderie of pride in the achievements of those we love and admire...but, alas, the "line worker" mentality is not for everyone....

Methinks life might do well to consider it, within the framework of an insistence upon itself. But then, Jon Bauer, why would I ever "sign in" to respond to anything I view as incorrect, misunderstood, and immaturely provocative in nature?

Wink....perhaps the Gort in us is freer than we think, if only as a result of robotic restraint.

Kind Regards, as ever...

Friday, May 22, 2009

Proximity Shock

What spark, then? What, the glowing, hence, just there, in you?
Oh, speck of fire in glint of eye
That glows and glimmers with its mirror:
Too soon, too late, too early, eerily, when met - back, apace, leaping recognition:
What of this? What is this knowing, beyond immediate,
Beyond speaking, beyond a seeing...only heat of fire and ice?
Is't so late, that being met of self,
Joined is met, and blend, and spark, and speak, at once?
What, this strangeness? Oh, sweet welcome madness; move, oh tremulous timbred throat, thundering near cadence measured, ever, in trill, and sigh, nearer:
What, this spell of letter, light, and love?
What, of round, and square, and orb, and ear;
How, of in, and on, and of, and us:
When, of is, and are, and be?
What, of we?
'Tis two; 'tis one...'tis three - must be.
No face, no fire could light, myself, (yourself, ourselves,) but thee(mewe), so

Sunday, May 17, 2009

A Stir in Stillness

What starlight gaze, in its quiet path of gleaming,
Could light such a way as this?
Ah, gleaming; see, only see, this path, this path of stillness,
Written, as it is, in all the secret places
Held so closely
They cannot be spoken,
Only known
Found, as they are,
On rocks, and deep, loved places,
And walls that are
At last,

Thursday, May 14, 2009

League Alert!

Hearken, Known League!

We welcome in our midst, the following:

Sir Saving Grace, Sir Peaceov, and to the first level: Library Man.

They are known to us, henceforth, as brothers in effort, in heart, in Service.

May Love strengthen us all.

The Chair.

Saturday, May 9, 2009

Good Verse Rescueth Mime

Cultural exploration, vernacular particles of self, realized,
I salute thee:
Were it not so, I would suffer the fate of far lesser banality,
Suffering madly for art, and
Wallowing wildy in aphorism, alliteration, and allegory -
Lest I swear.

Far better, an incorrect salute,
Than a mouthed
Fart into Space; especially in mixed company.
Yay, it approacheth...high irregularity!
(Perish the thought...dear down under...he says, mildly, if somewhat..slowly,
In response, trying to breathe between suppressed laughter)

Luckily, verbiage rescues - anon,
And I utter,
Swaying wildly;
Lest mammaries cloud vision
And ears slip away, erstwhile....I sigh:
Ah, to feel elfin! It's driven to dervish, I am,
Though flit be far - and flat the soda:
I bloom, then, and blush, sweet lodge sheen upon the
Hills of Morning,

.....remembering Latin.

Easy Rider, Random thoughts, and Caps.

"Oh, to be a roaming, there, aboot the gloaming....."

Remember when they used words like that? Well, I don't either, but I remember people reading them to me, and they sounded real; in the moment; vital.

The years slipped away, and became someone else's now, fifty years ago, with a different haircut.

Not as easy, then, with feelings; not as easy, then, with lives; not as easy, then.
Funny thing, that word: easy.
"Easy come; easy go."
"Easy like a Sunday Morning."
"Easy enough for you to say."
"Oh, she's...." (cough) " Easy." (That last worse than death, in some quarters. They wore gloves, had perfect darts where their breasts fit in, swished when ogled at(probably where the males who do it, learned it - both swish and ogle, to be sensitive - in thoughtful retrospect), and had murderous beauty routines and murderous instincts, when their date cancelled. Both led to Valium, later in life.
"Easy enough to get."
"Easy, breezy, highly attractive." (Not to be sued. Easy to be sued, dammit, even when attempting flattery, which is often mistaken for inaccurate plagarism, instead of brief reference.) Easy, my ass. See above murderous beauty routine. Most gene combinations "blew", as they say - somewhat indelicately. You got at least one zit, and did not look or act nicely during menstrual cramps. This last you never discussed. Or skipped gym because of it, risking potential embarassment to prove your toughness in a hideous, ballooning jumper designed to make you look astoundingly like a human showercap. Imagine my amazement when I discovered that the plant holders in the dollar store were actually mini shower caps, complete with elastic around the edges, and flower designs. Swear to God. "Shit: those people love their flowers", she thinks to herself, seeing the "made in China" label. I mean, shower caps for your there a name for that, that isn't anthropomorphic, or insulting, in a language I have not yet learned to swear in, with both gusto, and a certain polite hesitance?
Ah, too easy, I expect. Now I have twenty seven shower caps, in sizes far too small to fit any known head, but my God, all my plants will never, ever ruin my furniture, and may also become doctors one day....
Just like that! (Wink.)
At moments like these I realize how sensitive people in every part of this world are, when you understand them.
Also, when you eat food you're not used to, don't throw up, and compliment them on how unique it is, unless it's eyeballs, which really are both an acquired taste,
and only available in season, unless you want to get asked for
Your license. And they'll know if you lie. Eat tapioca next time, and don't be a Hero.
Easy stuff.
Sometimes it's the poetry of the idea - and a lot easier, too, on
The Bear.

Saturday, May 2, 2009

Small buoyed Life Us Secret!

We shall be excited at eyes.
When we see them, blinking back in orb-starved nakedness,
We will know that they are cradled in a blending of our wetness,
You and I,
Like cradled fluid, delicately sheltering, though outside myself.
Perhap it is more shared, that I have allowed outsideness, in this,
Splitting the myhalf beingness, so you can buyoant-balance, too;
I am not selfish about these things, after all, though it is me that has the
Appropriate being shell, technically.
It is a mindlove, then, which allows this beyond ourselves; a meld of self, truly:
Just joy.
We have not made the dust part, but sweep up the particles to our hearts, dearest,
Most intimately; most joyfully; most privately - most openly.
See the blinking!It is somehow happier, now,
Like stars streaking through sky, suddenly, touched into Being
by Michaelangelo's Maker,
At last.
Kiss me, quick! You need my breath; I need your Desire of Ages.

Friday, May 1, 2009

Sleep Star Frontier

Amidst this strange sea, walk-swimming and focused,
This life amongst jungle concrete
Sidewalk cemented possibles,
And smiles that were, before the "saw scream",
A haunting persists:
Strangling my breathing,
Man mix grey encased almost-forgot-chirp seems a small noise, remembered;
And then...
See oh see, the small sound sprouting! What doing is this, of you?
In such a wind as this, the spring of which, eyes drooping,
Tiredly keeps the beating
Steady - lest the line not jump and dance
Upon the screen, as you would have it -
I can break even this stone
That was my
Only speak!
I shall give you words to fly across the page,
Look up, and
Smile again, at space, Opening.

Saturday, April 25, 2009

Carbon and Light, Emitted

The sinking azure shadow, blinking fast its sleepy self into mist horizon -
Colour only, all 'round, though filling all, it seems, above -
Welcomes the yawning blink of streaming streak, life and light, suggesting...but...
Oh, wait, darkness, I cannot see!
Will I, better, do you think, with morning, and thee?
I tremble, this slight chill of earth in me, still, yearning,
And then.....
Dust settles, as it should,
Around this light, and past, towards the collected bits of self, amassed - yet only part;
Onwards - the flecks almost as sparkling fireflies, glinting in beam's tendrils,
Parachuting back to themselves,
Renewed in sleep
For when
Light calls
A leaping, then, somewhere, deep within the dusty breast;
Surge of Light, met, perhaps, or
That flash which moves behind the "trons" of light and dark,
and sees only

D. Nevills, April 25, 2009

Of Dew, and Such Gentle Oddities..

What shall I say to you, in this grey light, as these light fingers draw back the comfort
To show me your face, musing?
Only dawn...
...and morning, with birds singing.
Will it matter, do you think, on this day, or any other, now that we have touched, so?
Touched, and not touched; spoken, and not spoken; shared tears, and wept alone;
Realized, and known, and thought;
Shared, and smiled, and, then silenced, realized a certain
Depth, carefully preserved:
Unshared, and undisturbed, though
Pulsing and Alive.
A certain terror, then, recognizing
Premature Burial of
Self, in this
Struggling against

What throat, then, through starlight, might make a comet burst, a dark ink sky tremble,
A moon glow sweet, in its place of purpose
In the great void of movement, that was me
And is no more?
And yet, unseen...

This, then, Belief, my darling.
Ah, sweet sight, helped.
The space is nothing, and everything, now there is You;
only tomorrow's Road to
Speaking. at last.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Grow Glimpse Glow

So brief, this peep of spring, amidst the fierce of winter's snowflakes;
Clear, blinking, clearing stars amidst sky ink whirl above;
Hiding yawning earth, shedding - with a fling - this stretch of love; ah, sun!
Awake then, instant fierce shudders of life, wending along as shivers
Of my breath, suddenly
Shocking you
To life.

Monday, April 20, 2009


"So...." he grinned. "I learn fast. I can hardly wait to be an astronaut."

Her eyes narrowed, and she grinned back, over her glasses.

"Are you making fun of me, mister?" she said.

Allergy DEMI Glace.

"menumenumenu"....she purred. or coughed. It was a hairball moment, unplanned.

Someone had accidentally dropped a pretzel in the Black and White Coconut martini she had ordered. She had been just about to compliment him on how cleverly he had matched the soiree t-shirt underneath the rather daring choice of jackets.

.....ah, the romance of certain well planned pauses!

...and yet, this one was slightly.....awkward, somehow, what with the spittle flying about, and her tried but true lipshade suddenly clamping down on the edge of the glass, in mid sneeze, appearing more like a half moon bumprint, than any lip known to man. In fact, it happened so suddenly, and with such passion, that she actually bit off a large taco like bit from the glass edge, but, luckily, thought enough NOT to chew, which is really what saved her in the end......

What with the now-bleeding lip, and the slight smear of accoutrement paint now in a loving, but vital solid streak, mid cheek, wending its way across her face, it had metamorphosized into a kind of Zombie space moment, and he was slightly at a loss, as to how to respond, immediately, but sensitively, as was his wont.

He paused, gently, clearing his throat.

"Wow! They really kinda chintzed on the h'ordeuvres, babes, didn't they? gonna be okay, or what?" He paused, thinking perhaps he hadn't been helpful enough, as he watched her carefully spitting out glass, which she had inadvertently almost consumed involuntarily.

"Waiter!" he shouted, thinking she would be impressed - rather than mortified, literally - at his sudden need to call all available help to their table.

"Bring towels and a first aid kit! She's bleeding!" Then, on a softer note....."It's okay; we're just really's great!"

He knew then, that the night could not possibly end badly. HE had taken steps.

Sunday, April 12, 2009

Nuts Over Glace.

"EWWWWWWW.!" she made a gagging face, as she chewed on the chewing gum. "It squirted! Gross!!! You bought me action gum...! Ach....." She made a gagging noise again.

"I should have eaten the chocolate cashews." She looked sad. He exhaled, laughing slightly.

"What? I thought you liked squirty gum!" He looked at her, cocking his head to one side. "Are you feeling better?"

"No. I feel like the scum on the bottom of a body of water, that the bottom feeder fish won't eat, and cough up in their sleep." She glared at him.

"Wow...well.....THAT'S fairly clear." He cleared his throat, appreciatively. He had even had a nauseous second or two...That was real description, at its best.

"I have a choice between "action gum" and "semi comatose Percosindium" - which I reject fully, on both religious and moral grounds, so to speak - and which also makes me projectile vomit. How would YOU feel?" Her eyes squinted into slits. She was making blow whale noises with the squirty part of the gum. It was a very odd sound, and he wasn't sure he didn't like it, confusedly....

"Beside, I'm not sure if I have a latent nut allergy," she glowered. "My brother does, and I'm never too sure, anymore. My luck, I'd eat the damned chocolate, and my stomach would get surprised, all of a sudden - like a defensive force, as it discovered the nut part - and hoist it somewhere else, spontaneously, like on a fishing boat." It was a bad mental image, and one which caused him to cough, respectfully, in response.

She looked at him. His eyes had widened.

" time I ate what I THINK was a tainted nut batch at Christmas, and they sat in my gut like a bomb, threatening in either exiting direction for what seemed like...oh, Christ....days. It was just nasty. What kind of taunting decision is that supposed to present me with, mister...huh? Mr. Chocolate-nut-tormenter-guy...." She sighed, dejectedly.

He couldn't help it. He burst out laughing.

