She is...

She is winter rose
Self-protective thorns
Her jewels and bows

She is beast's feast
Torn up underneath

She covers skin
A guard thin

In due course
She set sail on a
Tear thought

Storm's fury quieted
Within
She returned
As she ought


Last poem I wrote

Summer Abandonment by Gemini Writer

I walk

under the endless light of July

Peach and white roses

Waft under my nose

Their scent awakens sun lulled senses, like warming lotion

nimbly brushing my golden skin

White daisies dance under entertained eyelids

Their centres, amusing little suns, tickle my nose

Opulent gerbera

wave on lengths of spindly leaf

And graze my palms when I join them

Animate things that they are...

An Open Book

I want anything you can say in the moonlight
A line from a poem
From: The Circle Game Collection
She forces life to unfold its meaning
She won't settle for not enough

I stood in line that evening
Still attuned to her reading for
Alias Grace
Ms. Atwood expressed well
Direct, her humour, punchy
Yet, she's retained a softness

Cat's Eye in my hand
Written for me
It speaks of the challenges life throws
The self vulnerable
Open to page 207, sentence underlined
I hardly hear them anymore because I hardly listen
Elaine, the school girl, has walked away from Cordelia
Her character developing and freed
Atwood is telling us
Don't cower to tyrants
Defy

I got close and I see kind eyes

Curiosity in them as she signed her books
Her face itself an open book
She signed page 207
And the cover of
The Circle Collection

In some way, I feel why she writes
 Reflections true
Cat's Eye sits on my shelf
A reminder to never settle for not enough

a personal drama

The sunset ablaze, pinky red

paling to knotted mesh

before it drops

Eighth Floor

Sipping wine, Gen and I exchanged news
Talked of having too little time
The band played

Through the pools of patrons he and I passed each other
And hesitated
There's something about him
A touch of recognition showed in his eyes too
Under the light banter
He touched my hands
It claimed us at the same time
We'd been together, yet isolated...
He was the attractive, brooding one
Not all he knew was good
I'd witnessed his unearthing
And had been transfixed by
The clenching and unclenching of his jaw
His hands fists
Bending his head over them
He'd shed tears
Expressing grief over the end of a relationship
My stomach had turned over each word
Big slices of anger burst open
Emotion poured by pails
I'd tried to understand
Tried not to be on edge
Tried not to judge
His anger
I'd left mine to sleep like a bird
Blanketed in a cage
How dare he make me feel this way?
In broken time
We patched the cracks of disorientation

That night in the bar
Intuitively, we'd been drawn to the other
"Eighth floor...Psych!"
Throwing out our arms, we laughed and hugged
Each of us mended
We wished each other well
And farewell.

The Only Two

During the nineteen fifties
Robert Doisneau took photographs
In Paris
Of lovers
How many times have we seen
His most popular
A couple walking across the street
He leans to kiss her
She surrenders
Click
They're the only two

Doisneau makes it look like
They might not even be there
An ephemeral passing through
You might feel that
The world is moving around them
Or, that they stand still

Fantasy and whimsy is seen
 Over and over
He responds to that "elusive thing"
And moves them into moments
Out of the ordinary
The possibility of something
Clandestine
Or eerie
Or dangerous
Or exquisite

The Street

The sexual predator
Snatches a child
And runs
On reeking streets

The callous robber
Stands over
The cringing, old lady
He wrenches her loose change
And runs
On reeking streets

The home invader
Attacks a family's peaceful nest
Their safety net left a gaping hole
As he runs
On reeking streets

Criminals pound the pages
Of the newspaper
And while dread and unease
Marks ink-stained hands
Security and peace of mind
Dissolves
Violent crime fades in the trash
But ceaselessly beats
On reeking streets