Ignition

Take me fast, quiet,

two guards at every door.

Wrap me tight

in your extravagant straitjacket,

where the strangling is clean

and silent, since when I kiss,

it will not be as a sister.

You have seen my complete dossier.

I would have made a great man,

but I am a woman,

subtle but effective.

Do not toss me, deranged,

in your landfill;

it is more palatable to give

me something rich

and strange, tribal,
like a Viking funeral.

tk, from my chapbook "Unpressed"

R.A.D. curled up on the steps with my book...

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Unpressed

Thank goodness you found me -
dehydrated, flat, suffering

from a homesickness,
I didn't realize was for you.

I slipped from the page into your lap,
delicate, winter-faded.

You kissed the sleep from my eyes,
unpressed papery petals

with elsewhere hands,
watched me bloom.

tk, from my second chapbook "Unpressed" 

R.A.D. makes my words his own...

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Cenotaph

This place marks

a superb spot,

where everyone expects

me to reside,

to germinate undisturbed,

dispassionate, deep.

They do not know

it is an empty tomb;

for I lie elsewhere,

with a dash of Viking,

linger ripe, sleep dark
in another's arms.

tk

R.A.D. adds beautiful life to my words...

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Saint Paul's Cathedral 1989

The interior is mute,

apart from November.

You see an American tourist

standing longer than anyone

at The Light of the World.

Alpha and Omega.

The way I look up

directly under the dome,

expecting more than afternoon.

Crossed paths foreshadow

celebration to come.

Cathedral-worthy.

Patience!  Twenty years is nothing.

I capture the event on film.

Overexposed geometric staircase.

And just outside those massive doors:
You.  Browsing a table of books.

tk/July 2015


Lovely delivery by R.A.D. ...

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Mother Lode

I squat like a miner;

sift through rubble,

barefoot in Levis.

Memories swirl the pan ―

most of them look the same;

unfossilized, too liquid to keep.

Ruby lips. The American dream. 

Now and then a sparkle ― a nugget

looks up at me with human eyes.  

Clementine!  Can't take everything, darling.

Just a few. I pack it neatly in the box

labeled "Initial Boom".

Souvenirs line up like herring.

Gradually decompose,

bloom sweet and pungent;

fertilize a second chance ―
my destiny.

tk/July 2015


R.A.D. Stainforth brings my words to life...

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Alkali

The salt of the earth

is not known for a bedside

manner. Theirs is not for tasting

the white of an egg, but predatory,

sponged and purged, rubbed

in war wounds, blood-red

as Mercurochrome.

Why trade in such certainties?

Let them roll like Jujitsu, tumble

easy, as water off a duck’s back,

salting icy roads instead of tears.

I ask for a small portion,

like a cocktail olive

in a vodka martini.

It’s just a scratch.
Kiss it for me.

tk/July 2015

Is it just me, or is this sexy? 

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*Bathers, 1950 by George Tooker

Nightbird

It calls with a clear

two-fingered whistle;

how a neighbor summons children

home for summer supper. 

Unabashed wooing.  

A lark?  Or Cherokee mother

clothed in twilight sadness,

blade of grass pressed in her lips.

Run.  Feel night-cooled meadow

under sunburned feet.

Find the moth-specked porch lamp,

the scent of belonging.

Without the chatter of song birds,

it seems human in the dark.  Urgent.

Should I leave by back door or front?
Persistent pipe.  O! Come.

tk/June 2015

Beautiful read by R.A.D. ...

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*A Midsummer Night's Melancholy by Michael Sowa

Milky Way

It's the unassuming way

He holds his cigarette.

Peers sideways from his eyebrows. 

Burning blue.  Liquid voice.

Reined in like a well-bred stallion.

Or is it the way she clings?

Hands open and tactile. 

Golden proportion.

Looking for certainty in his eyes.

She seems brash next to him.

Easy.  Not overpowering.

Smiling diamond in Pegasus. 

Riding velvet. 

We worship the contrast.

Hold on to the backs of our seats.

Weightless.  Milky.

Compelling nebula.

Soft and hard shooting stars.

Constellation too good to be true.
Exotic smear in the galaxy. 

tk/June 2015


Delicious read by R.A.D. ...

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It is time...

My new chapbook NO THIRD THING is available for pre-order.  I need a certain amount of orders to qualify for a press run.  Please help by ordering now.  Because my publisher is a small press, they depend on authors to promote sales.  Thank you for your generous support, dear friends.  

Click on this LINK to place your order.  Books ship October 9, 2015.

If Whitman's poems "celebrate" and Dickinson's "interrogate," the verb I associate with Tess Kincaid's beautiful lines is "billow― the poems start small, and before you know it, they're crackling like storms. Let lightning spit fire, let rain spray! said Shakespeare, and that's exactly what happens here.

David Kirby

Tess Kincaid's poetry has a touch of not only intimacy but of immediacy.  Her eye, her insight, miss little if anything. She has perfected a succinct style that reveals an experience as it happens, as it gathers meaning. These twenty-six poems evoke a web of discoveries, the way a life is lived, the metaphors of a poet's many lives poured into the reader's own. Ms. Kincaid's work offers a glimpse into the digital age, as well as into our enduring, more common condition.