"I am NOT trying to poison you with chocolate nuts, as punishment for non-performance, following the reoccurence of a back injury." He rasped the words into her hair, trying not to laugh, while catching his breath. He knew she was not feeling well.

"Promise?" She looked up at him. She was very uncomfortable, and just a little worried. There were little flecks of pain in her eyes...

The nuts were rumbling in there, after all; she had succumbed, and eaten a few, before the squirty-gaggy-action-gum-thingy had invaded her mouth - which, until that point, had remained comfortably coated in both wine and chocolate. Now it was a windswept Arctic tundra of Vanilla Mint, and was NOT mixing well with the cashews. She stuck out her tongue, making a gagging noise. At least the obscene squirt-vanilla-action had stopped. No wonder people rebelled against jaw damage.How depressing; it had been like having mini Easter eggs, again, for just a brief moment of complete, wild abandon....

"It had better be worth the fresh new non-tempting clinic kiss", she glowered. "Or I'll be summarily pissed." He blew through his nose, into her ear, swallowing, so he would not laugh.

"And keep that hand where I can see it, mister." He laughed out loud, then, and softly massaged around the base of her spine. She winced, genuinely. He couldn't help it; he moved his mouth beside her ear, and began humming....

"Wee ooo wee ooo ooo wee ooo wee ooo oooh wee o bum ba yay....the lion sleeps tonight" he rumbled, teasing her. She punched him gently in the arm.

"You are HORRIBLE," she said, sadly. He kissed her in the neck, rubbing her back gently.

"Ah, feel better my pie girl", he said, softly, relenting. "I'm sorry you hurt yourself. It'll be spring soon."

Monday, April 6, 2009

Sunshine ShoeShine

Hey, shoe shine girl...
Warm butterscotch is all 'bout your baby rays
Glowing bright, sunshine face me in hugs....
Built in with UV, 'taint nuthin' finer,
Than us'n, glowin, baby;
Wrinklin' your nose, in case I sneeze
At the heat.
You bein' my Mac,
Sweet thing, well, this time I declare (makin' you laugh, while doin')
Feel's like when I was a kid, lovin'
Candy all over...

...and me, all lace....

Sunday, April 5, 2009

Apologia Glimmers

"...You have little lines here," he said softly, stroking beside her eye, where it was just a little moist. He kissed the shadow puddle. She raised her right hand slowly, smoothing out an imaginary frown on the side of his cheek, with a small sigh. Such a serious face. Such a caring face. Such a dear face....she simply left her hand there, laying gently against his cheek, so he could feel the strangled pulse there.

"...all those thoughts, trapped in this tiny map.." he said, quietly.

"I have painted places where I felt you," she finally said, softly...."painted, in different ways."

"I know", he said, softly, too. "I think I went somewhere like those places, for a while, sometimes."

"There was nowhere else," she said, simply.

"Say you're not angry. I came back again, didn't I? I had to go somewhere...and still be here, for everything." She hung her head, suddenly. "So weak.....I was... so weak." She closed her eyes, and sighed. "I couldn't let you slip away, even though I was almost gone, you know. It was the oddest thing, helping you. I just couldn't allow it to happen....I..."

"Shhh", he said, softly. "It's okay. I understand. It's...very odd....but..." he smiled...."you're a little eccentric, aren't you? It happens when you have to handle enormous pressure, I know."

"Plus", she said, opening her eyes and looking at him, "It helped when I had to direct the fire trucks, during orange alerts. I used to play this crazy Bjork song, from the Selma soundtrack, with all these whirring machines....before I went out on patrol, in the snow, in my parka, with the radio, walking along the railroad tracks, at three in the morning." He looked at her, quizzically. She sighed.

"Never mind", she said. "It's very complicated. One time one of our team members had to go out near the chemical bed to find half a nose." He looked at her, his eyes wide.

"Wha....?"...she kissed beside his lip, quickly.

"Only half", she said, flatly. "There was an accident. Aside from all the blood, he was still holding the rest on. A nasty day. They found it, though...half a nose, lying there..." She breathed.

"They sewed it back on, though, so it made up for all the other yeses." She looked up at him, smiling wickedly."The bastards." Air escaped him, in an almost laugh.

"One day I'll see that free coffee face again, though, sweet." Her mouth closed in a line, suddenly, pained.

"And you'll call me, so I can ..." he paused, looked at her, as he said it, in reply, and stroked the side of her face with both hands.

"I can't believe I told you," she said, looking into his face."You're the only one. I couldn't talk for weeks." She looked up at him again. "I just cleaned myself up, went to work, washed him down in the chair every afternoon, when I came home from my shift, and didn't speak. Every day I hoped he would come through the gate, so I could kill him.......... I never saw him again. I knew exactly what had happened....."

He rubbed her shoulders, softly, trying to control his own rage. She looked at him again, through a glimmer across her eyes. Just a little brighter than normal, otherwise he would not have thought there were tears there.

"I took a book of free coupon coupons into the police station, for Christmas. I think I was still in shock. I ..."her voice trailed off..."I didn't have time to have a nervous breakdown." Her mouth shut suddenly. She was not smiling.

"I think they thought I was a hooker, or something. I was trying to be nice, you know; not be angry, but be supportive, in this strange, removed way..."she stopped speaking, and took a breath. She started speaking again.

"I....there is this coffee connection"...her voice broke..."it's very, my....inlaws....and I was trying to care, again....he was sitting there, with an I.V. bag in him, and I was working 15 hour shifts, and going home....and...Christ, Charlie. I wished I was dead. I thought they would try to kill me again."

He kissed beside her eye, tucking a piece of hair beside her ear.

"I will always remember his face", she said, quietly, at last, in a voice so low it was almost a whisper.

"Always. I wanted to tack it on to a tree, for the druids to absorb, and make clean again. Is that violent and evil of me, do you think? Will I burn?"

He looked at her, quietly.

"I couldn't forgive myself, Charlie." She looked into his face. "And I knew no one else would, except you."

"Only with me, in my bed. And I promise it won't hurt a bit." Her lips were an odd mix of the firmest caramel, and the softest petal, and he made certain he got a real taste, at last.

"We'll be there a while, I think", he said, softly, kissing her nose, before covering her mouth again. God, it was nice to kiss a woman who kissed you back, without apology. Finally.

Saturday, April 4, 2009

711. 99'd.

