remembering animal

Posted on August 16, 2013 by Susan L Daniels

If life is motion, then we
are the tellers of it, that primal spin
in the pit of the pelvis a purposed
flutter more tangible than a plus
on an EPT or circled days
on the Monet calendar.  So much
of who we are lifts us from the simmered
organic stew this planet is.  We don’t grow
or kill our own food.  We don’t bear
in the beds we conceived in, and the closest
most of us get to animal is through sex
or birth, the spaces where all is sacred
and none of it sanitized.

Posted in New Free Verse | 13 Comments

occasional poem

Posted on August 16, 2013 by Susan L Daniels

an occasional poem
for no reason
says simply

thanks for being

Posted in New Free Verse | 11 Comments

life before cable

Posted on August 15, 2013 by Susan L Daniels

we are snow after the anthem and test pattern
licked blue on the walls after midnight,

those old antennaed ghosts,
doubled and hissing
prayer to a bandwidthed god

Posted in New Free Verse | Tagged , , | 17 Comments

Two Fibonacci poems from my spam folder

Posted on August 15, 2013 by Susan L Daniels

Please
check
the spare
shoelaces,
recognizable
across earth for their welcome woosh.

We
will
often
defend a
misunderstanding
that always trusts what the stars said.

Posted in New Free Verse | Tagged , , , , | 54 Comments

My sun is coming up

Posted on August 14, 2013 by Susan L Daniels

If this is how you love, lover
in a dance of steel and teeth,
feathering pain across unwilling skin,

take your need somewhere else,
because your kisses leave me bloodless
and I am no admirer of vampires,
even those with metaphorical fangs.

Posted in New Free Verse | Tagged , , , , , , , | 35 Comments

Posted on August 14, 2013 by Susan L Daniels

water lifts up those leaves
floating seasonal teases
on a platter of color.  gifts that touch
us briefly–
a butterfly kissing game
flame-brushed & gone as fast as it is felt

Posted in New Free Verse | Tagged , | 6 Comments

Midnight of the Spaghetti Western

Posted on August 10, 2013 by Susan L Daniels

The rolls the piano plays spin a dialogue
scripted between greed and pathos,
existential angst scaled over
horse lather and cattle
wearing new brands.  The real west
was rougher and more honest
than this.  Still, there is room for me here,
a foil to your bad intentions
or a mirror to your good,
in one of three voices
allowed women here.

I am the whore, choosing that role
over the schoolteacher
I could have been,
sipping sepia-stained water
you buy me as whiskey,
playing tipsy while dressed
as no woman in Colorado
ever was then,
anachronistic lipstick lining my smile.

The jangle of coins in your pocket
matches the rattle of spurs
on your boots.

I will listen to the chime and go
the direction you nudge,
following metal, melted and smithed
by accented hands.

Posted in New Free Verse | Tagged , , , , | 37 Comments