Floyce Alexander

In No Third Thing Tess Kincaid goes "to the edge,/to the door between either and or" and her poems pull us right along with her.  It's a journey worth taking.  This is Kincaid's third publication and her best one yet.

Eva Tihanyi

If a Cataclysmic Event Shuts Down the World

I would dress in Dickinson white.

Void.  Laced.  Celibate as she.

Hewn open like new wood.

Faces in my pattern. 

Shave delicate sheets

from my discontented timber,

doodle them icky with dots and dashes ―

maybe a sonnet.  Love hymn.

Roll them in a bale of sacred scrolls,

seal with kisses instead of wax,

corked in the bottle

from the Christmas Cava.

Yelp!  As I heave it from the bridge. 

Watch it bob downstream

in the volume between

my legs and yours.

After months and years,

I would scour my mind for your voice,

open your book and inhale
for your scent.

tk/June 2015

I like what R.A.D. does with my words ... I'll have what he's having ...

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Molt

In spring you shed

mad winter growth;

wonder plumage

enviable by any bird.

Rite of passage

ushers in your time

of seasonal regeneration,

hints of immortality.

Dust hangs in the air.

Mound of shavings on the floor.

A glance in the mirror leaves

you barely recognizable.

You emerge shorn,

pale and summer-ready,

protected by nothing but expectancy
and your skin.

tk/June 2015

Elegant read by R.A.D. Stainforth...

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Of That Ilk

From the beginning

kindred voices whisper

between words.

Sea through the windows.

Landlocked roots.

You reel me in without a net.

Gently unhook.  For keeps.

Channels pulse an ancient beat,

deeper in your eyes than blue.

I have been away too long.

Ancestors line the shore.

One of them points―

"Your man over there"

I take him literally.

They applaud as rain.

Rush of belonging sweeps

stronger than a tailwind.

I grasp your arm

to keep from flying―

put me down!

Look at my pale feet

unearthed from nowhere,

still covered in grubs.

I dig in my heels.
Spread my toes like fins.

tk/May 2015

Lovely retro-esque read by R.A.D. ...

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I Left My Hat

Forgotten in the moment,

bent in a pentagram

for that first kiss.

Our collision was complete.

Geometric.  Reciprocal.

I wore it home on the tram.

It concealed enough of my eyes

to steal sideways glances,

while our hands became absolute.

Then I knew there were hats in heaven.  

Romantic notions.  Miracles. 

When it was time to go,

I left it behind on purpose,

next to the trilby at your door;

knowing I would be back

to the golden ratio,
lasting result of chance.

tk/May 2015

R.A.D. breathes life into my words...

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Primavera

Splendid cocoon.

I no longer live at home;

have taken up residence in my room

like a semi-detached adolescent.

Sleep is supposed to let the demons out.

I compose letters with doodles in the margins.

No need to replace the bulb in the bedside lamp.

I have developed night vision.

I believe in scenery, look out the window. 

Monkey swing branch to branch in the maple. 

Steal from the sleeping cap peddler.

Throw down my hat.  Sweat.

Turn my pillow, search for the cool side.

Pace around like waiting for a biopsy.

Accentuate my hard R's.  Then roll them.

I am ready for Carnegie Hall.

I pray to the electric fan.

Belt it.  Sounds like yodeling.

My hair blows out in a radiant halo,

grows long enough to cover my Venus bits.

Time stands still like I am twelve.

I rise one last time from the open mattress.  

Dust bunnies pollinate the air.
My wings visceral and lacy in the dark.

tk/May 2015

A superb delivery by R.A.D. Stainforth...

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Fuck It

Fast prayer. 

Just two words. 

Eyes wide open.
Candle unnecessary.

Simple, yet superior.
Release never felt this good.

Know what you know. 
Mean what you mean.

No room for gooey in the middle.
Unsuspecting saint.

He controls as much as he can.
But not everything.

Come what may.
What-the-hell faith.

Never prayed this hard.
And meant it.


tk/May 2015

Serious, hushed read by R.A.D. ... as if he's in church ...

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Piss Proud

On the other side of the pond

They take the piss. 

I have a hard time wrapping

My matter-of-fact American mind

Around this pastime.

It's backwards in every logical way. 

Why the hell would someone want piss?

What do they do with it after they've taken it?

I heard it's based on a morning erection,

Brought on by a full bladder.

Appears this is the only reason

Anyone might want to be

On the receiving end.

tk May 2015


Humorous retro-esque read by R.A.D. ...that SNIFF (!) 

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Station

You sprint down

the platform at Piccadilly.

The first time I see you run.

Boyish.  Easy.

Sun pales gray

through the train shed roof,

as if we are lit for a morning set.

I wait for someone to shout "Cut!"

The doors close.

We're late.  The attendant frowns. 

Next train leaves at 11:11.

I don't mind.  It's lucky.

The carriage is warm.  It sways.

You explain why bricks change to stone

in the crosshatch of hedgerows

and sundry farms.

I find a station in your arms.

Stillness in your eyes.

Think how indecently happy,
should I suddenly die.

tk/April 2015

Lovely read by R.A.D. ...like the gentle sway of a train carriage...

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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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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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