Into the Gibbon's Moonlight

Where are you taking me,
she whispered to monkey
as if the trees had ears,
and stars might tell moon she
had wandered far from bed.

Monkeys don't talk to little girls
now follow me,
said he,
running on all fours ahead.

In bella bella luna light,
night-blooming jasmine glowed,
and when her shift brushed by,
shiny pollen wove with cotton,
a Celtic design on yoke and hem.

Come on girl,
said monkey,
tut-tut now, you keep up.

Nightingale sang to the moonlight,
dogstar sang light years away,
she ran in bare feet over
bright green moss, catching up
with monkey at edge of a glade.
Sir Monkey,
she said with tiny gasps,
thank you for making me come so fast,
eyes filled to wide and liquid brim
she leaned into him and stared.

There was a pond,
like melted silver in the moonlight,
flora and fauna of every kind,
truly a most beautiful sight.

Come,
said monkey and took her hand,
led her to rocks and reeds,
lifted slate and pulled back weeds,

monkey freed a water-spout,
monkey pulled his tin cup out.
Children who drink at the hidden spring
open themselves to the Muse.
Monkey held full cup out.
To drink or not, you must choose.

Faeries on her shoulders,
animals whispering in her ears
she reached forward, took the cup.

Thank you Monkey...Cheers!

Playing with form:

Home

O
we
can
spin
upon
string,
ellipse
planets
in space
about sun
but what is
home to us?
What is need
for our seed to
dream of return?
Tiny dancer spins
blue an' green bead,
it may be ripe garden
but is it home? Breath
held within this pressure
swirls lacy clouds around,
wind o’er water and ground.
Can we make this earth move
for us? Am I home if fire spills
down my thighs? Tiny spinning
blue-green bead, jade and lazuli
desires reach for new beginning
through never-ending, inky sky.
Home is where our naked wet
pounding hearts lie, outside
our bodies, where Milky
Way pours its light

in afterglow.

New Moon

Deep knowing,

held sweetly in

textured dark,

promises in

maiden moon’s

chaste turn

from light.

Poets,

dip your pens

in inky shadow

of earthen desire;

write words that pull

maiden moon

to ripen,

to show her first

sexy

silver

curve.

"I listen to the wind, to the wind of my soul..." Yusuf Islam

Everyone has a place,
that place is always
moving
to become
another place.
We become another
yet retain each other
in a chain of places,
spaces, or races
we have run~
even won

~well~
some.

But here we are,
traveling slippery

on a slide
of celluloid,
frame
by
clicking,
ticking in
the dark,
frame.

Everyone has a place,
that place is always,
all ways,
moving.

Scott Heffernan 5/21/2011....painting by Tweed Meyer.

Scott is a wonderful writer, at the same time as being full-time caregiver for his parents. His father has passed and now his mother is in her difficult, final chapter. Scott writes with acute truth...but, in his gentle way, he always gives relief in humour and fantasy at some of the hardest moments. As he gives himself some breathing room, his readers may pace themselves too.

I first met Scott at Jerry and Pam Libstaff's Words & Music, House Concert Series, last year when he read, and I was so very impressed with him. We now sit in the same writers group and I count Mr. Heffernan as friend. Look for his soon-to-be-published book, "Chasing the Last Banana."

Here follows a piece I wrote on Scott's reading in May, for Words & Music 2011.

Scott Heffernan

Audience tunes up

in familiar dissonance,

solo trumpet of laughter

drops descending notes

on cool silver night,

sunlight plops in big

golden spot upon

monochromatic

scored water,

drops

from burnished

cup in curling,

cumulus

sky.

Met him

inside

a seashell

she didn’t sell,

one that had

cracked down

to its interesting

parts,

edges

softened by sand

and pounding sea.

Heard him

reading to

driftwood damsels,

defining

high-tide line

with roar of his

laughter,

hear him

whispering

still,

inside

a seashell,

long after tide

has been pulled

to other side

of the world.

I breathe with him,

breath and timing

familiar to me now,

yes,

presses

two fingers to

pulse in his neck

racing,

breath,

now pacing himself,

champion of Elders

and other

fading causes,

he pauses

between hat

changes,

rearranges

older pieces

to read us.

Oh, what would

Scott do

but leave us

chasing

that last

banana,

not wanting

to waste

that last

banana,

would he care

if we had no

spoon?

Poetry Book Published

I've been away from this blog for a while now, life often derailing my train of thought! Last September I was fortunate enough to have a book of my poetry published by Watermark Writers. My thanks to my publisher, Jerry Libstaff.

If you are interested in purchasing a copy, please go to www.watermarkwriters.com

Now...onward.

LaPush

Suddenly, there she was,
frothed and furious, broken
lines that beat upon shore,
cold angry chevrons of grey.
Darker sea, she reaches for
white waves, curling, streaming
screaming wind pulls in night,
blue slate, except for blue-white.
Scrub pine, vines and driftwood
dragons; shadows grey on
tattered broken waves.
Take this from me!
Take this rage that rattles
my bones! Blow out my brains
you bastard! Shouts swallowed
in the screaming storm, rage taken
and thumped in each pounding curl,
each furious fist of an ocean
shaken, not stirred--a woman
wild as her natural world,
pulling lunatic fringe of the Great
Mama's shawl to wrap a fury,
a pain so deep, only wild
raging storms can reach.