Selfie

self-portrait, Francis Bacon 

You step into the room, see yourself

look up from somewhere distant.

Your eyes reflect a safe interior,

without the anxiety of an unwanted stare.

Windows open to new air.

You stand unadorned

apart from the self-scorn

you wear around your neck.

Here is a place with no mirrors, no squinting,

thrust against the space between you.

Stretch out your arm, capture a forever moment

of the skin genuine, sweat-soaked and intimate. 

tk/December 2013 

Last month the word "selfie" was announced by the Oxford English Dictionary as "word of the year".

R.A.D. Stainforth's lovely bewhiskered read: 

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group.

Minestrone

Madonna With the Milk Soup, 1510, Gerard David

The orchestration that captures me

is composed on album covers,

scribbled at night in the margins of cookbooks,

moonless on junk mail.

Steamy bowls wait in the windowsill

until morning, when they have cooled

enough to be spooned and sipped,

the tang that comes with my heightening.

The ladle is filled to overflowing;

take care with rustling, everything might spill.

You have something of mine, maestro―

the close rhythm of this sigh.

tk/December 2013


A delicious read by R.A.D. Stainforth...

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group...

Yellow House

The Ice Cutters, 1911, Natalia Goncharova

I lie with insomnia,

wishing it was you.

Listen as salt trucks echo

along the river road;

dare to disturb monochrome.

The autumn of me craves

orange marmalade on toast,

breakfast with no conversation,

watching sunflowers

grow into firm-fleshed love children.

I think about Vincent nibbling his paint,

how the taste of his favorite

floated vivid on his tongue,

how he was happiest

in the yellow house.

tk/December 2013


The excellent R.A.D. Stainforth contemplating a yellow house...I hear a cat...

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group. 

Transatlantic

Whole sardines line the horizon,

shimmer like eyes after a hard cry.

I smear a silver bite on bread;

think miracles, loaves and fishes,

mouthfuls of ocean,

heaving waves, ways of knowing

the hands of a fishmonger,

a dash of Viking.

The tapestry is nearly done;

I complete it with a sailor's knot,

float it across the water,

add my name to the passenger list,

become next of kin,

drink a toast to St. Elmo's fire.

I let it steal my tongue;

swallow, and still find the taste of it. 

tk/December 2013


Sexy read by the dashing, bewhiskered R.A.D. Stainforth...is it my imagination...or is the boat rocking? 

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group.

Vorfreude

Divine darkness comes

as you leave to find sleep,

black wings cover me.

What did moths bump into

before there were light bulbs?

How did I exist before your eyes?

Flutter morning awake;

frighten me just a little

with your estuary,

the sound of oars

drawing me from the shore,

church bells in the distance.

Take me out far enough

to feel the wind in my hair.

Give me an excuse to hide,

tuck some hallelujah,

let it burn a hole in my pocket.

I dare not sin against hope.

tk/November 2013

Vorfreude (n.)  The joyful, intense anticipation that comes from imagining future pleasures


I could listen to R.A.D. Stainforth say "church bells" all day...

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group.

Secret Scioto

Autumn on the River, 1889, John Singer Sargent

The Scioto reclines,

exposes the withy brush

between sycamore-scattered bends.

A bough dips to touch herself,

bleached before an overcast mirror.

Muddy stillness resonates;

waters bubble and breathe

over unturned limestone.

Every wind echoes a low moan,

opens the buttons of her gown.

Those who are gone now

wade in the shallows,

scribble small notes

in the gravelly sediment

of her parched summers.

She does not share secrets,

rises and falls in mysteries

of moss and willowherb.

Sighs fog native banks. She laughs―

pays the voyeurs on the bridge no mind. 

tk/ November 2013


Exceptionally beautiful read by R.A.D. Stainforth: 

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group. 

Belief

Believing comes

in first-day covers,

sincere blue kisses

after the first row;

dazed like a bird that soars

headlong into a closed window.

Ink-traced hands are prayers

that end with laced pinkie fingers,

promises that know no distance.

You wonder where I keep the bread.

They settle new and hungry,

wordless with the milky awe

of pictures in a childhood bible

in olden days; when wishing still helped.

I was suspicious of all those palms.

tk/November 2013


Beautiful, poignant read from R.A.D. Stainforth: 

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group. 

Latent Image

Danseuse ajustant sa bretelle, 1895-96, Edgar Degas 

It develops in the bath;

smears mirror steam,

births metallic

in crumpled waves

of toothpaste tube.

I watch it thrash;

to cling to others,

push them under

and climb on top

in order to be rescued.

It does not drown;

settles under gelatin lids,

struggles to evaporate

before the fixer

dodges and burns.

tk/November 2013 

Excellent, thoughtful read by R.A.D. Stainforth...in his black and white world...

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group. 

Et Exspecto

Resurrection Reunion 2, 1945, by Sir Stanley Spencer

The dead await no resurrection.

They shed their wide Germanic wings;

shrouds cling moist, translucent,

like thin white condoms.

The scent settles in recollection

of beaches, bedclothes, and black dogs.

Forgotten haar pauses for the baton,

surplice and cassock,

ruff around abandoned larynx,

secrets deep between bare teeth.

They stand with crocuses among the stones;

erect and proud, heads fully extended,

ceremoniously silent.

The dead await no resurrection.

tk/November 2013


R.A.D. Stainforth's best read to date...tell me if you agree...

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group. 

Storyteller

le Jardin, 1962, by Max Ernst 

Hold me as close to your fantasies as I will ever come.

Wave a magic wand

over forgotten fastenings;

wake me from the hollow tree.

How big is a halo, a button, a zipper pull?