C U?
B U.. ?
R U IC 2??4 ...a Re Sun?9?
BU ...MY Pie squared?
WE??? Pith a gorummed? ou juste la langue d'amour"..
Heavy sigh.
Tu dit, "oui".
Mais, non! May...Watt!
Je t'adore.
I am 1..but you know this, opening me.

Heated Rock of Cornerstone Being

Languid, this love; slow and curling, like water 'round rock,

Ebbing and flowing, 'til less, and more of themselves, and each other.

What trail, then? Is this a rock, trailing oblong soft, amidst pungent smell of heated flower skin? - yet not cold, impenetrable, marker of Time passed;

Surely, not death - though it says it recalls itself , from somewhere within, shrugging in

Surprise, at rock innard wall, and fear of Fire:

Beyond and amidst abyss of memories of when it was Being, this cold hand, awakening.

Surely, not self-seeking - seeing only eyes that spark and speak, amidst the ice of "ago"...

In spite of itself, turning towards grey ago, and comfortable speakingless, frozen sameness of

Recalled Was, and Forgotten Could - but....then...Here!

Here is Incessant Shooting Fire of Sudden,

Burning, without Death, and shivering, without Fear, Shaking with Now, Lit. Ah, the Awake!

....and sudden seeking...Ah! Where, the hill? Where the dale? What the moment? Where the frail?

Strength to strength, and striving met, a well and want, moving in the net -

No act, This;

Yet moving, Presence to be present, being, Again;

Shielded, thus, by its Self Other

Mirror, which, flexing

Sparks, is just

Visible Enough

to Lead on into Tomorrow,


"Go!" Here! Oh....Now!

Friday, April 3, 2009

..."Hmmm" she said, responding while sipping Shazamm....

"Since I must now focus my considerable energies on becoming a legally required whore", she said, gently, twirling the pen held delicately in her grasp, having laid aside the hated gun, "I will kindly advise you of what my gentle response will entail, my darling...."

He stepped back, warily, having puffed his importance in her direction, feeling both emasculated and angry with himself, before this latest international temper tantrum.

"Firstly, this: since you have obviously confused God with politics, and love with your own inability to control yourself, and, instead, vent it on me, I will require daily transportation, at this particular time, to my place of worship, and back home, that I might cleanse myself in the sight of God, having been vilified and mistreated in the name of politics, and power - not love, nor concern of any kind."

He shifted, awkwardly.

"The religious leader has agreed that not doing so means you are clearly lazy, and concerned with other priorities, so if I do not attend, as I have stated, you will be required to pay a sum of my choosing - like the whore that I have been forced to become - at your whim, as a result of your uncontrolled rage."

He looked at her, saying nothing, aware that she was deeply angered, finally, at this show of such deep disregard for her sex, and the sacredness of what he had said he held in very high esteem: their respect for each other - which did not involve the violence they both had sworn not to show as an example to their children, to each other - especially not in the bedroom.

"Secondly, since I am required by law to make this my duty, I am NOT required to do any of the other things that you receive for free: cooking, cleaning, laundry, medical care, speaking, listening to your problems, preparing your schedule, answering your phone calls, decoratingyour home with my artistic ability, creating things of beauty, to make your world a more beautiful, and possible, place of joy; translating things you do not understand - since I am the only one with time to read, although I had to figure most of it out myself, due to not having access to education; giving you my opinion about anything; working at anything that shows you I respect your ability to support us, financially, by lessening this burden, and helping you, because I know you to be a man not ruled by ego, or the drug trade which is destroying the world - not just your hated enemies, this week, and their offspring - and because I do care if you do drop dead of a heart attack too soon, because of overwork.

I must, needs be, seek instruction on this new duty; therefore, I will require that you bring in professionals in this trade, that I might learn these skills from them, by classroom environments which will ensure your great happiness, and my desired subservience; additionally, I will, as mentioned above, no longer be able to spend any time doing the aforementioned things; thus the fee involved for professional instruction, and the new help you will need to hire, might add some pressure, and cause you to be away, at work, in order to pay for it. You will have to also call in take out, since no one will be available any longer to pack your several lunches, bathe your many new children - or school them, since they, too, can't go outside, for fear of being attacked with acid by a human animal masquerading as a human being, rather than a gentle adult pleased with childhood innocence and God given beauty, - and since you're the only one allowed to take anyone anywhere. I imagine your new duty as increasingly busy driver will add length, again, to your working day, as well as additional expense, for which I feel for you, deeply, but, again, you are directly responsible, sadly, in terms of logic, work sharing, and the need for power and control.

Since I think we will probably not be able to afford professional assistance of this kind, at the very least, I will have to carefully study the satellite t.v., mostly all day, in my pyjamas, in order to become a good, obedient whore, although it makes me sad to think about how dirty our house is going to get, frankly. Hopefully, you won't invite anyone over for dinner, as there will be no one to cook it, since I will be far too busy, dear."

He cleared his throat, which suddenly felt very restricted.

"Or", she said, "I could just take all of the credit cards, and go on holiday for three months, until you come to your senses, darling. Either way, this new law might prove very, very expensive...."
she sighed. "Plus, I will miss out on my charity work,which is something that causes me great distress." He hung his head.

"I must admit, since I know you to be such a wise and good man - which is why, of course, I married you, knowing you loved me, - that I thought you liked the fact that I was clever, much more than having to wait, occasionally, for something...." she mused to herself, quietly.

"Such a patient man". She smiled up at him. "It made my not being allowed, or able, to become a doctor, so irrelevant - although the rest of the world might miss my absence, in this capacity, since we seem to, as a species, need so very much healing, lately. Perhaps it's just a spelling error on your part then, my darling? Healing, I mean?"

She stared straight at him, her eyes narrowed dangerously. He suddenly realized that she was very, very angry.

"One more thing, my darling." She purred the words. "Since creativity in exchange might be required, in terms of method, in the midst of our expressed need, which you feel you must seek in a court of law, instead of having the guts to ask me to my face - I cannot be assured of the ferocity of my appetite." His eyes widened in shock. "The damage might very well be permanent, within the contex of consumption, and how tired you will aways be, with this new, forced focus of my inner strength and drawn upon energy, rechanneled, however wasted."

His eyes widened at the cannabalistic reference drawn from a far less advanced time in their tribal history.

