song for midnight

let's fly away
take my hand, boy, and don't look down
let's run away
take all our treasure and get out of this town

the wind on our weary backs
sail like ships above the ground
let's go north on the night until we reach the sea

starlight like diamonds
how rich we'll be to travel among them
i'm wonderstruck at the scene
the black ink sky, the moon, the stars, and you and me

take my hand, boy, and don't look down
let's run away
take all our treasure and get out of this town

i just had the most beautiful dream i've ever had.

nap dreams are the best.

i dreamt that i was in a pub/restaurant and didn't have enough money
so i went outside on the stone sidewalk and did something for money, sang or did music or something
and came back inside with just enough to pay.
and i saw this handsome man i know, speaking and a circle was around him,
he was speaking about a girl and i sat behind him,
just wanting to listen.

and he looked at me and he said, "sam, i have one question for you"
i was smiling because i love him.
and he said "are you the kind of person with a lot of money, and you just don't know how to handle it?"
my countenance dropped.
"no." i said. "i'm the kind of person with no money, and i don't know how to handle it. i'm ashamed."

then we were on a school bus, a crowded school bus, and he sat in front of me in the front seat with our mutual friend, a handsome boy who was a little younger. everyone was talking, i was trying to listen to my friends, and we all noticed the incredible and dangerous increasing speed of the bus.

apparently part of the bus' normal route was to drive off of a ledge over some things and to land on the remaining part of the road, a little like the magic school bus. the driver took the wrong angle off of the ledge, and we were headed hurling into a warehouse or a jiffy lube or something else incredibly industrial looking.

while in the air there were screams and i grabbed for my handsome man-friend's hand, which he took and held tightly as if knowing we had little chance of survival. the bus driver was standing, screaming with joy, and appeared in all ways to be going insane. He had a gun.

we landed and things fell apart around me. i was trying to find his hand. i was hurt, but not dead. i was lying on my back and heard the bus driver screaming above me "if you try to run away for help i will shoot you dead!"
i heard people scurrying through the rubble and then shots.
i covered my eyes with my arm, realizing how vulnerable my whole body was, but i just didn't want to see him.
he was right over me, and was screaming at me, knowing i was alive and trapped, pointing his gun wildly.
i cannot express the intense, raw fear which came over me and strangled every muscle like a disease.
in my head i imagined he shot me in the stomach over and over again.

when i came to, i was fully dressed and in a stone courtyard. there was a dull gray haze of fog, and ivy clinging to the walls everywhere. i was at a funeral. a mourning. i saw the handsome boy and looked at him, my hopeful face inquiring of the handsome man's survival.
he simply shook his head no, eyes to the ground. i wept.

the boy took my hand and he lead my purposefully through the courtyard towards a wedding reception. fog, gray stone, mild air, green ivy. he had invitations in his other hand, which were small globes made of edible daisies. to enter the reception, we took the globes on our fingertips and ate.

entering was not the end goal, though. he walked straight to the bride and groom, her bouquet a large replica of the small daisy globe, but with sunflowers instead. it was heavy. she looked at us as if she knew that we were there to tell her something of great importance. the handsome boy led, with my hand still in his hand, and she followed me in her white wedding gown.

we were outside in the courtyard, the boy was walking slowly now with a bow and arrow in one hand, pointing to the ground.
"that is where he fell" , he said, pointing to stone. i was still weeping and pressed his hand to my heart, so he could feel it breaking beneath my chest.

we were decades from when the bus had crashed and somehow, the world we were in aged in appearance like it was going back in time. the boy was now wearing a tricorne.

he kept walking and leading us, the bride and me, through fields and ruins and fogs and greens. while he was discoursing, it came to me that he was the beginnings of a famous author, telling us his story that he was to write, using this place and time and travesty as inspiration. in my dream he was thomas wolfe.

from jenna to jeffery, 5 am

if i were the last girl
standing
on a sea of ice and foam,
if my skin were a flame,
if the dirt on my fingers
was so evident and obvious
and ugly and terrible,
would you dare to call me
beautiful?

if i was one of many women knocking
on the wooden cross of
your midnight door
my tremble voice just one of many voices who,
sounding like water boiling in the kitchen
spilling over onto the stove,
whispered your name sweet into your ear,
would you look at me different,
because i can't?

if i am one body
entertained on hazy streets
on certain nights of the week
at certain times of the night,
if mine is one of many bodies
held so tight like you mean it
please do not touch me,
or if you must,
please just call me beautiful.
and pretend like it's true.

