I'm six poems behind, as of today. But now just a few: this is what happens when I wake up to a windy, 70 degree day and have coffee in the backyard.


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Framed by ropes of wires
Against the flattened blue
Eerily slow, clouds crawl
Ignoring the surface of sky
And its features-- birds, ancient branchings
The points of pine or the skittering sun

Heedless, like the
Mind of God

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What Really Happened to Them


The last of the bees, huddled
Hidden in a fallen oak
Half a mile past some stream
Gathered their wings
Singing furious rhyme.

Hanging together
In a crowded new shape
They flew forth to become
The next jaguar.

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Anarchy


The peonies left and took the ants with them
Tigerlilies were on the fence, but
The roses are in revolt, so
I weed more carefully
Hoping to build goodwill--

And sow an army of sunflowers
Just in case.

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4/16/2012
by MK

Inspired by pictures from http://craftygreenpoet.blogspot.com/2012/04/dalkeith-country-park-and-oak-woodland.html:

 treeconstructionism

wayward as old fingernails
but fringed in newest green
the oaks of Dalkeith
lovely in decay
give up their hollow hearts
as homes for the woodland

------------------------------------------------
Inspired by pictures at Writer Unboxed on FB:


Studio


Your picture of a cordovan chair
And the elegant desk lamp in a deep corner office
Sets a mood. It's writerly, grown-up
A place for serious work.

My space, a white table looking out towards a field
Wouldn't show through the frame--
All you'd see
Would be rabbits, chickadees, and grass.

-----------------------------------------------------

Inspired by a picture I painted, that was stolen:

Neckline



The art of instruction
Shouldn't include
The sort of nepotism
Or unstable morality
That let our our lab fees
Pay her cousins to pose, fully clothed
For our figure painting sessions

The lines of thigh or breast
Corrupted, contained by spandex, by sweat pants
By a white cotton tee
I focused on while his back
Faced me, grey tag sticking out
Against his hairless neck.
You admired the point of view
While avoiding my brushstrokes and questions.
But I learned
Not to lend canvas
To you


--------------------------
4/15/2012
by MK

Student


I didn't call back
or speak nicely
when we happened on each other
at the cafe where you sang
the other night
only because of the number of things to say

a high number, larger than
a long friendship, or a heavy, full past
where I was unequal
to your mentoring phrases


--------------------------------------------------------
Screened

black tail curled
puma thick and intense
the tip taps and pauses

a stutter in the throat

caught in a loop
of stilted predation
caught watching, watching
with no chance to explode


--------------------------------------------------------
Strength Moves

The crack was loud
Her face scrunched
"First, the wine was corked, and now--
I hate to see a wineglass broken."

"It wasn't a favorite."

The evidence swept, our mood
jumped from the couch
to the table under the maple, from
cheese, figs, and a zin
to guacamole and beer
from the independent film
to the bitch at that bar.

It's all in the wrist.

----------------------------------
4/14/2012
by MK

Rising Late

Resting


If I were folded
behind my stone, cool and alone
wrapped against decay
in sweet linens, mouth stuffed with herbs
and a ferryman's penny holding the shutters closed
unable to see the wreck of the world
I think I'd ignore
a call to rise.


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early gift

rice cakes, tea, mangoes
a morning of surprises
left on the green tray



by MK

April Skies: Going all poet on ya.

Since I stumbled, just now, onto an FB share by fellow writer, musician, and wonderful collaborator Songsville, that tells me of NaPoWriMo, I have to try. for one, my songs seem to have stolen my formerly quick-flowing poetry, and for another, I've been sick inside for a week and can use a nudge to get my routines back.

 So: Poems everyday till the end of the month. No promises as to the quality!

I'll stop overdoing it when I catch up.  Ta, Mari.
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untitled 1

Motionless

In uncut grass

The small, fertile mind of the rabbit

Creates faith

In a warm, safe spot

Another taste of new green or yellow

Without the feel

Of cat’s teeth on his neck

Or the frightening slam of a car door.

The next leap takes him there.

--------------------------------------------------------

On Chopin’s “The Awakening”

Ellipses scattered under her sentences

Fixing spots on an emptiness

Of the imagination

A failure to see where a woman alone

Might swim to

Where a woman alone in the world

Might write, without apology


  by MK

I Heart Being a Flasher! Or, Putting the Ski Back Together

 I just can't stay away till next Autumn-- think I'm gonna have to post a story bi-weekly. Sometimes, they will be edits of Oktober's efforts, as promised. As always, be it cutthroat or kind, your critique on these first drafts (and subsequent drafts) is more than welcome-- it is craved!
 Peace, Mari

---------------------------------------------------------

Putting the Sky Back


 Galen isn't the kind you'd expect to bomb a cathedral. He's neatly dressed, for his age; no baggy pants drooping off his backside, and his shirt is ironed, and tucked into the waistband of his jeans. His smile, when you draw it out of him, is real, honest, not a smirk. He doesn't pretend to the apathy, the cool of non-caring, that most teenagers effect nowadays.

 And he's not racist; this is born out by the colorful ring of friends he keeps around him. That's a key detail in the case. The media is calling this a hate crime, racially motivated, just as we'd expect from previous notes.

 He's a good boy. He donates hours weekly to the local food bank, sorting and hauling and running errands for them on his own fuel. He takes his grandmother to church when she's up to it, mows the lawn in summer and shovels all winter. The boy has never been in trouble of any sort, and does well in school-- he's slated to receive several scholarships when he enters college next Fall.

