I’m waiting
warm and silent
the pain of the split is over
new shoots of life
wriggle through the cracks in me
reaching slowly
gently
carefully
into my surroundings
selectively seeking
that which will nourish
and protect
not needing the sun just yet
held in the comfortable darkness
the world above
a whispering future
I am ready but not anxious for
the sun
a reward
for the struggle behind me
a promise
of the days before me
but for now
I’m waiting
open and ready
patient and free
warm and silent
Poetry
The Gentleman Gypsy
In caramels tones
He walks through scared spaces
Seeing the world
Through the eyes of a wandering soul
Ageless and free.
He’s made his way
Down a strange and varied path
Winding, weaving
But as wide as the mind inside.
His narrow gaze
Casual in its reception
Reflects the miles it has seen
But he averts it
To keep the distance from those he needs not connection.
His demeanor pleasant
But controlled
An enigma
A stoic
With a broad laugh
And a devilish grin
That is as deadly as it is inviting.
Inside he is hot
A fire creative, colored, divine
Licking his life, his spirit, his sex
But breathing beneath
A water-like surface cool to the eye
Serene and complex.
Good temperament
Earns him favor
Respect
While he succumbs to his need
To give and protect
It roots him to many who know him
But by little more than reputation
And name.
He sleeps in places
Not his own
But has made to his abode
For however long this piece lasts
And that’s somehow unknown.
His place
Like his soul
Is centuries old
And he respects what is gold
To those who know the value of that which is priceless
Of wood and of glass
And of the poor man’s past.
He labors long
His hands set working
To give new life to old things
His taste not fine
But telling
Of lives he might have lived and lost.
The art of men just like him
The things they labored over
Sit good as new with dust in corners
Unhung
They’re waiting
For the man to find his home.
Lankily, he goes
Tall in his domaine
Which travels on his spirit
Set to ever roam
Until the gentleman gypsy
Comes to meet his own.
The Honey Go
They hurry to the hive
Making stops at where the fluids flow
Moving smoothly as they come and go
And whisper as they pass
In hums and beats that ripple like wings
And tickle their feets
And then the honey go.
With wiggling tails
And suspenders pulled
Wide out from chests that heave and ho
Deep down in the honeycomb
They swing around
In joyful bellows
With their happy fellow fellows
And shake when the honey go.
In glistening golds and browns
It pours unto and all around
Coating everything in its soul
Pulling people from their seats
Drawing them across the floor
Toward the so so sweet
That they call the honey go.
Voices shout and vocalists pout
And guitars slide so long
Spilling into the room
The richest, rightest of all the finest
Sounds that ever were
Weeping and groaning
Soulfully moaning
The achingly sexy hue
Of all that flows and alluringly goes
From show to show to show
And at every turn
They come to buzz
About where the honey go.
February 6, 2014
This poem was inspired by the blues club scene from the movie Black Snake Moan with Samuel L. Jackson and Christina Ricci.
He Made Me
I’m made of broken pieces –
Perhaps once part of a whole,
Not certain what the picture was
Before my image was no more.
Many have come to see them,
Sprawled across the floor –
Never to be as they were before
And never really wanting them in any other way
Than their lovely disarray.
Some saw me as a puzzle
And tried desperately to solve my soul,
Others saw just a mess
And left them and me alone.
A few saw a shot at chaos
And went ahead with their own smashing,
Sending my pieces flying carelessly around
As they bounced and bashed unbound…
And then there was you
Who looked at me from above
With tenderness and with love
And saw not the remains
Of something once whole
But the limitlessness
Of what could become of my soul.
My many sharp edges
Became treasures
Where the light reflected perfectly so.
The mismatched colors
Were a spectacle of wonder,
And the missing were never missed.
Hand over mine,
You guided me
With love and creativity,
And in a fashion nearly formulaic
You turned me into a beautiful mosaic.
The Marked
My sons and grandparents. One of my five tattoos so far.
The Marked
It’s sort of like an empty page,
A thing that calls from far away –
A vision of a piece of you,
A thought you have to say.
It grows into a yearning urge,
One that tingles, one that burns,
And whispers through to all you be
“You’re incomplete without me.”
A part of you, a shred of soul,
That’s pushing toward your surface.
A thing your heart just has to say
With volume and with purpose.