tuesday, 406

i am not alone, today
i look around and it is
copied and pasted, every few seats,
those of us who made it here.

ragamuffin, mis-matched,
hair is ashen spectrums,
mid-morning coffee breath
from mid-temperature coffee.

i am tired, sunken eyes
half-mast, fixed on one tile
of the old linoleum floor,
contemplating the cloud at my back.

it is so gray in 406, a fog
like the hue in between bed-sheets.
i wish i wasn't wearing mascara, or
blush, powder, paints.

i wish that guy wasn't wearing a suit
because he has bed-head and pink eyes,
one finger to his moustache lip
in between intermittent yawning.

i wish that girl wasn't wearing a bedazzled hat
or those oversized silver-plated earrings,
hiding her watercolor face, smears,
i wish she would just show it.

i wish we were all dressed
together in tan and cream cotton blends
draping over form, with our
hair and skin in pink and soot tones.

i don't know, i just think it'd be beautiful,
like a choir, or angels, or a family.
i just realized, i'm probably being used as an example
in a college classroom, somewhere

that hard-headed girl who "saved" my friend
at the kitchen table one afternoon,
and how to date i'm helping people think,
"stupid Christians, ragamuffin and mis-matched"

i wonder if anyone else is listening
to the professor, or smelling his
coffee breath. i wonder what they're thinking,
if it's anything like what i'm thinking.

pantoum revision

Recollection
Centennial Park


I recall the last time
I saw him and walked
around Centennial Park
with a loaf of Wonder bread.

I saw him and walked with him
in the rhythm of his stride
with a loaf of Wonder Bread
in my hand for the ducks.

The rhythm of his stride
like notes swirling in crescendo
and the wonder of it all, the bread,
the birds, my absent head,

all swirling around in crescendo cloud.
I could have said so much then,
but for the birds, my head, and him
just sitting there so beautifully.

And I could have said so much more
when we sat there by the pond,
him sitting there so beautifully
me wishing I could stay.

We sat beside the pond
in a park in Tennessee.
I wish I could have stayed as
I recall when last I saw him.

sink

in the fertile green between sleeping and awake
i feel my body rise in
deep breaths
and sink heavy,
exhaling.
the descent into
the mattresses
through springs
sifting out skin and
muscles,
then bones
leaving only pools of
soul, blood,
and dreams.

dr. reck

words words words
spinning circles in the air
from his lips up to my ears
but i do not let them in
i deny their diffusion
because i am wonderstruck
from the window scenes.

the drone, drone, droning of this bass drum voice
is a steady soundtrack
to the winter inside my head. there,
i am lying on a bed of evergreen braches
on some handsome, cotton-colored hill
frozen
i am not listening to what you say!

potato couch
one, two, three pillows barricade
the cold from my skin
barricade the reminders
i have not been touched in so many days
so i sink into the
tan, brown, pink and blue
blankets and cushions
further and further out of reach.

you are a good man
cracked hands, black oil stains soaked
with hard days work
under wide and cold gray skies,
it sits heavy on your back.
how i'd like to make your burden light,
a petal kiss on neck pulse,
sheer florals on button-up dress.

i am in a place between sleeping and awake
i am breathing deeply
the golden light hues from old lamp shades
the spinning circle ceiling fan
the hum hum humming of its patterning
my cat is sleeping on my feet.
far gone from my body my head is thinking lofty things
like
i want to share your last name
and
i want to secret smile at you and you'll know everything of me
and
i want to understand you and stand strong
when all the bad parts of us come tumbling down
around us
a plow on the harvest soil.
this time next thanksgiving
i want you.
my maiden mind can't handle it and
my priorities are supposed to be straighter, anyway.
career, independence, business suits, my life, me.
my head is so far in the sky tonight
spinning circles
delusions of grandeur
grander, grander,
i just want to get old with you.

accentric (written for you, on my nicest paper)

we sleuth and sneak and hope we find
the meaning in a crooked time,
make locked the doors in the back of our minds
ashamed of what we hope is true.

we laugh, admiring those with wit
and oft forsake sincerest things -
it's of the past, we all admit, but
do we not long for sincere touch?

dollars bind our hearts with ropes
pulled taught until we lose our pulse
and stumble round the sterile rooms
of squares, and cubes, the halls, this maze.

our fathers strike from their fathers hate
our hands and words are trained the same
so we drink now, accept our fate
our boney fingers on frosted glass.

and every hope we ever had
it's hidden in our deepest heart!
our laughs, a bellowing hollow sound
our smiles, a secret sorrow now.

