Polyester Never Wrinkles

Sometimes I see you

straight as you ever were,

teased and sprayed Seventies high. 

King James in one arm,

purse padlocked to the other. 

You say my birth name in a voice

this side of reluctance; 

ask if I remember to pray,

keeping in mind I might die

before I wake. 

Disappointment plowed

a furrow in your Midwest brow

that ran between us like a dry iron.

I was a run in your Sunday hose,

but polyester never wrinkles.

tk/April 2015



R.A.D. delivers with the perfect touch of humor...

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Nefertiti

Mummy dearest,

corkscrewed queen,

embedded six feet down.

Headpiece removed,

your skull looks normal;

too much like mine.

The gods are relieved your reign is complete.

Plague, Old Testament kind;

blood, locusts, first born.

Did they bury you fancy,

with rings on; the sapphire

I gave you for your birthday.

Rest.  There will be no dig; no museum,

no squandering of your remains,
no flowers.

tk/July 2014

Beautifully read by R.A.D. Stainforth ...

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Free

Late Sunday risers

consider briquettes.

Samples in paper cups. 

Frankfurters.  Beer.

Fresh from church,

a dressed couple prattle on

about which brand of chicken

they can afford.

She pokes her finger

in fleshy shrink wrap,

looks at him with spaniel eyes.

He thumbs a calculator.

All too happy not to be

duly plucked, pantyhosed,

bibled and heeled―

I hum muzak,

toss a breast in the basket,

without discussing

price, or the freeness
of its range.

tk/July 2014


R.A.D. Stainforth enhances my words...with the addition of Stainforth Blue to his black and white world... 

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Communion

The crucifix is gone―

the one I got discount,

for singing a cappella.

I quaffed enough blood,

dissolved my fill of broken body.

It served a melismatic purpose.

Chants are replaced by BBC Radio 3―

all the pizzicato that nailed fingers

cannot convey.

I learn to sight-read on my own,

toss the tasteful ornament,

the placid swaddling,

in a box of discarded syntax―

rain heavy on the roof

like applause.

tk/June 2013

Thanks to R.A.D. Stainforth for another excellent read.  

Waking, Walking, Singing, in the Next Dimension? 1979 by Morris Graves 

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It's Easy to Believe

a very noir R.A.D. Stainforth ... he nearly sings at the end ...

God sits upstairs,
like over-sized Orson Welles
trying to sell wine
(but not before its time) –

ascot loose enough
to breathe judgment,
he makes convincing magazine cover,
with that curious 

“I'm preparing myself to forgive you”
look all over his face.

The process of purification is a best-seller;
steeplechases the unjust crowd.
Customers drink of the cup,
then chant on the bus:

“Swing low sweet chariot!”


tk/June 2012

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it's about passion

my vintage rosaries
click to embiggen

I'm not sure exactly how I contracted the passion for collecting, but the symptoms were evident at a very early age. Maybe I enjoy collecting because it takes me back to the simple comfort and joy of my childhood Little Golden Book and postage stamp collections.  

It may lie dormant for a while, but once you have caught the virus, it is a life long condition and it often returns with a renewed vigor. It might just be that it is instinctive for humans to collect, just as a magpie is compelled to hunt and gather shiny objects and drag them back to her nest.  I definitely like to have my things about me, like Mary Kate Danaher in The Quiet Man.

McCoy pottery, mercury glass, insulators, tarnished silver
in my retro metal medical cabinet

chalkwork icons
click to embiggen

There is a certain explorer spirit in me. I like to dig in dusty places. One discovery often leads to another, to a fresh search and the start of a new collection. In fact, I would have made a great archaeologist.  

Garage sales, flea markets, Gee-Dub (my local Goodwill store) and various antique shops are my favorite places to forage...the junkier the place, the better.  The rarity or value of a particular piece, is not the objective for me, but the mellow and a little bit worn, the unwanted, the unappreciated and orphaned, are what happens to strike my fancy.

the manor is filled
with the scent of old books

Other people's gatherings are endlessly fascinating, since it reveals an obvious look at the personalities behind the collections.  What objects do you like to hunt and gather? 

I think that interiors need 

a bit of a twist... most have 
no sense of irony or of real life, 

and there is nothing harmonious or soulful.

  

--Hubert Zandberg

Shards

Shards


You always used the Balm of Gilead
to do your dirty work.
He that doth not work, shall not eat,
a hundred times on paper. No supper.

Fifty dollars, highest bid,
to recite His Holy Word.
Showmom of biblical proportions.

Your damning notes
met me after school.
The usual icy clout.
Be sure your sin will find you out.

Iniquity, the breach, to fall.
High wall, whose breaking comes
to crush an unfired soul.
Girlish vessel burst to shards,

cast off the poisoned balm.
Your rotten paste
could not bind the soft green clay
or make the wounded whole.

The word of the LORD.
Woe to rebellious children.
Oh, not your words, of course, but His,
still punishing me after all these years.


Willow, 2009

I realize this is rather a dark piece. Most times, I try to steer away
from addressing religious issues at Willow Manor. However, events
in recent weeks have prompted me to write this poem. I am a
devoted, spiritual person who worships God as my higher power.
But, I find it completely abhorrent when passages of the Bible are
taken out of context and used, for one's own devices, to intimidate,
threaten or control another.

This is not a new issue to mankind. Sadly, millions of innocent people
over the centuries have suffered in the name of God. But, since I
have unfortunately experienced this pain first hand, I feel compelled
to share. Recently, an extended family member sent me a note, in
which she states it to be a "warning" to me. It included this cursing
biblical passage, each verse hand written:

Woe to the rebellious children, saith the LORD, that take
counsel not of Me; and that cover with a covering, but not of
my Spirit...

Therefore, this iniquity shall be to you as a breach ready
to fall, swelling out in a high wall, whose breaking comes
suddenly at an instant.

And He shall break it as the breaking of the potter's vessel
that is broken in pieces; He shall not spare: so that there shall
not be found in the bursting of it a shard to take fire from the
hearth, or to take water out of the pit.

Isaiah 30:1, 13-14

photo: Shards by Willow

Snow and Icons

Yesterday, I curled with with a good book in front of the fire, but kept looking up at the blank wall at the far end of the room. For the last year, I have been thinking of hanging some of my icon collection there. So, being snowed in and not much else to do, I dove into the project.

My collection all started about 15 years ago, when Traveler brought me back a beautiful vintage icon in "kiosk" (framed in a wooden box) from Lithuania. I have some that are called "oklad", where the Madonna and child are painted on the background and then silver or other metal is attached on top, with openings for

their faces and hands. Since then, he has brought me several from Russia and Eastern Europe. I am not of the Catholic or Orthodox faith, but I love them for their beauty, history and symbolism. It was a perfect day for my little project and I love their new look!