Holy Ghost in My Morning Coffee

Dove in the morning coffee creamer
...or is it....
(dum dum dum.....)

the Holy Ghost?

Do you think I can get the Roman Catholic Church to sanction this as a vision? You know like the Virgin Mary in the tree trunk or the image of Jesus Christ on the tortilla?

Hmmmmmmmmm!

photo copyright 2006. LAG All Rights Reserved

Stage Door Exit

Stage Door Exit

When I come back

will you be there to hold me?

Not long,

just a moment to soothe

aching nerves and my tired soul...

Give the loving words

I long to hear

from one

so dear to me now...as always

So far

I have travelled so far

but the reason was not clear

I echoed out the cry

only to hear it

bouncing back lonliness

It was the only answer

Walk the corridors to my rooms

and fall in step...

dark ramblings

with the castles of air

of then and now

Shadows come and go

touching me briefly

passing lightly

Too much (sorrow)

wells up and it

taints my dance

I light a candle for you

burning it bright in the window

light in our storms

light for your way

Pulling back from desperation

I walk the sea foam

gazing into the hems of the oceans' skirt

The decoration and finery of small shells

seaweed embroiders the story of us in her gown

The sea is lifting me

in the shallows

to lay me soft on your shores

silent at your feet

Gather me there, my Love

Away from the lights and stage door exits

lift me away to the fires and warm furs

where I can sleep in peace

perhaps a small time together

without dramas and wars

Claim me as your own and heal this weary soul.

copyright 1987 LAS. all rights reserved.

Your Own Version and Mine

A thorn sticks in my finger and it penetrates right into my brain. There are times when I am afraid of my thoughts...scared of what my mind will conjure up for it's own enjoyment or torture.

I have been writing since 5 this morning. Unable to sleep, the poems, no, the emotions ran over in my mind ceaselessly. If I purgue this, will it leave me alone? How many times do I have to purgue it? It drones on and on as a nun over her rosary.

rerun....

change the channel

twilight zone and they are all the same show.

popcorn for breakfast with oatmeal and a dash of brown sugar with my tea. Okay, let's see where this leads me.

Where it leads you.

There is a dark side to me...glittering, knife-edged and very, very sharp. I am throwing it all up on paper, so to speak...the beautiful, bold, insecure and bizarre.

...the smell of snuffed out candles in the evening air and church confessions banging my head against the dark, on the wood confessional and the words of someone anonymous giving me meaningless absolution for sins I haven't even thought of committing.....wouldn't in a million years.

I count candles and rain drops, and tears that were shed over trivialities and nonesense whose intense meaning in my past look absurd in the now. I keep counting them. Collecting them as scattered beads on the ground, something precious to be put away until I have the patience to re-string them and turn them into something truly beautiful.

The night is young and the spirit is believing in the wax and lighted string and wisps of smoke tangled up in prayers so intimate and unspoken aloud . The silence within me echos up and the choir screams. The spirit boils.

Do you see it? Do you understand ?

So much I pick up and see. So much that goes unnoticed in everyday hurrying to work.

People pass by the building fascade and never stop and REALLY see it. They don't know about the beautiful tiles and the rococo. They don't see the gargoyal sitting placid and ready to spout water during the rainfall. The see the piece of yesterday's newspaper and dog crap by the doric column and have no idea there is a sky above. Eyes to the pavement. Attention to the bits of litter and trash.

I see it, too. I just have the nerve to raise my head. That makes me dangerous. That makes me know too much.

Laying down at Sutro gate is a cement lion. He waits and watches the decades roll by with the fog from the Pacific Ocean. He is covered in sun, covered in dew, cloaked in rain. His roar is frozen. He is wise and aware of everything that has passed before him in the stream of traffic and time that has flowed down the hill over looking the ruins of ghosts and laughter and dancing in the dark to the orchestra after oysters and champagne. Dancing on the floors of a building that you can't see above the ruins and the tunnel and the boom of the waves at high tide when the spirits run with your candle through the darkness and snuff it out on the rocks and water at the end of cave. Dancing with their ghost lights and dreaming of us as a fantasy in their mind.

Madness, you whisper.

Silent. So much is.

Phantom...Do You Know

Phantom

Do you know the dangers

hanging on draperies of dreams

half-glimpsed

slightly

remembered

but in the waking

crumbling to dust

Even in the light of day

you walk alone here

She is

somewhere

lurking

watching silent

electric

prickling your skin

You turn awaybut can't resist

to search for eyes in the dark

...leopard lights...

soft

running beside you

Something blurry

out of the corner of your eye

She materializes

just that fast

to catch your breath

between her teeth

and drink your passions

as the candles gutter

into smoke wisps in the night.

picture and poem copyrighted 2006. All rights reserved.

Relics

Relics

The stuff of records

realm of the Egyptian Thoth

It is the knowledge

of something missing

thickly veiled

black solitude and shadows

queries...

...a held belief...

photos displayed

in high-gloss fronted cabinets

stare blindly

at their own reflection

tragedies

triumph

love blessed (and forbidden)

The photos stare

and like the sphinx

remain silent.

Photo and poem copyrighted 2006. All rights reserved.

The Howling

Passions Swirl

in whipping fabrics

silks blowing in the wind

spinning softly

draping

down

to the Black Rock Desert

The colours dazzle

against the dry, hot sand

tissue waves

rocking me out of my daydreaming

billowing into nights

of loving

and surrender

until the wolf calls

and my throat swells

with the sound of stars

kissing the naked daybreak.

photo and poem copyrighted 2006. all rights reserved.

The Tragedy Lingers

The Tragedy Lingers

Avoidance...

Exiled...

There is nothing to be done

Movement in careful measures

Dancing around the abyss

until my heart is raw

So close to the edge

falling

is no longer a question

Grace has turned to shards of brittle glass

Ancient sorrow

consumes the players

Driving us on

and away

from the truth

that lays

as an ocean between.

Electric Fence and poem are both copyrighted 2006. All rights reserved.

I Remember (Just a Little...)

I Remember (Just a Little)

Come through the rain

mists and memories

Dreams play on in the night

It has been a kiss

an embrace from heaven

Sweet perfume

as if flows by me

through me

Calling

Dreaming out

Drifting and drinking in the darkness

to stop the momentum

and grasp your hand

copyright 1995 All Rights Reserved.