I took my dream to the Orchid,
exhaled it
and laid it on her threshold.
Orchid inhaled it
and looked at me quizzically.
It was slightly unnverving;
I tried to remember the smallest details
to see if I had omitted something.
The sun set and rose
but Orchid did not even blink.
At long last she nodded
and I gathered my belongings
and inhaled.
Breathing was good
as I stepped into the sky.
Clouds streamed by.
Rains fell.
Dragons smiled at me
and gave me rides
to the very end
of the sky.
Beyond it
the slow smoke
from a Denny's
serving breakfast
all day.
If you can
get breakfast all day
you can make a fresh start
anytime.
Hungry?
Recently in poetry Category
I get no response
except being ignored.
Attempts to interact
are rebuked.
If you were to open my lid
You would see i am empty
But the suction of the vacuum
Keeps the lid on.
This vacuum pulls at my walls
The sensation is the turmoil of a black hole
bits flying chaotically
before disappearing.
Where was i
when i should have been filling up?
already full
of stress.
I am already dead
these movements are
only twitches and spasms.
I am death's rattle.
I am trying to collapse
into the black hole
of my heart
and disappear
copyright 2007 Deborah Bolle
Fall
I love to walk in the woods
when the damp earth is covered
by inches of papery crunch;
I try to shuffle quietly
enough to see wildlife.
Then watch the chill wind
tearing the last tatters of vestments
from the trees
who continue to raise their branches
to the sky in silent worship.
copyright 2007 Deborah Bolle
What is...
It seems strange to me that I must append codicils
when I tell someone that I love them.
"love, a word I don't toss about lightly,
neither do I keep it locked away.
Nor do i intend it to mean more
than makes you comfortable."
Or, "Please forgive me, I love you."
Or, "I hope you don't mind if i say
a prayer for you."
"I don't wish to make you uncomfortable,
but you are amazing."
What if i don't know what love is?
When, every day, your partner leaves her dirty breakfast dishes
because she is running late (again),
is it love not to be angry?
And even to do them yourself - not because they are in your way,
or because you are anal,
but because you would rather do them so that she doesn't have to.
Of course I love her.
She actually allows me
to get close enough
to touch
her.
Of course I love her.
Would one give up one's own life for one's beloved?
Of course.
Although that treads dangerously near the precipice
of monstrously low self esteem,
"Of course, anyone's life is worth more than mine
because I don't know what love is.
So I can't love
myself,
and if I can't love
myself,
how can I love
another?"
I am not bad person
like a thief
or murderer.
I am pained
at the thought
of paining another.
I have loved before.
But where are they now?
Are they gone because
I didn't know what I was doing?
"Please forgive me, I love you.
Though I don't know what that means"
But I am working on it.
copyright 2007 Deborah Bolle
It seems strange to me that I must append codicils
when I tell someone that I love them.
"love, a word I don't toss about lightly,
neither do I keep it locked away.
Nor do i intend it to mean more
than makes you comfortable."
Or, "Please forgive me, I love you."
Or, "I hope you don't mind if i say
a prayer for you."
"I don't wish to make you uncomfortable,
but you are amazing."
What if i don't know what love is?
When, every day, your partner leaves her dirty breakfast dishes
because she is running late (again),
is it love not to be angry?
And even to do them yourself - not because they are in your way,
or because you are anal,
but because you would rather do them so that she doesn't have to.
Of course I love her.
She actually allows me
to get close enough
to touch
her.
Of course I love her.
Would one give up one's own life for one's beloved?
Of course.
Although that treads dangerously near the precipice
of monstrously low self esteem,
"Of course, anyone's life is worth more than mine
because I don't know what love is.
So I can't love
myself,
and if I can't love
myself,
how can I love
another?"
I am not bad person
like a thief
or murderer.
I am pained
at the thought
of paining another.
I have loved before.
But where are they now?
Are they gone because
I didn't know what I was doing?
"Please forgive me, I love you.
Though I don't know what that means"
But I am working on it.
copyright 2007 Deborah Bolle
Alone
i have been alone before.
More than once.
Or has it been the very same time
punctuated only by dreams?
Imaginings?
Desires?
If i can't tell
I think
I am in big trouble.
Am I being sucked
into the vacuum
of my heart?
I have been alone in a crowd.
I have also been alone
in a shared bed.
Sometimes cold feet are more than cold feet.
Is it still called spooning when each shape is right
but you are back to back?
copyright 2007 Deborah Bolle
Trust.
It doesn't really rhyme
but it somehow reminds me
of kindling.
A handful of fragility that goes up in smoke
at the slightest provocation.
