Spartan Bath

Separate spigots.

Chain and stopper. 

Light switch in the hall.

Reflection in a compact won't do.

I take the liberty to hang a mirror

near the jamb, pull my hairdryer cord

indulgently under the door.

Life can be too clean; I apply war paint,

mess with your modest towels,

bestow Cherokee mementos.

Lipstick graffiti.  Voodoo.  

I dead man's float in your tub;

leave my soap on the edge.

Feathers on your floor.

tk/April 2014

R.A.D.'s very best read to date...

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Bridge

No beams or trusses―

just a simple span of obstacles,

make-do suspension, stubborn enough to find a way,

woven one sleepless night at a time.

I take only memory, ditch the bangles.

Each step aches freedom, dreads narrow spaces.

I want to run―but sidle on―frayed ends exposed

as rope unravels, sways so violently I cry out.

Cavernous echo! I dare not look down;

fear the unknown, some great fish throat.

I hear your voice―and remember

this temporary means from here to there.

tk/April 2015

Lovely dramatic read by R.A.D. ...

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Burlesque

Popcorn cannot forgive

laughter on contact,

joints ceramic without a net.

Go ahead, mock the crush,

call it acting, your clown hands

numb to the sting.

Odd burlesque in a dark ring.

Abrahamic slapstick.

No audience.  No applause.

I sleep on the unbruised side,

lock the dressing room door―
dream of crossing the tightrope, a star.

tk/February 2015

A sensitive read by R.A.D. ...

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Hip

Loose after birthing

bone on bone,

legs, hooves askew

like a mother giraffe.

A well-used gate groovy

under muscle, skin,

sockets unhinge,

request an oil can.

It might be fixed

with a rubber band

looped, twisted

with stretchy make-do.

Is there a placebo?

Something to soothe

the lopsided  pop,

make experience cool;
less stiff, more hip.

tk/February 2015



R.A.D. skillfully nails the end...

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Tessellation

From a distance,

the pattern looks right.

Buckles go unnoticed;

rough edges smoothed over

with a Libra trowel.

Hate puzzles.

I take it apart, spread it,

shameless, for a good hard look;

see all sorts of things.

Slowly it comes together;

gaps stare expectant

in the scene like clouds.

Then you. 

End pieces tumble easy, snap,

fully interlock promises
and now.

tk/November 2014

Ronaldo Stainforth steps out of his black and white world... 

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Insouciance

I leave the bed unmade―

toss the duvet to the floor,

leave it, rumpled and quiet,

along with my mother's hysteria.

The unholy mess coddles tomorrow

with pillow whispered yes.

I have slept with you for years―

pink menagerie of primitive art,

socks lost, one at a time,

in fanciful fruit-spilled sheets.

There is not my side or yours―

I stretch out in the center. 

tk/March 2014 

Lovely contemplative read by R.A.D. Stainforth...

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*"My Bed" by Tracey Emin

Refit

The walls are empty,

pocked with nail holes,

shadows of pictures―

a room without windows.

Too many years

since the piano was tuned.

Behind the sofa no longer

a good place to hide.

Laughter sleeps like stones

under shroud sheets.

I have forgotten

the dance, the lampshade.

I pull a chamois from my pocket―

not going over Jordan―just spring cleaning.

Dust smells new:  a scent of yellow.

The holes stare with tiny, hammered eyes.

I could use a shovel. 

tk/March 2014

R.A.D. Stainforth breathes a bit of freshness to my words:

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*Lee Plaza Hotel, Detroit, photo by Bonnie Beechler

The moon made me do it...

Every month around the new moon ... usually a day or two before ... or on the day of ... I find myself in a whirl of cleaning and organizing.  I know, a rare thing for this lazy Libra. This time it was weeding through a stack of 150 magazines, tearing out the stuff I wanted to save, and recycling the rest.  And for dessert, I sorted through my sewing kit ... got rid of that old green bias tape ... and put it in one of my vintage tackle boxes. I couldn't bear to take out the Cash's woven name labels I used to sew inside the children's clothes, so I kept them, just because.  They make me happy.

We are not afraid to look under the bed,

or to wash the sheets:

we know that life is messy.

We know that somebody has to clean it up,

and that only if it is cleaned up 

can we hope to start over, and get better.

Marsha Norman
as quoted in Interviews With Contemporary Women Playwrights