It creeps out through your very pores
‘Til you begin to see
Just how and where it needs to go,
Just how it’s supposed to be.
Before not long, you see it there
Invisible but clear –
The missing piece
Of you
Your soul,
Your heart
You have to wear
Upon your sleeve
Quite lit’rally –
No matter what the cost
Because this piece is breaking through
And without, you feel a loss.
So you go and collaborate
With another soul divine,
An artist who can replicate
The piece of heart, a sign
That spells out what you need it to,
To speak the words inside –
A language that is lost on most
You can no longer hide.
Forgive what judgment,
Forget the pain,
For nothing matters more
Than bringing out this piece of soul
Bursting from your core.
And when the buzzing ends,
And when the work is done,
You walk away with soulful peace
So grateful for the gun –
It gives to us
A way to tell
The things that lie within
That shape our minds,
That mend our lives,
That tell of who we’ve been.
And how it looks to others
Means nothing to The Marked
Because we know that what we’ve done
Is show a bit of heart.
If they should hate
Or cry
Or judge,
It is not ours to parry –
For we’re not meant to live beneath
The ceilings others carry.
The stars are ours.
The moons are, too.
The flowers and bones alike.
‘Cause when we look into the mirror
It’s what we see we like.
A part of us,
A piece of soul
That lies upon the skin
And speaks to us
And all around
Of who we are within.
When we behold and see it there
We feel a bit as though
We can’t imagine how we were
Before it came to show.
They say with age
You come to change
And turn on things you’ve placed
Upon your flesh –
They say “regret”
But I say that is based
On those who chose
A standard pose,
A picture piece, not of soul
That came to them
From their within,
And so it has grown old.
When you do this properly –
These marks, they are a part
Of all you are eternally
To death and from the start.
So when my ink is faded
And when my skin grows loose,
I’ll look upon my body
And know this profound truth:
That I lived upon this earth
In this here sack of skin
And never let society
Keep my soul within.
Some things were meant for hiding,
Some things were meant to speak,
And still others meant for sharing, for releasing
So they leak
Out of my mind
Out of my soul
And spill upon my flesh
That’s proud to show
My spirit’s glow
Until it’s laid to rest.
So fear not, hate not, wish not,
Cry not a single tear
For this to me is beauty,
And truth, and love adhered.
Some Prisons
Some prisons have walls
That reach to sky
Cells, fences, and gates
That roll powerfully by
Closing in prisoners
Cutting them off
From people and places
They’d formerly been caught.
Some prions have barriers
Invisible to see
That hold us in places
We’d rather not be
With or without
Fear, tear, or pout
They keep us from growing
They dry us right out.
Some prisons are lovely
Set on a hill
That overlooks freedom
But overthrows will
Or captures our hearts
Our spirits
Or minds
And trap us with things
Once wanton, divine.
Some prisons have names
Or titles attached
That hold us to standards
Or rumors
Or traps
Otherwise fine
To all but who know
Of the shackles they bear
Of the duty bestowed.
All prisons hold someone
Like you or like me
From being the person
We wanted to be.
So be it a fortress
Of crime or of fortune
Be it a choice
Or by nature’s contortion
Cometh by parentage
Or cast down as doom
We each find ourselves
Alone in that room
Under shadows that hang
Or with clasping cuff cuts
That slice like a knife
Through our throats
Or our guts
Our souls or our spirit
Our hopes and our dreams
And leave us to ponder
What life would’ve been
If not for the prisons
That capture us all
One way or another
Before that last call.
Parenthood
Laundry, bills, and paperwork,
Appointments, cleaning, go bizerk.
Balance checkbook, empty pails,
Birthday cards are in the mail.
Diarrhea, midnight feedings,
Potty training, endless needing.
Child proofing, baby gates…
Remember when we went on dates?
“Mommy, Mommy, I want more!”
“Why’s there poopy on the floor?!”
Cups get spilled and things get lost.
“Wait, how much does that thing cost?!”
Big toy messes, packing lunches,
Planning parties, huge time crunches.
Bathe the kids and take a shower,
Due to be there in an hour.
Baseball practice, football, hoops,
Momma’s taxi loop-de-loops.
Who was naughty, who feels sick.
10 billions times: “no throwing sticks!”
Homework, field trips, and flu shots.
Load the dishes, wash the pots.
Day for pictures, day for trash,
Day for… Ugh, is that a rash?