wake up, oh sleeper, there's meaning to find.
fear not, oh dreamer, your dreams aren't vain.
open the doors in the back of your minds!
search and feel and laugh and know
there's more, just as we always hoped.

about the morning

(this was a poem i submitted for class, and used bits of other poems i have previously posted.)


all is silent about the morning
before it breaks over the mountain
soaking into my window panes.

sometimes i wake just as
the black night fades into dawn's gray
i am reverent as a child.

the moments are a sanctuary
the dawn a cathedral where
i hear only my breaths
deeply drawn and poured out again
a prayer, fervent and humble.

all is still and from my pillow
i watch the stained-glass sky arrive
in royal purples and golds,
a holy march to morning sun.

the sky, wide and
plush as feathers in down
bids me to sleep again and
not soon forget these things i have seen.

tub confessions

soapy islands in the tub gather where
my knob-knees peak
like glaciers in a powder scented sea
they remind me of the seasons
growing in number, growing chillier each round
since that afternoon in centennial park
since that night in the wooden chapel

and i agree with emiliana singing
i'd live this life again just to
see you once more before i die

for days at a time my eyes play this mirror game where
i swear i see you in strangers who
sit a row in front of me and a little to the right
while the violinist plays his concerto on
the mahogany stage by the steinway

or in the man who passes by the store window
where i am arranging flowers and chairs
and dresses and shoes

(i let myself hope that it's you)
and despite what i know i just stare and stare
and pretend, my heart beats to the ryhthm
of the piece in 6/8, of the pace of the steps
my eyes strain and fill up like tiny porcelain baths

where i find myself soaking my lonely autumn skin today
imagining that i live in a kind little house with
flower boxes by the cracked and worn shutters
instead of at the top of this mountain where
the thought of you lingers closer than my breath.

welcome back
from the dead
the earthen tomb
dirt in your teeth

the blinding light screams
hallelujah
and
i thought i saw an angel

he held a sword
gold and rubies
so mighty
so mightily he held it
and shouted

Royalty! Royalty! Royalty!

i woke up on the couch.
i heard noises in my head
while
my body lie there paralyzed
still asleep.

i pushed my body with all
my might
so mightily
and it did not move.

i thought i saw an angel
i thought i kicked the table
and the drinks came tumbling
spilling, staining
i open my eyes
and i see the ceiling.

hot in this long sleeve jersey
don't want to take off the sweater
that smells like you
and i remember things fondly.

bright red nail polish
macintoshs and washingtons
on my fingertips,
match the feeling of red wine that
i've made last this whole evening
bittersweet going down.

bittersweet
going down.

i am alone in these rooms
the sole inhabitant
in one little corner
in one little space
my gigantic prayers
from pale tear-streaked cheeks
floating like ribbons
out the open window
right up to the sky.

i ask you to tell me if you hear me
and i feel a cool wind on my bare chicken legs.

40 W - 401 N

when i was driving
the sky was so wide
i felt like a child
being tucked into bed.

royal purple and gray
like feathers in down.
i felt smaller than the breaths
that i could hear from my mouth.

vision in a classroom

i saw myself
hit as with a truck.
a swift blow
but with only air.
and i blasted backwards,
upwards,
my chair, too
though the wall
gone like sleep.
back first,
then legs,
head down, bowed.
cheeks at rest.
it doesn't hurt,
it frees me.

vincent & francis, cursing place and time

the tear in his upholstery
the polaroid on the dash
it smells as of her youth
in her father's hunting truck.

holes in his jeans
sunflower seeds in her hand
her journey is marked
missing him, missing him

cursing place and time.

accentric (written for you, on my nicest paper)

we sleuth and sneak and hope we find
the meaning in a crooked time,
make locked the doors in the back of our minds
ashamed of what we hope is true.

we laugh, admiring those with wit
and oft forsake sincerest things -
it's of the past, we all admit, but
do we not long for sincerest touch?

dollars bind our hearts in chains
pulled taught until we lose our pulse
and stumble round the sterile rooms
of squares, and cubes, the halls, this maze.

our fathers beat from their fathers hate
our hands are trained to strike the same
so we drink now, accept our fate
our boney fingers on frosted glass.

and every hope we ever had
it's hidden in our deepest heart!
our laughs, a bellowing hollow sound
our smiles, a secret sorrow now.

wake up, oh sleeper, there's meaning to find.
fear not, oh dreamer, your dreams aren't vain.
unlock the doors in the back of your minds!
search and feel and laugh and know
there's more, just like we truly hoped.

dear samantha
do you remember the things
that make you smile?
do you remember
that it is june? and life is
so worth while?