 So: Why was he running down the empty street, minutes before St. Celia's blew up, grinning? Did he suspect that the worshippers inside were a control group? Why did streetcam footage show him climbing up the pole seconds afterwards, just before the same cam was disabled? And how did he know how it was there?

 That's the real question, gentlemen: is one of the subjects aware of the experiment after all this time? If so, we have a problem. We're very near the end, here, and we can't afford to have our results skewed by a random factor. If it is random, and not the beginning of something larger. Yes, Harves?

 I agree, it could be. Galen is intelligent, resourceful, he could have discovered a link to us on his own, although he couldn't have an accurate picture of the breadth of our connections, just a mild inkling at best. It's happened once or twice. But he could be part of an organization-- a grassroots rebellion against the project. There's been no sign till now that the subjects have any communal awareness of their situation, outside of a few small groups known within their society to be lunatics. Galen may be the sign, and we can't afford to ignore it.

 I'm taking recommendations on this, of course, but my inclination is to clamp down, hard. To remove the smaller spyware and put back the atmospheric info net instead. Yes, we did remove it for a reason, Harves-- and the subjects registered it as a natural occurrence. They even took the blame for it's disappearance!

  I believe they created strictures designed to prevent further problems with the 'ozone.'  They may believe that they've succeeded in repairing it, or that it rebuilt itself, or that their scientific data was wrong to begin with, but that's immaterial. By the time they can confirm otheriwse, we'll be finished here. We're in the last stages-- precisely why we need to avoid any further upset. This has been a long haul, and I'm not prepared to write it off as a ruined effort. It's containable if we act quickly.

 That's it. Any contrary suggestions? Good. Let's put the sky, back, then, gentlemen. Thank you for your time. 

Oktober Thirty-First: Her Wifely Duties

 Just watched some Spooktacular South Park and an evil boarding school movie, so where this is from, I don't know at all. It's the last of Oktober stories, written and done.

 I'm liking this site so well, I may just change my mind about a complete hiatus during Novembre & post the occasional excerpt from my forming novel here-- the ones that are too spicy or brutal to post on my NaNo author page, here. Either way, it's been a blast and a freshening influence on me-- thanks for coming by, and check back in December for the editing fun. 

 Peace, and Happy Novelling!

            Mari

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Her Wifely Duties

By Mari Kozlowski

10/31/2011

 Just before he opened the front door, he flashed on fire, blood, smoke. His hand was already turning the knob when the Apocalypse vision stopped him, but it was too late. The motion had been made, a tacit invitation, and what was outside wanted in; it pushed with the force of a hurricane.

 Edward’s visions stopped when his heart did. The rider slipped a sword through his chest and out, quickly, to be sure. In the kitchen Natalie heard a muffled yelp, then nothing. 

“Ed?” She kept stirring her sauce, and called again, “Edward? Was someone at the door?”

 Nothing.

 That man, she thought, no consideration; he never answered unless she screamed, and then he called her a nag. She’d been fed up for years, really, but felt stuck. Stuck doing what she was supposed to do.  

“ED!!!’ she yelled.

 Nothing, still. Maybe he’d gone outside to deal with whoever it was. Or maybe he’d fallen asleep in his TV chair in front of Judge Judy while he waited for dinner.

 The sauce bubbled up suddenly, splashing her. She hissed in pain and reached to turn it down to a simmer when a sound caught her… a deep, pounding clunk, behind her. And a soft, half-heard exhalation.

“I’m busy,” she said, “making dinner for my husband.” On the handle of the pot, her fingers trembled. And the clunking continued, drawing nearer.

 “I’m warning you,” she said in high, thin voice, “get out or you’ll be sorry.”

The clunking ceased and an armored hand gripped her shoulder with the weight of an avalanche.

 “I said I was busy,” Natalie yelled, gripping the pot handle. She spun, flinging the sauce in the faces of the startled horseman and his mount. It stuck and burned them, clinging to skin and hair alike. Then their smoking evil eyes grew wide at the sight of giant wings springing from Natalie shoulders, her height stretching till she loomed over them.

 Her wings waxed radiant, shining brighter and brighter till the light of them was agony to the deathly intruders. As they cowered beneath her she swept out her divine sword and sliced through both of them with a single upward slash. A burst of red flame came from their two necks, and a hideous stench that faded away in an instant. Their bodies fell to ash and disappeared, and Natalie rushed to the living room to find Edward.

 He lay near the open front door, squashed and bloody, but when Natalie bent and pressed her hands onto his chest, it began once more to rise and fall with breath. The crushed bones of him filled out again, and his legs stirred. He was back.

 Natalie’s wings folded themselves up into nothingness on her back and her face lost the gleam of righteous anger and settled into mild annoyance. It was a look Ed had seen plenty in their 10 years of marriage.

 “Did I fall asleep just when it's time to eat, again?”

“Yes. On the floor. I’ve told you, Ed, 2 beers after work, not 4. Now would you please set the table?”

"Okay, Peaches. Sorry.”

 He got up, shook himself.

 He looked fine now, and there was no noise of screaming or chaos from outside… this had to have been their first stop on the way. Talk about dumb luck; her boss should be happy.

“It’s alright, honey.” Natalie told him. “Only the sauce burned being on so long— I think we’ll have to call out for pizza tonight.”

 Ed shook his head. “You’ll just do anything to get out of making dinner, won’t you?”