Trust can be given to another
who will cherish it,
breathe of its essence,
caress it lovingly,
pledge to it eternity,
and end it with a flick.
copyright 2007 Deborah Bolle
But we hadn't walked far
when she dropped my hand
and stopped walking.
i stopped too and looked at her.
She said, "You should be mad at me."
I said, "What? Why?"
She said, "Because you are not
going to get what you want from me."
I asked,"And what do I want from you?"
"Like everyone else
you want to sleep with me."
It was true.
I told her i was looking forward
to it soon after
I re-found her.
We'd had the most amazing times
before I became an idiot,
or at least did an idiotic thing,
and left her.
Then she turned
and started walking.
She was not an idiot.
;© 2007 Deborah Bolle
We are both very frightened.
We have both decided it will not work.
We have both decided we don't know
what "work" means
but we are afraid of it.
Cyclically one of us
approaches the other
but the other backs away
as if we are enclosed
in nonintersecting bubbles
that bounce apart
and stay apart
until they by chance
meet again
or pop.
;© Deborah Bolle
Today
I beat the sun up:
Lazy
bones is still snoozing
somewhere
over the horizon,
comfy
and warm
under
this blanket of soft grey clouds.
I
stand outside with the cats and the dog.
They
beat me up, but not by much;
breathing
warm and whispering in my ear
they
invited me out with them
to
enjoy the rain-wet yard.
It
is too early for the other houses.
Like
the sun they slumber
with
their dogs, cats, humans, and hamsters.
If
there are whispers,
they
are too small.
A
huge crow,
sitting
alone on the highest roof top,
tears
a raspy caw from its throat
and
hurls it into the sky
with
solemn authority.
Then
it flies close over us.
in
the thick damp we hear
the
whooshing wind
wrapping
the flapping wings.
I
have not heard that before.
The
deep green of the cedar ripples slightly
in
what passes as the breeze,
while
the leafless branches of the apple
do
not acknowledge the wind
but
tremble under the slight weight
of
the mockingbirds
who
are back (first sighting this Spring!)
to
appraise last year's nest,
check out adjacent properties,
watch the cats
skulk
through the glistening grass
with
their dainty, high stepping deliberate walk,
stopping
occasionally
to
stare at a front paw,
before
shaking the water from it.
The
dog comes back to the porch
after
snuffling the yard for the smells of night,
not
caring if her feet are wet.
She'd
just as soon go for a morning swim
but
the beach takes a car,
(her
license does not include driving privileges)
and
her pool rests on its side against the garage,
useless
and forlorn,
a fallen blue moon
sinking
into a green nasturtium sea.
The
drowsy sun peeks over the clouds
sending
a flood of light into the yard.
The
cats come back
and
stare, with the dog, at the door,
whispering,
"Breakfast..."
Copyright
2007 Spring Deborah
Bolle
This morning, as I lay on the fine horizon between dream and wake,
Cat, tired of waiting, sat next to me and began grooming.
Her whiskers, moving against my arm,
Felt like a lot of graceful, long legged, happy spiders
Having some kind of dance party.
c 2007 Deborah Bolle
wind
light
rock
water
forest
skin
feet
hair
blood
sweat
smell
lick
me
head
finger
arm
breast
leg
hold
you
sweet
beauty
chant
sing
music
together
we are a symphony
trudge through garden
worship language
ask why
think about chocolate
let live
luscious petal shines through the mist
tell the rose: love
c 2007 Deborah Bolle
Old man with a brick
to keep the wind from blowing
his papers away.
© 2007 Deborah Bolle
I awake from gentle sleep.
I
feel you stir:
Stretching,
turning, smiling.
I
smile, too, and embrace you,
Enclose
you with love,
Sense
your heartbeat,
And
treasure the warmth we share.
In
these languid moments
I
wonder of your future
And
await your first breath.
Then
hurry to the bathroom.
Deborah
Bolle c 2004
I lie still and watch you
as the room brightens.
We have slept as a pile of kittens
arms and legs impossibly tangled;
heads ioll back, then our lips
find each other for a kiss.
Sometimes a quick kiss,
sometimes a lingering kiss,
and occasionally someone's
tongue slips into
the other's mouth
for a little sucking.
We might not awaken
with the sweetest breath
but it will be our breath
and we won't know
if it is sweet or not,
and we won't care.
Those moments we rouse
during the night are fleeting;
just as quickly we are
sleeping deeply again
just like kittens roll without
bothering to open their eyes.
But my eyes are open
watching your sound sleep.
Your skin glows more brightly
than the morning light.
My hand gently covers your heart
tha-thumpimg its way to morning.
Breathing your sweet breath.
© 2007 Deborah Bolle
I'm kind of expecting a visit tonight from Rudy the rat.
I have struck up an acquaintance with Rudy:
He is shy and unobtrusive, and has never
behaved in a heavy handed manner.