Recognizing, at last, again, why he respected her so deeply, since she stood, quietly, toe to toe with him, waiting, unblinkingly, for him to raise his hand to her, without flinching, and ready to raise her own, to block it - and connect, in turn, if necessary, to deflect it - he bowed deeply, grasped her right hand in both of his, kissed it, whirled out of the room, and entered the room of screaming, ridiculous male politicians with renewed sanity of purpose, thinking his wife was the most beautiful creature in the world. His twelve hour work day, lunch bag in hand, was a mere blink. He smiled at how she had winked at him, slyly, before patting him on the bottom as he had walked out of the door. He could hardly wait to get home.

Friday, March 27, 2009

Electric bee yawn..Zap!

Tap and peck and poke and prod
And sift, and spit and turn the sod -
A shoot! Ah, spark of green amidst the soil
Such work amidst the boil
Of greying earth.
What!Only her, then...moving like a bee;
Funny...looks a bit like me:
Ha! Radar Love transmitting with those
funny feelingsers....just so!
Bzztmwah!(and O)

Monday, March 23, 2009

A Word of Space and Time

What brightness, is the sun, if I have no warmth?
All the heat and glow of my life is you,
And, therein, when I feel glimmers in moments too quiet to recall readily, or without some small restraint
Of heart, and mind, to soften loss
I close my eyes to fire's glow, hearth's home, and thee.
What then....the moon? Glow of white shadow eye, hanging there,
Sky metronome, awash with soft cloth of night's watch - there, just beyond my tremulous reach,
Blinking lullaby upon the waves, to order ebb and flow; great Tidal rhythm, bending oar, and bow,
Within this quiet breathing, between we two. What then, love?
Of orb's glow, or fire's heat, does thy sight alight this same, streaked star, blinking, and awake?
How or why, is't, then? Is't to collide amidst the ink of night; incendiary end, and start, to bliss?
Not so; only trails amidst the orbits then, when planets born of sigh and spark
Do hum and thrum and whir about, as dervish dance amidst the dust,
And Passion, finding Passion clings, and grows, to Be, and See, and Live.
Oh, wondrous Word, to order same - and Pattern's Love - anew!
What heat, what solace, this kindred journey long, to find, oh Dearest...You.

Sunday, March 15, 2009

Forest Blooms under Water

…original watercolour….Dawn M. Nevills

March 7, 2009


..Forest Blooms Under Water March 7, 2009 Dawn Nevills

Saturday, March 14, 2009

“Forest in Late Summer” ….watercolour…Dawn M. Nevills


Forest in Late Summer...Dawn Nevills



Old City at Sunset

….acrylic on canvas…..Dawn M. Nevills





Old City at       Sunset      March 8, 2009 Dawn Nevills


“Self Portrait – Current Impossibility” ….acrylic on canvas…Dawn M. Nevills





Self Portrait - Current Impossiblity        March 8,          2009        Dawn Nevills

Friday, March 13, 2009

Spring Angels

....the rain just touched the edge of the building.

Tiny droplets began to drip, tormenting his gaze, as he waited for her in the gloom. A sudden gust of wind whipped across the greyness of the early evening, its icy fingers tearing at his jacket in a kind of mockery, cackling against the window behind him, and screaming silently of time. He shivered, peering into the gathering darkness. He hoped she had not forgotten the way. She had told him to stay precisely there - and he had learned to respect it when she was precise with him. He waited.

Suddenly, a car rounded the turn, splashing through the darkness, and a figure hurried along the walk further into the gloom, its hands shoved into deep leather pockets, head bent against the wind. Her favourite coat grew shape in the gathering dimness of twilight...slightly worn, butter soft leather, molding to her curves, and hugging the hips, like a gentle hug.

Closer, closer, impossibly small fierceness about the gait, striding through the darkness with the slightest of limps - barely noticeable, really - as if she owned the street, AND the weather - but always signalling, to his careful eye, that she was tired....

He stepped back, lest she notice his presence there, and her demand for him to "stay where he was, dammit, until she got there." He drew in his breath, seeing, at last, the uncovered head, the cropped hair blowing wildly about her face, plastered to one side of her head in the wind, and her shaking it away, impatiently, cursing: the glasses, speckled with flecks of rain and curses, interspersed equally, as she scanned the street for him, and settling, as always, precisely on the spot where she had told him to be. He smiled in the darkness. Impossible, she was:aggravating, and opinionated, and too quiet, these days, for her to be normal. He thought of her in a tight dress, singing, languid and soft and relaxed, with a glass of wine in her hand, and that hysterical grin she got, when she was impersonating Ertha Kitt, which made him laugh until his stomach ached: He felt suddenly warm, watching her stride against the rain, raising her face defiantly into the sky, and cursing the bloody weather, her lips moving in a usual gesture of dismissive unimportance, and damning profanity - without apology - for anything at all, except her focus.

Her coat was drawn up and around her face, her hair sticking up in impossible sea urchin spikes about her cheeks, the high skin across the bones flushed and anxious, as she walked up to him, while the droplets suddenly threatened to spill over the roof, and onto her head. He pulled her, bodily, underneath the eaves, slamming her into him at the chest, so she had to splay her arms across his pectoral muscles, to stop herself from bashing into him, face first. He felt the warm roundness of her full breasts hurtle into him, like an electric socket, fitting into place. He flexed his chest, to impress her, and then let his breath out, in a gush, when she squinted at him, knowingly, as purposedly bounced off him, and made him smile.

They stood there like that, for a moment, breathing, inches away from each other's mouths. Her hair was wild about her face. She just stood there, breathing, and peering into his...

"Where the fuck have you been", he said, quietly. "I thought you were dead, you witch."

"You stayed where I told you, though, didn't you?", she breathed in response, low, with warning, as her eyes narrowed at his tone..."and here I am, Mr. Trash Talk." She lifted a leather-gloved hand. "And you're okay"....this last was very, very soft, with a small sigh at the end, as she touched his face. "You exasperating, wonderful, bastard...I thought you might be hurt.."

"Come here", he said, "I need a you infusion." He kissed beside her chin, rollilng up her neck, behind her ear. "I think if you had been five minutes longer I would have started yelling your name in the street, for Christ's sake."

"...and what would you have said?", she purred, her throat vibrating beneath his mouth...."come, save me, Jesus?" She threw back her head, and laughed out loud, then. "Or, maybe....Muther....(she paused here, barely audible to him, her tongue darting out to wet his ear....) ....fuck me, or I'll die?"