And in the middle of it all
The hubby makes a booty call.
Pack for school then pack for play,
Need a day off from vaca!
Teething, falls, emergencies.
Sibling fight, go referee.
Who had it first? Who took it last?
“Say that again, I’ll spank your…!”
Time out, crying, slamming doors,
Angry feet on hardwood floor.
“Child, I will not take this crap!”
Holy smoke, I need a nap.
Cell phones, tv, video games,
Way too much will rot your brains.
Elbows down and stand up straight,
Hurry now, or we’ll be late.
No hats inside; say thank you, please.
Scrub dirty toes, kiss scraped up knees.
Brush their teeth and comb their hair,
Clip the nails… “We almost there?”
High school drama in first grade.
“Mommy stay here, I’m afraid.”
Bring in the mail, toss out the junk,
Pay a tutor so they don’t flunk.
Back to school night, chorus, testing,
Sleeping over – never resting.
All this stuff seems never ending,
Fund raise, scouting, candy vending,
Teach to drive, to read, to eat,
Wash those butts and little feet,
Pregnancy worries, childbirth,
Remind me please what it’s all worth?
Give up your life, your waist, your fun
For all this stuff that’s never done.
Day after day after day after day,
And they’re the only ones who play.
But in the end, one thing is true,
You love them more than you love you,
So who cares if your hair has grayed,
Your house a wreck, your nerves all frayed?
You did for kids what you though was best,
And you hope they’re ready for the rest
Of their lives, which they will give
To yet another set of kids.
And so it goes, right down the path.
And somewhere in the aftermath,
You meet your spouse to glow together
In the clearing, sunny weather
Of children all raised
And beds all made
An empty nest.
Enjoy the rest,
Especially that side splitting stitch
That payback really is a _____.
19 Words To Make You Sweat
WARNING: Explicit Content
The following is a collection of nineteen word statements crafted as part of a personal exercise in skill-building. Though I plan to expand on this concept and create other topics of nineteen word sets, this introductory piece focuses on the wildly popular and forever taboo topic of physical intimacy, to put it politely. I encourage other writers to get in on the fun by posting their own nineteen word statements on the topic. Please be sure to use the hashtag: #19wordstomakeyousweat.
Needing
Folding
Rolling over
Like dough
But flesh
Raising and falling
Hot
Against
The softness of my bed sheets.
Coast across my skin
Your tongue
Wide
Flat
In perfect spoils
That chill my flesh
And burn my soul.
The depth at which
You come to be
Within
Is
The depth at which
I need you
To be.
Peel me back
Clenching fists
Arms and legs
Around you
List
When you let go
Trembling
For your return.
Long fingers
Stronger fingers
Wide cool palms
My sides
The path on which you ride
Into my very being.
Lay your body into me
Caress me deep
And soulfully
Do not wait
Or hesitate –
Inside
Each bit
Trembles.
Let us live forever
Immortal
In this space
Our own heaven
That exists
In every place our skin touches.
With a richness
In color
In shape
In depth
I welcome the drowning
Breathlessness
And desperation
Of this submission.
Linen Lies
A curtain hangs between us,
a fabric of deception,
a grainy, textured falsehood
almost undetected.
Your words have been selected
so carefully, I find
this linen-like expression
of neatly woven lines.
A closeness you surrender
every time you move.
Your touch is soft and tender
but my skin remains unsmoothed.
Flimsy and thin,
they’re easily told
and easier wrinkled.
I see them unfold…
The truth comes not between us.
The truth I never know.
Just linen lies that keep us
from feeling what we show.
April 20, 2001
The Mountain
Photo courtesy of pro-climber Brady Hogan. See more on Instagram @summersnowproductions
I am obsessed with you
With everything about you
The way you look
The way you feel
To me
As my body
Moves over you
The sounds around you
The way you preside over everything
Everything
It’s true
You have brought me pain
Defeat
Injury
But every time
That I return
To stand at your feet
And look upon you
In all your majesty
I feel none of those things
They are gone from me
From my memory
From my body
And all I feel is courage
And hope
And fire
To go forward
To push upwards
To make myself worthy of the view from your shoulders
Because I want you
Under my feet
Under my belt
And crossed off my list
Because you
You are the mountain
And I
I was born to summit
Jill-Arcangela Mancuso 
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