forget about the complications.
when the dark eeks in,
shout it out so loud.
remember the feeling
of grass on your knees,
and when you used to dream
of being the person
you are right now?

do not be afraid
do not be ashamed
laugh in the face
of pride,
life is too rich and bountiful
and quick for all of that,
the devils play-things.

remember lisa frank?
and color-filled compacts
of rouge and lip stick?
remember windows down,
and the hair in your face
and laughter on your mouth
and the air was drenched
in life and possibility.


make a cake. icing on your cheek.
send a letter saying thank you in cursive ink.
do something selfless, and
do something for yourself.
be kind,
be always kind.
respect and humility will take you
anywhere you could ever want to go.

and if there's one thing
about you,
it's that you want to go places.

and when even these things have
lost their grandeur
and you cannot taste their sweetness
on your tongue
remember that they are things
their time will come and go
but the word of your King
stands forever
and His friendship you know,
His friendship you know.

how we move from a to b, it can't be up to me

how stupid was i?
i was young and i
had met him for the first time.

now i do not know him.
i can't help it,
i remember him fondly
even though it hurts.

how stupid was i
to not have captured
any of those moments
when he was mine
and he thought of me fondly, too?

i can scarcely remember
exactly what happened
but something happened
and he does not speak to me.
and i can't remember him well.

his face is a blurry image in my head
surrounded by strokes of green and blue,
blurry with infatuation and years time,
with excitement and disappointment.
they say time heals everything
but i still know this wound well.

how stupid was i
to tell him after so long?
so unabashedly, so strong.
how stupid am i
to continue on like this?
will it ever stop?

one time i was sitting and thinking
he was talking and talking
and i was not listening
and my eyes fixed in one place
as my head ran away.

i was in a different world
i was a child in my bedroom
i was a mother with keepsakes in hand
i was so far away i didn't know where i was.
i liked that place best.

my pulse was deep and steady,
my breathing like that of a weekend sleep,
i was sitting in a chilly stone classroom,
but i was not there.
i was a queen, noble, and warm,
ruling with a mighty hand
merciful and just
frightful and beautiful.

and then i was a lady smiling at children
with dark skin and oversized bellies
hugging them so tight
dirt on my white knees,
with a love so beyond myself.
one time, when i was sitting and thinking,
i was there.

give me happy curtains,
with colors that are too loud and
flowers that are too bright. give me
the iris, the poppy, the cherry blossom and tuberose blooms!

there is no time for fine presses
or somber lines and plaids,
of pictures of leafless tree branches
or etiquette-ridden double-stiched décor.

let the sun's rays shine through merrily!
shining through passionate rubies and golds,
the green of june's arrival and the blue of the cool of the day,
creating foggy hues in my wooden bedroom.

and i become dizzy with the scene:
rich colors of the afternoon and
sun bleeding through soap-scented linens
filling the air with shades and smells...

and i fall fast, fast asleep,
i fall fast in love with the imaginations of combinations-
you and me, shades and smells,
smells and shades and me and you,
happy curtains,
the iris and the poppy,
the cherry blossoms and the tuberose blooms.

"it is real" - a reflection

i remember the years past,
thick summer mornings on a bunk bed,
how those words stole me then,
and they took root so strong.
so ignorant,
i did not even know it,
that life passing from those words
through my wide eyes.

and sweet blooms i can see now,
so many years later.
blooms of rich colors,
my very breath, my blood.
i didn't even know then.
i gave of myself so early,
so trusting.

sweaty knees in
criss-cross-applesauce,
the smell of bug spray and earth,
the host of robins singing from outside the screen windows.
hallelujah,
i set myself up
to never find another love as good as He.

take it to the bank, jenny james

carnival in her head
ferris wheels and fireworks
blue, green, red
neon
streaking down a dark electric sky.

"who could pay attention," she sings
"with such as these?"
more wonderful scenes,
like a film projected inside her head
blue, green, red
so bright inside of her eyelids

jenny james can't even read
the computer screen
she scans one line nine times
over and over and over
like grandfather's typewriter-
click click click click, ding!
and all she sees are ferris wheels
fireworks, bold yellow suns
streaking down like joy-filled tears.

she doesn't think she's any good
at time skills, conversation,
at poetry or revelation,
just words from a girl with no
concentration
and a carnival inside her head.

well you can take it to the bank,
jenny james!
life life life
passionate swells, and song,
you've got it, jenny james!
you pulse with some kind of love
and jesus likes you just as you are.

happy poetry month!

