there is the air
poured
from stale radiator to pool
over bare skin
and open sill.
there is the lament
of a passing train
this side the river. there
is firewood stacked
beside the door, but no
goddamn snow.
it weighs like the hesitation
in her eyes that he
can’t see: that she
is tired of sad poems,
their puckered footsteps like
icefall on the second day
of spring. all ragged clouds
& slush & cold
metaphor. her skin
is forgetful. his hands
are on the small of her.
they weigh like silence,
like stone, like
remembering, brim
with words left
over which long
for un-houred mondays, for
un-hung evers, un-strung lives,
for words which long.
the tenth muse 
Mija (a term of affection in espanol), You’ve got to find some way to skip over these damned Mondays. They show up so often with sad, drawn-out faces, and memories floating likes ghosts without a home. I often tell people that I wish I had a time machine so I could back and undo whatever brought me to my present problem, but in this case, I’d lend my time machine to you to skip ahead to a day where this is all just a wistful memory, a knowing chuckle to the self, a wry punchline. There is so much more ahead for you than there is behind you. You write about love gone wrong so well, but I think as an artist, you must stretch yourself, challenge yourself and look for gentle joyfulness, peaceful contentment and the occasional flesh-on-flesh communion that will bring an involuntary smile, against the canvas of a loving and comforting embrace. Make no mistake, this is not criticism of your writing (of which I am an unabashed devotee), but rather a plea, a wish for the magic of spring, the promise of everything anew, to sneak into your heart and send the darkness away, for a while.
“she
is tired of sad poems,
their puckered footsteps like
icefall on the second day
of spring.”
Loved this, your pal, Pop-o Moskowitz
i know, Mosk, i know! i’ll be waiting for that time machine of yours. sigh. thanks as always, for your words and thoughts, my dear friend.
it weighs like the hesitation
in her eyes that he
can’t see….dang, that is where you jerked the hook and reeled me in….nice….and after that it is like stacatto bursts…like the play with like…and then the un-s…whole lot of feeling in this one as well joanna…like…want to hear it…
then get your butt back to richmond, yeah? *smiles* seems forever since we’ve seen you…
tight but not too tight. Like this!
thanks, L!
sad and beautiful; poem, and poet
thank you, Ray. 🙂
Unwanted Mondays? sad indeed, I can feel the ache, the sting, your words true
thanks for stopping by, firefly.
“she
is tired of sad poems,
their puckered footsteps like
icefall on the second day
of spring.” so beautiful, Joanna. This poem touched me.
thank you, ayala. i’m happy it found a bit of resonance. 🙂
Oh, my… this is fantastic.
!! thanks, Laurie. *smiles*
Your writing is amazing. Big fan here!
thank you kindly! you’re welcome here any time!
“unhoured Mondays….why couldn’t I write that…..Like this poem …alot!
*grins* thanks, Jacquie!
I like the pacing. It doesn’t drag, it doesn’t race.
thanks, Todd. 🙂
Oh. And RECENTLY IN PHOTOGRAPHS? Devine. Thanks.
…and for noticing! i really need to update with latest photos; i’ve been slacking off.
Beautiful poem you remind me why I write and how far I have to go
aw, shucks. we’ve all got a story to tell. looking forward to checking yours out.
I look forward to that =)