"Be quiet"...He almost choked then; dammit, she had shocked him into life again, laughing at his shock in the street; cutting right through that tight self possession of his like a blow torch, and he could say nothing in response, as usual. He covered her mouth, then and there in the greyness, with his, his eyes springing tears at how he wanted to slam her against the wall, right there, and yell at her for making him wait, when he was insane worrying about her, this crazy little bitch with the goddamned glasses, and her fucking hair sticking up like some stupid egghead punk rocker after some rush up, in some pit somewhere...running through the dark streets, in the rain, dead on her feet and limping, because she was worried about his mental state. She made him crazy, this bedraggled woman with the beautiful breasts underneath all of the goddamned clothes, and the sparkling eyes.....And she was always, God help him, right.

He shoved his hand under her coat, and between her legs, closing his eyes against her hair. She was warm, warm, warm.....He gripped her, holding on possessively, in the cold, and the rain, and everything else swirling around them that suddenly had no meaning at all. His whole body was a throbbing rock, freezing and boiling at the same time, and attached to his hand.

"I am warm by the fire now", he said into the side of her head, winding his other arm around her neck, bending his head, and kissing her eyes, on top of her glasses, the top of her nose, and moving his tongue into her mouth. "This warm space is mine". He rubbed his face into her neck, his breath catching. He kissed her ear. He rubbed softly between her legs. "When it's your hand, it's my hand, you know, Winky." He kissed her ear, softly running his tongue around the soft lobe.

"Say it's mine, right now, or I'll hold on like this until you squeal", he teased her. He was breathing heavily into her hair. "I'll make you come right here in the street, standing here, if you don't. You know I can do it, too..." So soft, and fiercely, and accurately, he said it....she exhaled, wanting to punch him. His voice was strangled. He caught her top lip between his teeth, sucking it gently into his mouth, only to let go and catch the bottom one between gentle teeth, releasing it to kiss her again.

She had got to him again, the bitch, when he was so comfortable, and controlled, and ......alone. He stood back, suddenly, holding her hand, and then turned towards the front of the building where they were standing. The street was deserted.

He sat on the windowsill of the brick, the gloom surrounding him, with the rain teaming down.

"Come here", he said, softly. He pulled her hand so she walked towards him. He sunk his face into her chest, as she walked between his legs, then pulled his head back, and looked into her face.

"Marry me". he said. "I love you."

She sighed, stroking the side of his face.

"No", she said. "You're far too possessive, impossibly bossy, and you'd try and turn me into something I hate, that isn't me. Then you'd smother me until you made me crazy, because I was not able to be myself..." He looked at her face, and she put her finger to his lips.

"Then I'd leave you," she said, "after torturing myself for far too long, because I would deny myself what makes me tick, to look after you. And this...." she pointed to herself, "is not yours; it's mine. I just let you visit."

She smiled at him.

"I adore you though. I just know you'd start treating me as if I was either five, or retarded, after a week, and I would lose my mind. I worry about you constantly. You are in my most secret, private woman dreams...." her voice trailed off...she placed her right hand over his mouth, rubbing her palm into his lips, and making a sound low in her throat, that sounded something between a growl and and a very dangerous warning signal. It made his teeth buzz in his head.

"You're impossible", he said. "I can't function without you." He held her open palm to his face, and covered his face with it, peering at her between her own fingers. "I promise I won't smother you", he said, blinking up through them, and at her. She laughed. "Look where I am!" He kissed her palm.

"I'm stuck here.." he sighed, longsufferingly.

"Oh, so dramatic", she chided him, lovingly, laughing. "What did you do before me?"

"Well, I didn't go out in the pouring rain so I could sit in the street and argue with a woman about being crazy about her. It was a lot warmer, a lot quieter, and a lot more satisfying, baby...." She roared with laughter. He grinned at her.

"Why don't you just share some space with me, then, until you get used to me? I'm really not terrible, you know...." He looked forlorn, and she moved towards him, and sat on his lap, winding her legs about him, suddenly.

He looked at her hair, searching for something appropriate, that wouldn't scare her off again.

"I like your hair," he said. "You look like Spock." He sighed. She made a noise, and rolled her eyes.

"I can't believe I want to screw Spock until I can't think anymore."

She belted him in the arm...

"Hitting me! Help! Help! This woman can't stand compliments! Someone help me program her into being my love slave!" He whispered the words aloud to no one in particular, and then thought better of it. He'd hate her like that, anyway. It would be like a Stepford imitation of her. He changed tactics. It was like a horse; you never broke anyone's spirit.

"I'd make you dinner you know as long as you watchd me slaving in the kitchen for you, buck naked." She made another noise at him, exhaling through her nose.

"You would't stay naked for a whole day and walk around that way, if I asked you to? I have dreams of running away to a nudist camp with you every afternoon. You can't imagine what it's like trying to run a meeting...."

He sighed. "It's very unlike me. I'm very in control of myself. See how you've fucked with my mind? It's all your fault." He hung his head, a sad, tortured man.

"I accept no useful blame"......she punched him softly in the arm again.

He grabbed her, and bit at her breast, exaggeratedly. She laughed quietly into his ear, rocking slowly back and forth on him, there, in the street, in the rain....feeling the tingle begin, as his hands slid around to hold gently on to her buttocks, to keep her in place.

"Come and stay with me tonight..."he whispered into her hair. "...stay and let me feed you breakfast. I promise I won't patronize you." He grinned, and she punched him softly in the arm again.

"You!"...then he laughed, grabbing her arm, and kissing her gloved hand, and then her throat...

"Well...maybe not. You look funny in the morning though: it's very hard not to, you know, when you're laying there, half asleep, with your breasts with no covers on them, and the nipples sticking out"....

he rubbed his hand softly over her breast...."like this.." he licked her lip, softly, rubbing her breast, until she made a Marge Simpson noise and rolled her eyes at him, hopping off of his lap, and holding out her hand, sighing.

"People will say I'm a complete tart", she said, frowning at him.

"I love tarts", he said, grinning at her. "Especially raspberry ones." He bit her shoulder, exaggeratedly in the rain, making a gagging noise at the leather.

"The ones that smell like your butterscotch/almond/vanilla hair, especially." He stuck his nose in the air in the rain, sniffing exaggeratedly..

"Mmmmmmm......pie." She punched him in the arm, laughing, until he caught at her hand, took off her glove, finger by finger, and sucked on her fingers...."mmmm......vanilla fingers.....mmmmm......can hardly wait for the main course. Steak and potatoes and beautiful Rubinesque breasts."