self reflection; an april day

i am a beating pulse
a rhythm on a
deer-skin drum
melodic
as He hits his thumb
then fingertips
wrist
then palm.

i am a gentle crackling fire
blazing on the broken wood
the ash falls
and pieces of me
are carried
away
on the breeze

i am a desert sunset
a masterpiece each day
as He smears
colors of royalty,
in deep purple,
gold,
and red.

hopeless afternoon

(mrseliotbooks.blogspot.com)


how rude of my memory
to flash such a picture
before me,
as i'm trying to fall to sleep,
as the sun tries to sneak in
through the cracks in the blinds.
how rude of her, too!

leave me be, please.
i'm trying to fall fast away,
you see,
i'm too weak to run
but my mind can go
wherever it wants, still,
possibilities sweet
that save me from this
hopeless afternoon.

and how rude of my memory
to flash the silhouette
of his face!
i am a pitiful case
on the couch on my side
in cotton and envy,
in pursuit of escape.
just a moment, escape!
i suppose i will just have to let
the sun pour in as she begs me so.

the saga of trudy

coy
her hair hangs straight from the well water
she would tell you her favorite color
but she doesn't know it anymore

she dangles in between
the familiar and unseen
and she holds the secrets
of a hundred guilty men.

uneasy
whispering to her past midnight
oh, what a savior just might
pull her from this lovelessness.

they love her for her
sweet words, and her demure
face that looks into them
and they see a village harlot.

vagabond
how she longs for home
in a place and time, for home
in a man that won't erase her.

she dangles in between
the familiar and unseen
and she holds the secrets
of a hundred guilty men.

jump child, jump!

you're living a life
i am glad
i don't live.
you shove it in our faces
like a mincemeat pie,
singing
"jealous? jealous?
don't you want this?
oh, how i'm cryptic!
and you're so far behind!"

i'm just as bad as you,
and i know it,

because i have to make mention of this.
you make me think i am lesser
'cause i get nervous
round the kegger
and i want to prove that i am
just as
just as romantic as you!
and i contemplate genius things too!
and God and I sip tea at His table, right,
but i don't know how to cover it with
quippy lines
at just the right time

to solidify my outstanding right withstanding,
standing right next to you.

what kind of flaming hoop is that,
red with mistrust and striped?
the audience jests with my name on their lips,
singing
"jump child, jump!"
but i can't be honest and be a
master game player at the same time.
can you?
i'm no good at smoke and mirrors
at organic american spirits
and mirroring my neighbor.

i'm a selfish little thing
and i just want to be seen.
i cannot deny this.
but i want to see you too
don't you see?
no one really likes mincemeat anyway.

keep the door open

keep the door open
let the day seep in
chilling our boney toes.

and we fill our bellies
with blessings of this hour
water rings soaking into the table.

bare feet on linoleum
shuffling sounds in the kitchen
time is passing slow.

the golden sun caught in your hair
i watch you dance in the day
i don't know what to say to you.

keep the door open.
i think you're really beautiful
when you don't do anything at all.

life is so funny right now.
my father is old and sick and in debt.
and my mother is kind-hearted
and i care
but i am not there in it.

my hair is long and damaged
seen me through many wars.
it is a crown of victory.
i am still standing!

i don't know where i'm going
i don't read all of my assignments
but i want to
and i am living the fullest for today.

oh, that my good intentions
would become intentional actions.
i am growing up and
i sound like it.

the adventures. i am twenty.

rejoice! rejoice heart!
rejoice, body!
today is new!

promises burst from the lips
of him
to you.

do you hear the bells ringing from the tower?
singing with traffic sounds and
paper shuffling
in the classroom.

the bells singing hope songs
for you this hour
reminding you to
ring out,
praise! praise!

get in the car, the cold breath,
drive the windy road
trust when it gets dangerous.
let the day soak in
like sun through the wire screens
making vertical lines down
the mountain scene
of my window.

and the song, rejoice! rejoice!
let it resonate in you
today is new.

to the papers flying by me

to the papers flying by me,
carry me. carrying on
to the place i ought to be,
in alleyways and streets,
passing power-lines,
clotheslines,
powerless
and clothed in sun.

paper-made shapes, the breeze,
tracing silhouettes of passersby,
of autumn leaves
made in pen and ink,
children's games.
following,
chasing,
the hide and seek
of city streets.

i envy them and their
symphonies of paperback flight.
but i want to be a mother,
feet on the ground,
a wife,
and a lover
in cotton sheets
where i'll just watch them floating
outside of my window,
just as passion-filled as me.