I, on the other hand, have considered
dastardly ways to make him uncomfortable
like stamping my foot on the floor.
I did that.
Tossing empty soda cans in his general direction
in an effort to scare the
ever livin' daylights out of him.
Didn't do that.
Tried to squirt him with
a water gun.
Didn't do that.
But maybe I am the rat.
I think somehow the daylights have
already been scared out of him.
He only comes to visit at night,
He never announces himself,
nor offers a greeting;
probably my own fault
for scaring him.
Sitting in the silence
of my quiet laptop
I hear a tiny "chic chic"
from under the stove.
Rudy is munching down
on a piece of the dog's kibble.
Then "chic chic" again.
He timidly goes to the dog's
water bowl
and peers over the edge.
Not very full tonight...
to get a drink he would have to take a bath.
But he already took a bath when he awoke
while singing a little song:
"Lick lick lick, lick lick lick,
get between the toes
then I'll have happy feet
every where i goes."
It is an old rat folk tune
from the mountains.
I don't think he sees very well.
He walks right in
even though I am sitting right here.
I believe he thinks I am some
sort of unpredictable noisy
foot stamping refrigerator.
He doesn't seem to care about
TV, but once when
Steve Buscemi was on
he paused and watched,
and he showed interest
in a James Cagney movie.
One night he and his friends
got so wired
they ascended all the way to the top of the frige
and broke into a box of donuts
I had been saving.
They might have thought
the donuts were some sort of
splendid prize for their achievement,
as when Sir Edmund Hillary
reached the top of Everest
and found Snowballs.
So now i keep my donuts
in a secure cabinet over here where I sit
and I save them for his appearances.
Then I open them
and eat one right in front of him.
I know that is mean
but late at night
I get cranky.
Maybe I am the rat,
There is a piece of water
chestnut on the floor
right were he comes out
under the cabinet.
It is a remnant of a very hot
meal of Thai food.
I would pick it up, but i can't
see it when i am over there
and I am too lazy to make
a special trip.
Besides i like to imagine the look
in his face
when he took his first
tentative bite
and went "whuu huu
golly that's HOT!"
That is translated into English.
In rat it sounds like
"eep! eep!
Eep eep squeak squeak hot!!"
I like imaging him bringing
friends over and saying
"Oh by all means you
take the first bite."
They do,
and then all the other rats cry,
"Eep eep eep,
Rudy is rude Rudy is rude."
Have you ever heard a rat snicker?
I guess I am the rat for leaving it there.
Ah ha - he just showed up
kind of plopped down in the kick space
under the cabinet.
It is a dark corner
so i shine my flashlight on him.
He freezes standing up
reaching for the exit,
looking like a diorama at the
natural history museum,
or a display in a wax museum.
("The black plague was spread...")
Then he suddednly bolts
back up in the hole in the wall
between the cabinets
but leaves his tail
pointing straight down at the floor.
He keeps telling me he wants
to change his name to
Rodney.
But I tell him I like Rudy better
and so does his mother.
Oops, he's back
in his full dress leathers,
swatting his own ass
with a little tiny riding crop
saying,
(in his best James Cagney voice)
"take that you dirty rat,
take that!"
Oops. now he is gone again.
I wasn't expecting that!
;© 2007 Deborah Bolle
pain 4
My eyes close and roll back
not from pleasure
but from pain.
I have seen amazing things
but now i sit in my kitchen
slowly rolling inches
back and forth
in my wheelchair
as if it were a rocker,
going nowhere;
staring at the wall,
still seeing things,
traveling in my mind,
and writing them down
as if they had any value,
as if I had any value,
wishing i were dead -
could i please die now?
Is that too much to ask?
i have on fairly clean underwear
what more do i need?
Where is the relief?
it dances around me
throwing microbes my way
that hurt me
and taunt me
but they leave me here
wondering of their dedication,
senses of humor,
and work ethics.
I saw a suicide on TV,
she was hanging
peacefully
still.
She was so still
it is hard to believe it was more
relative pain
leaving
than staying.
A tipped chair on the floor
its life spilled
no longer needed
"wheels for sale"
© 2007 Deborah Bolle
Openness
Now that you mention it
wrapping my legs around you
is a very odd feeling.
Oh sure, I do it often enough,
and I really like doing it,
so what makes it odd?
It is the openness.
I lie in bed and await you
with legs akimbo,
hands resting inside thighs.
When I hear the bathroom light click off
I squeeze my legs together
and arch my back
involuntarily.
I will open them again for you
and welcome your weight.
And heat
and touch
and probing
in the openness.
"Keep your knees together!"
If i had a nickel...
College loan...
But there is a time and a place for everything
and this is the time to place you
between me,
Among me, inside me,
In that space
defined by walls.