He walked up and pushed her against the wall, his hands on her breasts, as he bent his head and kissed around her chin, and down her throat, moving around to her mouth, sliding his hands around her hips, and gripping her buttocks.

"You make me crazy, pie bum girl", he said, against her lips. "You and your four eyes. Come run away with me till we're dead." He rubbed her nose with his, slowly.

"Come rub that body against me, and say my name until you make me yell in the dark". He said the last words very softly, as the rain poured down around them.

"Ride me like your favourite pony, Madame." He threw back his head, and made a naying noise, pawing the ground with his feet until she burst out laughing.

"Come on, funny girl..." his tone was urgent now, gentle, and longing, and soft with emotion.

"I want you to laugh again, funny girl, and come without thinking about it, and let me eat dessert off your stomach." He kept kissing her between statements, until she couldn't breathe or laugh, or attempt even a combination of the two.

"I'll make you smile again...." He whispered the last words against her nose, just befoe he pretended to bite it. He stopped, suddenly, and said, quietly,

"I know you're not happy. I'll make you happy. Come share space with labels..I promise." He had both of her hands in his, and he was kissing her open palms.

"Hump me in the morning, pie girl." He placed her hands on top of his head, like a hand hat, crossed himself, and then crossed his eyes at her, until she laughed.

"Bless me, for I plan to sin alot....until you yell my name out loud. I'll boink ya till you beg me to let ya go to sleep, pie girl. Arrr..." He grinned at her, and moved closer, blinking his left eye half shut, like a crazed pirate.

"Even when we're old and crinkly?, she asked, squinting at him, unbelieving.

He sighed. "I think about your ass all day." Her eyes flew wide open, and he laughed against her mouth, until she wasn't startled or afraid.

"Even then, it won't be enough to make up for lost time, you know..." he kissed her mouth, then, very softly. .."...and I'll never, never hurt you, pie girl. Come on; say you love me, just one the pouring, crazy, us rain."

He held her face in both of his hands, and kissed her again, long and deeply, until she put her hands up to hold his head, and kissed him back, finally.

Then they both walked away into the darkness, holding hands. He slid his hand up once, to feel her bottom, and she batted him, giving him a bum bump until he almost careened into a nearby wall, and nearly fell down.....laughing. Then he straightened himself up, grabbed her around the waist with one arm, and they marched in a goose step through the puddles.....he stopped her once, to kiss her, reached into his pocket, drew something out triumphantly, yelled "Ta Da!", they grabbed hands, and ran down the street into the darkness....giggling like kids.

Monday, February 23, 2009

New "Us" es

We move within our parts
Extending them outwards, protruberances of wit and wind -
Invisible, searching, winsome;
Hoping, in the doing, that the air moved, thusly,
Whispers just audibly enough
Of ourselves
To be.

Saturday, February 21, 2009

Smiley smile

The purse ed lips, (too soon to tell)
You say are capable of spell
I say, they're just a way to say of that, that love is true, and spell is naught:
Too true, in fact.

What wonders, then? In speaking of these things to me
You often place a hand on knee....tried once, too true, again;
Back then praps I should have put a spell on you.
...I'd start with A's, of course - a solid bit of cheek -
To celebrate your whit and weak...and then? A "B:"
The sound, (so like one dear to me)...not you; excelling as you do at rest
I'd sooner spell a Bee to death; but no!

Just the whirring recitation, rhymed with recitative nation
Meant a rhyming lot, well pressed.
At least most of them didn't guess.
Sweet letter! Oh, sweet life!
No a weary wife, expunged.

Thursday, February 19, 2009


Welcome to Canada, Prez Obama! We all think you rock, Mister.

However, you forgot Trudy's 61st birthday yesterday....I sent her a card for you.

You know the army...hurry up and wait until it's the next day.....sigh. Anyway, you could make it up to her by saying "Happy Birthday" on national television. Every admin person in the world would talk about the network for weeks....just an idea. It would make up for having to run out and turn on the lights for another 20 minutes, on the damned timers....

Hope you enjoy the cake! Grin.

God Bless...



Saturday, February 14, 2009

My Valentine

This shadow, smell of moss, against my face, darling,
Hard and real and urgent...
Is it answer, or question, sweet?
There, then; I will rise up, your Empress; held within, and sweet solace, found
I am your ocean.
Feel and swim within your world of moment, mine,
Perhaps one day when I die
You'll think of this,and live, instead.

....For Keanu, to smile.


(*Note: What, if any(thing, in the poem, would suggest to you that the author has "transcended" something? If so, what, and what is there in the poem that would suggest that to you? Given this, is there an irony to the word "die?" Is it one you would have expected, either in a modern, or traditional sense? Explain...)

Sunday, February 8, 2009

Towards Valentines...

They stared at each other for a long moment, saying nothing.

A tingle began at the base of his neck, as he stared at her face.

Her eyes were wild and old with death and sadness, seeing into him: her hair, slightly tousled, as usual - that look she had that always made him catch his breath, just to himself....He looked into them, and felt the dark, the quiet, the cold, the solitude - and her pain.

Her hips looked gently rounded; no jutting bones and concave mania here; he thoughtfully considered the womanly swell and rise beneath his hand: the waist tapered in, and the breasts swelled above it, rising and falling gently with her breathing. He watched them for a moment. He closed his eyes, thinking of her lips brushing against his. He didn't want to move.

He shook his head slightly. His face was warm.

Her scent lit something in him. He knew her, suddenly - instantly. His body leapt at the life of it in him.

She thought, slightly absently, that he looked a bit preoccupied.

Absently, she wondered if she had thought to comb her hair. She rubbed it selfconsciously, worrying about her glasses falling off, or banging into something accidentally. She worried that she looked like an owl that had just awakened from sleep. Her hair was probably sticking straight up, as it did, and she had absently forgotten that she had stuck a piece of string behind her ear, so as not to forget something. Evidently, it had not been important. She looked like she had just disconnected herself from a clothesline, she thought, laughing quietly to herself. He mused at her, smiling to herself...he wanted to know why.

Then they just stood there, gently watching the rhythmic breathing of the other; a kind of respectful observation of life force moving in and out of the other body.It was odd, and endearing - a dance of non-movement, like two terrified deer, caught in headlights, and frozen in time, each protecting the other.

He moved in closer to her, then, suddenly and directly, still watching the rise and fall of her breath, and slowly sliding his hand, palm down, up her forearm. She stood still, reaching up absently to run her fingers up the back of his neck, and softly around to stroke the lobe of his left ear. He drew in his breath sharply at the unexpected intimacy. He did not expect her to be so instantly at ease with him.