Your eyes flash parable blue,

pan with anticipation,

tighten to close-ups of hands and feet.

Nothing is lost on the cutting room floor;

whisper a sweet amen at the end.

Remember this holy travelogue,

so it can be told over again,

without pillars of cloud.

Expose my gothic wings.

God and all the saints are gone; only kitsch remains.

tk/October 2013


Another excellent read from the incomparable R.A.D. Stainforth: 

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group. 

Cave Canem

The process of choosing

was all about size, the boxy head.

His father was a champion;

perfect black standard nose.

Perhaps he was over kennel-clubbed,

bred to a neurotic frenzy.

I didn't realize personality would be

such a compatibility issue.

You make no bones about loathing;

yell at him, as if he couldn't hear.

Every time I clean up a mess,

you encourage a tabby.

tk/October 2013 

R.A.D. Stainforth enjoys a mellow glass of Sunday wine...

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group. 

Metronomic

Each of your days

is composed in equal measures.

You breathe, eat, sleep, a musical score;

bars of hours, notations of moments.

Everything clicked and clacked

in reductionist order;

a natural metronome

I've never seen in anyone else.

You modulate discord,

anything that qualifies as static,

with the harmony of seconds

continually playing in your head.

Clocks tick in every room

a steady andante of sixty tocks per minute;

a perfect tempo for the slow movement

of Beethoven Seven.

tk/October 2013

R.A.D. Stainforth reads between the ticking of clocks... 

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group.

Moreish

Wind plays matchmaker,

gently nudges our hips;

whispers in our hair,

fades herringbone horizon

to wool flannel sky.

Hold fast on the lee side,

like the last wet leaves of a Brontë tree.

You say you are a god

knighted by Vikings,

impassable as Hadrian's Wall.

Cleavage lines spill your body

to mine, matching faults.

Length and breadth combine;

congruity that beckons me

to worship. 

tk/September 2013

Thank you, R.A.D. Stainforth, for another excellent read. 

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group. 

Chrysalis

Shadows settle brown-eyed,

The Moth and the Lamp, Cesar Santos 

warm-palmed;

cocoon discarded

in yesterday's cobweb.

Remove the horn-rims,

inherit the bookish gaze,

the soft porch bulb

of a summer night.

Watch the onslaught

of the pink moon,

breathe star-scattered

through the silent spots.

The mottled skirt

holds brunette blood;

unlike the skittish sister,

who butterflies sunshine like toast.

tk/September 2013 

Many thanks to the talented  R.A.D. Stainforth, for reading this poem.  

Tombolo

The scent of peat rises

to the rafters, settles in my hair.

Lift a strand from my neck,

fasten it with a Pictish brooch,

golden as the penannular moon.

Stoke the fire with evening,

surround me like a shawl.

Lull to bliss by the tune

of burning dreams;

we sing so quietly at the end.

Mainland and island tie,

become an endless wonderwall,

grow pregnant with India;

the brain-child of all points east,

the touching tongues of our roots.

tk/September 2013 

Thanks to R.A.D. Stainforth, for bringing my words to life.  

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group. 

Déjà vu

Before you are born,

I paint your half smile.

I see a schoolboy tie;

your sensitive hands touch

an open book.

Your voice floats high

above playground noise,

the sound of scissors.

I hover restless, long,

until your hair is no longer the color

of pencil shavings,

until you speak the low

calm of a red rose.

tk/ September 2013

Thanks to R.A.D. Stainforth for beautifully reading this poem. 

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group. 

Climbing

I see your head poke

from a cloud of leaves;

your sap-stained legs dangle

beneath a limb.

Some days you climb further,

to the high branches,

frighten sparrows

from their narrow perches.

In winter you are easily seen

carving graffiti into the bark

with your laser eyes;

four initials and a heart.

I am content to swing low,

absolve myself with hemp,

twist tight, let go,

lose control.

tk/August 2013 

Thank you, R.A.D. Stainforth, for this beautiful read. 

Jeanie Tomenek 

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group. 

Passing Place

Pass through town― 

where traffic lights change

without traffic― 

to single-lane outside the muddy bay.

Drive gently beside me,

sand in your hair, like in your dream― 

hoisting from water to headland

can be messy.

Pull forward to a passing spot,

beyond the guardrail.

Raise a one-finger salute― 

then press, to lip-read my intentions.

Disregard the carefully folded map.

Pray to your own hand― 

my America ― my new-found land.

You know the way.

tk/August 2013 

Thanks to R.A.D. Stainforth for momentarily stepping out of his black and white world to read this poem.

photo by Steven Kelly 

 Join MagpieTales creative writing group. 

Cross the Bridge

I contemplate waves,

skip stones in your eyes,

wade past the shallow parts.

There is no need for old north boats,

since we have uncovered

our own safe passage.  

Baggage drowns in the current;

a selkie dons my wedding veil,

wonders at so many shoes.

Spoon the rest of the journey;

give in to the tug of gravity,

the low ache that drops like stone.

A stormy berth is best, even though

you are too civilized for thunder.

tk/August 2013 

Thanks to R.A.D. Stainforth, taking time from his holiday in Shetland to read this poem.  

photo by Elena Kalis 

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group.

Bolero

The turntable of my mind

is set to schizophrenic repeat.

It plays all night.

Nonchalant dancers in Carmen-style shoes

stamp hundreds of cockroaches

in the Royal Albert Hall.

The audience watches.

They hop in preoccupied rhythm

with unchanging snare drums,

grip roses in their mouths,

all wide-eyed and wild,

bared teeth mistaken for smiles.

tk/August 2013

Many thanks to R.A.D. Stainforth for masterfully reading this poem. 

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group.