Space is space, inside or out,
but it seems to hold magic
and you amplify the magic
In the openness.
And I thank you
with my heart
that you reached
in the openness.
We can scissor
our way to our souls,
and I swear we exchange bits;
I get some of you,
you get some of me
And it just seems odd that that can be,
in the openness.
© Deborah Bolle
My Friend Brings Tears
Hurt rushes in, takes up residence.
Some of it lives on the surface,
ready to be expressed anytime,
anywhere, toward anyone,
over ordinary incidents.
Bristly prickles.
"I don't fetch anything
for anyone."
she says.
Is that: No one
is worthy of
her energy or love?
The Goddess listens.
In this way
she protects the inner pain;
conserving its energy
for the sparkling moment
when someone comes close
to assuaging it.
"No, stop,
get away,
leave
me
alone!"
she cries.
The heat is so fierce
that it burns those
who used to be welcome:
Children, family, friends.
Those who might give solace
become smoking cinders.
The Goddess watches.
It is so difficult
when one refuses
alleviation.
So difficult.
What can one do
but back away and
offer love, peace
and good wishes.
Cry over the pain,
and cry over the loss.
Even asking to get close
seems tantamount to delivering
the original blows.,
So I leave her
alone.
I cry quietly.
The Goddess does too.
© 2007 Deborah Bolle
Reunion
I have not seen her
for a very long time.
Reaching
I ask if I may touch her.
She nods yes.
With my eyes closed
i put my palms near her cheeks,
only lightly touching.
I feel electrified.
I move my hands back,
my thumbs grazing her cheekbones
and i gather her hair and lift it
behind her.
I place a hand on the back of her neck
and lightly massage.
She breathes deeply,
and stretches tall.
She moves her head
back and forth
then up and down,
then draws circles in the air
with her nose.
I let her hair fall over my hand
and pull her to me
by the small of her back.
We lean into each other -
even our knees touch.
I inhale and get dizzy
remembering the way we smell.
I whisper in her ear,
"I want to be touching you
the entire tine you are here."
She takes my hand
and we walk.
Deborah Bolle © 2007
Hand Bird
If someone loves me
with all of her heart
but i am not sure i love her
the same way
should i take the bird in hand
and try to learn to love her,
or pursue the free bird
that might never love me
but to whom I am inexorably drawn?
Should I introduce them,
And take myself away?
I think they could love
each other
better than I
can love either.
No...
I love she who loves me.
But I am afraid for her,
afraid I will not be good for her.
After we are together
will she still be as happy as now
will she be happier,
will she be less happy
and have regrets?
"Let her decide,"
my other friends say.
But I know that
if I am not here
I will not harm her.
If I am here...
I know myself
© 2007 Deborah Bolle
Parts
I am made of parts.
Sometimes the parts work together,
then I can dance.
But when they do not
all grace dissipates
and I lose my balance.
Feet get ahead of themselves,
My brain shuts down or goes elsewhere,
My emotions not only lead me astray
But stare with disbelief that I followed!
I met her while dancing.
We took some steps,
and danced well.
I was comfortable and happy.
But before long my good sense and
emotions had parted ways.
Emotions kept reminding me
of all the ghosts cruising the hospital,
who had run out of time too soon.
There is not always time to do it right.
So at their urging
I tried to leap from Modern Dance 101
to the American Ballet Company.
I really did wish to dance...
but the toe shoes shattered my
feet of clay and left me in ruin.
My emotions got stupid
and didn't pay attention
to the obvious:
The dance is a delicate thing.
Rushing has left my parts disparate
Pieces of heart strewn about;
I can't find them all.
Tears.
When I close my eyes tightly
I hear thunder.
Tears.
© 2007 Deborah Bolle
As I Age
not in a frenzied race,
but a quiet aligning
of spirits
for as long as it takes
until we dissolve
into one
and we don't know
if it has been all day
or two days.
When i kiss your eyes
I kiss my eyes.
When I stroke your breasts
I stroke the Goddess' breasts,
and she is pleased.
There is nothing I have
that I can give you,
for it is already yours.
Yet with your touch
you give me stars
and comets to ride
through the cosmos
on a wave that
brings me back to you.
© 2007 Deborah Bolle
Magic
she tells me I have magic
she tells me I am the petal of a rose
she tells me I am a stream
she tells me I am the sky
she tells me I have gifts
I have fear
the petal faded
the air stagnant
the stream fouled
the gifts plundered
a heart comes
it brings color
it brings drink
it brings fresh air
it brings hope
but it bleeds
I patch it with the petal
I wash it in the stream
I refresh it with the air
i hold it next to mine
they beat together
ordinary magic
Deborah Bolle \© 2007
