Sunday

Déjà vu



Before you are born,
I paint your half smile.

I see a schoolboy tie;
your sensitive hands touch
an open book.

Your voice floats high
above playground noise,
the sound of scissors.

I hover restless, long,
until your hair is no longer the color
of pencil shavings,

until you speak the low
calm of a red rose.


tk/ September 2013


Thanks to R.A.D. Stainforth for beautifully reading this poem. 

Thursday

The Cat's Pyjamas


Body swerve corners,
curve neck to kneecap,
roll the reds.

Your eyes button perfectly
in their buttonholes.

The way you bat at the gear shift,
leave certain things unsaid,
dislodges everything.

Purring at the light
has something to do with it.

You know they gave you a license
because of your short skirt
and outrageous hair.

Somehow you always land
on your feet.


tk/September 2013


I coaxed R.A.D. Stainforth into a delightful mid-week read...  




Sunday

Climbing



I see your head poke
from a cloud of leaves;
your sap-stained legs dangle
beneath a limb.

Some days you climb further,
to the high branches,
frighten sparrows
from their narrow perches.

In winter you are easily seen
carving graffiti into the bark
with your laser eyes;
four initials and a heart.

I am content to swing low,
absolve myself with hemp,
twist tight, let go,
lose control.


tk/August 2013 


Thank you, R.A.D. Stainforth, for this beautiful read. 

Jeanie Tomenek 



Passing Place




Pass through town 
where traffic lights change
without traffic 
to single-lane outside the muddy bay.

Drive gently beside me,
sand in your hair, like in your dream 
hoisting from water to headland
can be messy.

Pull forward to a passing spot,
beyond the guardrail.
Raise a one-finger salute 
then press, to lip-read my intentions.

Disregard the carefully folded map.
Pray to your own hand 
my America my new-found land.
You know the way.


tk/August 2013 


Thanks to R.A.D. Stainforth for momentarily stepping out of his black and white world to read this poem.


photo by Steven Kelly 
 Join MagpieTales creative writing group. 

Cross the Bridge


I contemplate waves,
skip stones in your eyes,
wade past the shallow parts.

There is no need for old north boats,
since we have uncovered
our own safe passage.  

Baggage drowns in the current;
a selkie dons my wedding veil,
wonders at so many shoes.

Spoon the rest of the journey;
give in to the tug of gravity,
the low ache that drops like stone.

A stormy berth is best, even though
you are too civilized for thunder.


tk/August 2013 

Thanks to R.A.D. Stainforth, taking time from his holiday in Shetland to read this poem.  


photo by Elena Kalis 


Bolero



The turntable of my mind
is set to schizophrenic repeat.
It plays all night.

Nonchalant dancers in Carmen-style shoes
stamp hundreds of cockroaches
in the Royal Albert Hall.

The audience watches.

They hop in preoccupied rhythm
with unchanging snare drums,

grip roses in their mouths,
all wide-eyed and wild,
bared teeth mistaken for smiles.



tk/August 2013


Many thanks to R.A.D. Stainforth for masterfully reading this poem. 

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec

Come Upon Me



Come upon me by chance
almost touch me.
Inhale my smile.
Save my scarf in a jam jar.

Write me a sonnet
read it in dove sounds.
Never ask me to sing it
I may crack on the high notes.

Promise to keep my grave
scrub the stone with a little brush.
Pick me some leaves.
Bring me pastrami on rye.

Trace the shape of my hand.
Memorize each fingertip.
Take care with the ring finger
it is the weakest.


tk/August 2013


Thank you to R.A.D. Stainforth for preserving my words with voice. (He's not really asleep here...)


Drawing Hands, 1948 by M. C. Escher