Outerbelt

Speedway soars

without pit or champion.

Glow of dashboard.

Echo of centrifugal force.

Cars never cross the finish line

bleached with tire marks.

White-knuckled steering wheels.

Endless narrow-eyed loop.

At night there is no grandstand. 

I am the only fan.  Awake.

Dizzy with silent exhaust.

Inhaled secrets.

Drivers envy the cool

underside of my pillow.

I hide under the covers.
Dream headlong.

tk/November 2014


Charming read by R.A.D. Stainforth and Amy the cat...

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Jealous Cat

Make noise.

Lots of jangle.  Bang.

Strut about.  Headbutt. 

Protected only by persistence.

Phone.  Splat of postie's drop.

Arouses more than catnip.

Dinner.  Feign disinterest.

Hope for eager pitch.  Sale.

Evening fare coaxed.  Bowled.

Listen for full exhale.  Then?

Lap is occupied.  Go.

Curl the coat.  Sleep.

Dream unused lives. 

tk/April 2014




R.A.D. Stainforth calmly considers a pussycat: 

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*The King of Cats, 1935, Balthus

Liebestraum

Open throats heave-ho

a row of golden Schirmer,

dog-eared Thompson.

Black ants with thin waists,

whole abdomens, Chopin the page,

goose-step under Volga boatmen.

Go to the foot of our stairs!

Look each white step with expectancy,

the inky eutony of dark between.

Liszt frowns over a chop waltz,

glissando, the slaughter of his love dream

one more time. 

tk/February 2014



R.A.D. Stainforth reads like I hear in my head...only more so...

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Shipwrecked

Surrounded by desert island books

and ever-present scorpions,

I pass coconut time, la la la,

scrubbing the ken of tombstones,

pick at the all-you-can-eat buffet.

Until something pleasant rocks

on the vacant horizon ―

your unexpected boat

floats like the moon in a day-blue sky,

some far-off classical station plays Bach.

You stand as if you know me,

toss a life ring my direction.

I squint, wade out for a better view,

doggy paddle slow at first,

wonder if Picasso had a stomach ache, too.

Sea streams from my nose.

You grab me with gosling hands,

pull me on board ―

feed me minestrone by osmosis,

turn me into a bouquet of roses. 

tk/March 2013

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

Image by TheFoxAndTheRaven 

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Reflection

Another lovely read by R.A.D. Stainforth...

I see myself

as you might see me ―

move room to rug,

dream at each window,

make note of my reflection

and save it for later.

I murmur sleep-talk,

say only the most important words,

because you know

enough of the others,

to understand me completely,

as you do night trees

that brush the same stretched sky ―

the lucid winter sough.

tk/January 2013

image by Daniel Murtagh

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my dream

My dream is to walk around the world. A smallish backpack, all essentials neatly in place. A camera. A notebook. A traveling paint set. A hat. Good shoes. A nice pleated (green?) skirt for the occasional seaside hotel afternoon dance.

― Maira Kalman, The Principles of Uncertainty