"Hello", she said, softly, staring at him directly. "You look like Elvis." Her eyes twinkled

He slid his nose along her temple...really, this was ridiculous.

"Heel", he said, solemnly, making fun of himself.

"No cookie?", she replied, in response. He exhaled on a quiet laugh..."You''ll never guess...what day do you think my birthday is on?"

He moved his hand down the small of her back, and ever so gently touched the inside of her ear with the tip of his tongue. He held her there, pressing his hand softly against her back, moving her hips purposefully into his, gently molding them together, like pottery, and gliding his other hand around to hold her breast, almost reverently, in his other hand. She felt warm, and awake. The round swell of breast shyly rose against his circling finger, the nipple hardening suddenly. Interestedly, he watched the pulse at her throat, and felt a bit like a conductor. She was breathing softly into his earlobe, molded there into him, as she was. He could feel a pulse in her pelvis...or perhaps it was him. Suddenly, he was not quite certain, anymore.

"Today"..he kissed her hair...."tomorrow"....he kissed her left eyebrow....."next week"....he kissed the bridge of her nose....."Friday"...he barely touched her lips with his...."every day"... he breathed the last into her hair..."April 14th..."he said, softly, finally."In politically incorrect sable. And nothing else...beside a fireplace. With your glasses on. I'll bring creme caramel, and feed it to you, okay?" He said this last lovingly, moving his finger across her lips.....

"That's a very interesting greeting", she said, absently, against his mouth, and finished the sentence somewhere into the air beside his head, as her hips began a soft trembling, against his.....Her voice sounded a bit strangled, watching his hand.

Will you be able to warm me, do you think?" Her voice throbbed with pain of grief, and ecstacy of trembling. "Will I be alive, do you think....visible, at last...?" Her voice was so soft he barely heard this last...." is." She blew into his ear, very, very gently, and softly sucked the lobe of his ear into her mouth. The exhale of breath was not quite a sob...just a brief catch of bitterness in her breathing, with a second of sound. He moved against her, kissing her eyes, his breath catching, a soft rhythm of rocking between them, amidst the invisible and audible song that linked them, without thought.

"Windbag", she whispered into his ear, conspiratorially, stopping. She hummed against his ear, making his head buzz. It reached his feet, settling in his hips somewhere, relevantly. She was shaking softly against him, there, as he held her against him. She wound her hands around his shoulders, and moved with him, trying to breathe.

"mmhmm. ah..haaa." he said firmly, closing his eyes, and just pressing his lips into her temple, rocking against her. He bumped his nose into her hair, and rubbed it back and forth, concentrating on his breathing. It smelled like vanilla and coconut, and some kind of butterscotch pudding he'd liked when he was a kid, when he traded that little fat kid to get one in exchange for his Twinkie, one time. How had she done that to her hair? Hysterical....
He closed his eyes, holding on to her. He inhaled, slowly. He didn't apologize, moving her in a quiet two step, half circle, and sliding her other hand up around his shoulder. "Hold me, please....and come here."

She already had her head pressed into the side of neck, her nose wedged just below his ear, trembling there, against him uncontrollably, unashamedly. She was not laughing. He thought she might be in shock, until he realized she was trying to breathe. Had he done this, so easily? He had only moved against her, holding her close to his heart; a few moments, stolen, in the darkness together.

The words had been a simple request. His hand moved lovingly around this living part of her, finally. He looked at her, abruptly, earnestly, realizing joyfully, and said, quietly, "I love this breast. It's beautiful."..and teasing her gently, now..."This one always reacts faster..... I noticed, you know..... I love this breast, too..." He cupped it softly with his hand, and stood silently against her, holding her two breasts gently, pressing into her, willing her to know he meant it. He moved his right hand down and around, softly holding her buttock. "I will never hurt you, you know..." he kissed her eyebrow, his voice a controlled rumble. He knew her, even now. She was trembling, despite the bravado, with fear, and longing, and pain, and grief, and wanting, released gently.

"My breasts and I are deeply flattered." She said it with a gentle trill, and a small, selfonscious sigh, as if she would flourish a bow after it, suddenly, making fun of herself, in spite of the trembling. It was light humour, not sarcasm...assertively offputting, in the midst of being passionately direct. Her breath caught in her throat, sensing his earnestness. He stopped trying to speak, thinking hard, in response.

She smiled at his unaccustomed, slightly hesitant directness, admired his unique scientific summary - and stroked his neck until the hairs rose on the back of it.

Then she began to move her nose back and forth beside his ear, slowly.

He lowered his lips, moving them silently across her cheek, beside her chin, down her neck, and across her shoulder. She smelled like soap, and just a faint trace of jasmine. He decided he would find something that smelled like that flower, as soon as he managed to stop trying to blend into her ...If he could just stand there with her like that, he would forget what it was that had been thinking of, a moment before..except how her shoulder had tasted warm, like sunshine and honey....

"I...I like your glasses", he said, inadequately, his voice breaking slightly.He wished she could see inside of him. Nothing he could say to her would feel adequate in his own mind. Besides...he did like her glasses. They made her look like a Beatle, from many different countries all at once......God, how did you ignite a nerdy girl?

This was extremely disconcerting. He was terrifed of insulting her...especially at that particular moment. He thought he would probably never forget it...ever. It was that intimately wonderful.

"I know,", she said, calmly. "They're ten years out of date. The woman in Walmart told me. I stopped looking for another pair then, and left. I thought she'd start in on my sweater next." She sighed.

"Alas....... I'm doomed to creative disshevelment.."

She sighed,. drew her head back, and stared at him, worriedly. "Should I be concerned, do you think?" Her mouth twitched slightly. "Now you'll think I'm tarty. I get....ah....fervent about things... "

He was watching her nipple. He wished fervently, and suddenly, for more disshevelment. He thought he might fall down with it.

He looked at her face, very seriously. "No", he said..."and this turtleneck makes you look very feminine...But I think we should go to bed now, okay?" He tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, near her glasses arm, softly. ..."Do you mind?"

"Should we have a full conversation first, do you think?"she replied, equally seriously."We might feel bad, otherwise."

He sighed, concernedlly. Then he looked at her face, raising her hand to his mouth, to touch it softly. "Ah, nerdy egghead woman I need...." he sighed again, and looked into her face.