just

my waking thoughts
of you
comfortable and warm
like so many syllables
aged yellow
climbed to the ceiling
reeling under insufficient words
yet still standing.
sliding off crimson lips
clutching cloves
dripped on to pages
of indigo tattoos
and linear art.
line upon clever line
anguished over
erased
withdrawn
redrawn
until their essence
finally
appears,
though faltering
still
s-s-stammering
barely adequate
yet impatiently
waiting to be born
on to your ears.
all this
just
to say
good-morning
my love.

© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar

Indelible Ink

Penned words lick the wind
like withered leafs
falling into ruddy-brown piled paper
of "Once upon a time" love letters
and long ago dried tears.
Re-read quietly then scooped
into rusting metal receptacles
waiting to be burned.

Chant-
"Bring forth the flame by starlight pale,
O’ healer of willow-bent hearts prevail.
Where the haunted woods lay hushed and still
fallow the path of loves travail."

One wooden match drawn,
poised and glowing
between burning fingertips
like the lilt of a concerto
haunting the orchestra.
While ancient oaks scrape
splintered limbs in somber applause
and the new Day waits in shadows.
Match tossed, memories ignite
{{ crescendo }}
finally ending the love song.

Heart-seared flames fling
hotter and higher,
flicking lost promises that crackle
and belch acrid-black plumes
carrying your words away,
carrying you away,
fading into gray forgotten wisps
disappearing into midnight.

© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar

...two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, pickles, onions on a ...

bernie and dina
gave him a nickname-
fast eddie
said, he reminded them of a used car salesman...
he could charm slang off a southerner.
but what did the 'rents know 'bout love?

i was 18 'n ripe
he was 29 years of fine.
smoothest talkin',
best-lookin' guy i'd ever met.

'rents wanted college
i wanted eddie.
they threatened, i cried, he hid.
i broke their hearts
then handed him mine.

that first year
we collected all the trappings-
furniture, dishes, goldfish
our apartment every inch
plastered with us.
rapped, rapt, wrapped
in every kama sutra position
on-
under-
over-
every surface-
that could carry the weight
without bursting into flames
of smoking hot fire-engine-red lust.

ah. first love.
everything it shoulda been
with no heartbreak in sight
until our lease was up.

but what did i know
about unpaid overtime?
sudden dedication
new found work ethic, long hours
less sex,
less everything.
the casual let's-go-grab-a-burger
at 10:00pm on a tuesday...
across a grimy table
fluorescent lights stinging
bluer than blue eyes
that wouldn't meet my gaze.
i met someone- he began,
his smile notching corners...

before the bastard could utter
another word
no time to duck
mc-mother-fucker!
!splat!
smiling face replaced
burger shrapnel everywhere
guess in the end
eddie wasn't so fast.


© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar

brown recliners

hello fucker.
glad to see me?
that's right
i'm talkin' to you.
not your sister
not juan-lorenzo-liam-washington
or dead aunt betsy, heard she passed
sorry man.
by the way,
how'd they get her fat ass
to fit in that econo-line coffin anyway?
you always were a cheap fuck.

doin' a drive-by
figured i'd stop in.
what's the matter?
look like you seen a ghost.
i know it's been a few
didn't think i'd changed that much.

anyway
how 'ya been?
i see you're still sittin'
in that shit brown recliner.
had me one of those 'while back
got rid of it
damn thing was cursed-
i'd sit in that chocolate-brown-baby
grab the remote
get all comfortable an' shit
next thing 'ya know i didn't give a damn
'bout nothin'
ignored the wife (you heard the bitch left me, right?
yeah, took the brats with her.)

anyhow,
i'd just sit there flippin' for hours
world news- if it ain't happenin' in my living room-flip.
discovery channel-discover this!-flip.
history channel-old news-flip.
religious channel-christ!-flip.
feed the children-ain't no-one helpin' me feed mine-flip.
you listenin' dad?

flip.


© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar

you, me and winter

late afternoon walk
down familiar trodden paths
hand in hand in hand
you, me and winter.
how many cycles have we seen?
this year winter seems harsh-er
longer...
brittle limbs snapping loud under foot
the only sound for miles
save shrill cackles of a hungry crow.

frozen smiles in bundled warmth
white-gray plumes accompany our exhale
swirling skyward, melding into a gray pallet.
i'm feeling blessed and a preposterous urge
to run and fetch blankets
to cover shivering trees along our path.
trees we planted in our youth
now towering long past our shadows.

would that i could stay in the moment
breathing chilled air,
lacing gloved fingertips between yours.
but thoughts meander-
like pale questions plucked from nowhere...
how much longer before we feel our bones
snapping like those brittle limbs?
how many moments do i have left
to memorize the crook of your smile
or the way my skin still tingles against your touch?
in the corner of my eye
i see another plume exhaled from your lips
and i feel my heart begin to splinter
knowing each breath brings us closer
to the end of our season...


© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar

rumors

sun-bleached conch shells
carefully scavenged along the beach
spreading rumors of her return
in the static roar
when pressed to lonely ears.

tall palms begin their counting of days
within the sway of frond fingers,
she's coming!
she's coming home!
white-tipped waves ripple delight
washing lone footprints smooth again
as the fluid-jade ocean swells in salted anticipation.
soon!
soon very soon!

seagulls twitter to one another in mid-flight
as Isle Vieques sighs.
the island has seen the signs
heard the whisper of loves reunion
skirting her shoreline.


© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar

dear willow

you have wept
long enough
dear willow
'neath dappled shadows
of cascading tears.

in soft-green sway
a thousand breezes
pressed kisses
between your leaves
whispering airborne
secrets
of all they have seen.

yet,
still you mourn
head bowed in humble restraint
no sound ever uttered
above a shy rustle.
as if you didn't know-
as if the breeze hasn't told you
a thousand times
in all the world
you are the fairest of them all.


© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar

godel's theorem

it's best to run
as fast as you can when it's rainin'
like hell outside, won't get as wet.

to which she responded-
that's the dumbest statement ever,
in fact, it's borderline absurd.

think about it!
evasive maneuvers means less raindrops,
less wet.

she smiled-
hon, that makes no sense.
run faster one encounters more raindrops.

kicking off sneakers, reaching for her zipper...
care to test out your theory
in the shower?- she chuckled.

she zigged! he zagged!
he cheated, cutting through the kitchen.
she went the long way 'round.
ouch!
shit!
stupid vacuum cleaner!
breathless,
you coming? flung over his shoulder.
laughing so hard she's crying.
limping.

banshee hair flying
falling through the bathroom doorway.
his eyes shining in sweet victory
i love you loser, he whispered,
scooping her off the floor.


© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar

shred

dreary day steeped in melancholy hues
cold breeze fluttering the edge of pages
amidst the flap of wings and dull splat of pigeon shit.
me...too many birds...a notebook of scribbled thoughts
on a rickety park bench.

nearby monolithic coffins clutter views
in vertical shades of gray holding up sky.
one after another after another
none more special than the next nor the next-
not surprisingly i know this feeling.

passers-by trod within inches of my perch,
eyes fixed on destinations
with no inclination to dawdle.
why aren't they curious about this bench sitter
bundled, furiously scrawling in a tattered notebook?
don't they want to know the secret who? why? where-for-art-thou's
spewing forth from a stranger's quirky mind to pen, to paper?
for all they know i could be writing about them-
...about the fucker who left a box of half-eaten kfc on the bench...

not that it matters
but there are times, like now
i feel the need
to take a black marker and write "poet" on my forehead.
maybe then they'll acknowledge my presence.
then they'd know this isn't a grocery list i'm penning.
even though this latest write might as well be.

rip!
shred, shred the evidence of mediocrity,
'lest someone stumble across this crap
and actually read it some day.
better yet, toss bits high overhead
perhaps pigeons will find it suitable for nest lining.
alas, they can't be bothered either.
suddenly, in the middle of a crowded park
promising poet becomes confetti girl
and no-one notices...


© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar

...and she frolicked in angelic beer shit...

bukowski said
the reason he'd stayed drunk
for ten years and wrote poetry
was not because
he was so good at it
but because
they were so bad at it.
then he went on to talk about beer shit...

my point is,
who but the most shallow among us
gets wet when reading meaningless poetic prattle?
or pretty flowing adjectives
wrapped in mind numbing platitudes
floating them off to places
where no-one could possibly reside?

not i, said the little piggy.
i want to stay right here
feet firmly planted in the journey.
i want to read trials and tribulations
of the human condition doing the odd thing,
the morbid thing, all things
large and tiny. i want to nod in agreement
over another writer's latest lament.
i want to read about drinking and cussing and fucking
and everything in between.
know what i mean?

i'll even pardon the rhyme if the write is real.
give me poetry that is raw, makes me laugh
describes for me the stink of beer shit
verses that break my heart,
but i'm begging you on bent knee
upon a marbled,
glittering
lovely
inlaid
exquisite
sumptuous
divine
beautiful
gorgeous
sainted
voluptuous
sensual
ethereal
heavenly
floor
don't give me bullshit poetry i can't digest.


© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar

hollow

there exists a chasm
between clarity and dementia,
the hollow cleft of oblivion
biding it's time
waiting patiently-
listening
for the dull thud of footsteps.

its been expecting me.


© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar