Barnacles

Shape-shifting with each journey fresh,

so many crater mouths gape at sheer air

like baby birds in the nest,

held captive by the movement

of their own beak-spasms.

In slow motion, ovular cavities

nudge each other, simply to stay awake.

Scattered strands of slopes hold hands

with the woozy delight of misery shared.

Intoxicated by sheer medicine, and vaguely
grimacing at each grandly gaping neighbor,

their whispers mock the meager state
of the neglected garden.

All sense of time vanishes between

fingers who always know the way.

Such toothy grins shred flesh with a vengeance,

and soaked from the rain of sun’s perspiration,

drown nobly within the watery grave of a bottle top.

Once again, hot springs bubble up among the roses.

and all substance brittles despite the morning dew.

Old dreams breeze in flows of vivid fantasy.

They are lips of the shears spewing forth nonsense

with each and every clip, who despite paper's absence,

read bleeding subtitles with spongy patience feigned,

and pleasure in the kind of story that fears an end.

The alluring language of absence drops letters

and washes away, word for word,

the thoughts that touch rubbed raw.

As barnacles scrape across the mermaid,

with each wave grinding her down,

until she’s erased completely

from the face of the ship.

Jennifer Burnside

This Way to Laughter

It wasn’t in the plan- a day such as this-

so wondrously warm and glowing.

To imagine happiness as possibility,

was never a choice, or so it seemed.

Reason used to scatter all grains of hope,

mere moments after the dark set in.

And melancholy, no longer on reserve

was purchased; all fines paid with guilt.

Now just take a few deep breaths…

It’s no longer yesterday you say…

I beckon you, this way to laughter,

this way to laughter.

Tonight she tripped across her former self

nearly distracted by what once was.

Turning to the present- this dance of the whale-

she splashes with her joyful beloved.

The sort of dream that always before

remained a wistful illusion.

Has now blossomed true, with a change of moon;

the timeless gift of fresh perspective.

Jennifer Burnside

The Curious Ones

Sprawled behind a layer of thick glass,

they tease and prod one another,

unaware of my presence, and I smile to imagine

how so differently they might behave

if only they knew I were here.

Their caresses tease for curiosity’s sake

as a cold wind whips warm desire

to a froth of mispronounced light.

I know their voices would boast and chatter

if sound would simply share of itself with the wall.

Later, perched up high in a tilting tree;

all branches and no trunk,

they fail to notice me once again

as they trickle by like densely focused salmon,

completely oblivious to my existence.

And over beside the flattened stone,

coated with a nurturing velveteen moss,

lurches liquid in a seemingly drastic way.

While the small flame-eyed squirrel

scolds me ominously, though surely to no avail.

Jennifer Burnside

The Collection

Glass horseshoe with the watchful eyes

shattered on the floor last night;

a caution you could have taken,

broken blessing in disguise.

You’ve never been superstitious,

but the shards drew a definite sign:

you were adding to your doll collection

again one still shot at a time…

Framed with your left eye jumping

up against a perfect kind of girl in blue,

she’s just one of many dolls

who hang posing on display for you.

Freshly painted faces glisten above

sugar-coated bodies lithe and young;

How will you play with all of them

when your collecting is done?

You can never see too much beauty

And never feel the heart you lack

So just hope that somehow, someday

your dolls will learn to love you back…

Jennifer Burnside

The Artist

As I read the book that clipped to its leaves once bore a metal winged entity, memory sets in. 

By recalling pasts that do not belong to me, I can only imagine stories told and assumptions made. 

Cold evenings dashed with stars and stricken by creative recklessness seem to nudge at me as I sit here deep among the licorice. 

Did she hear the voices of the party-goers as they underwent emotional combustion? 

Even as she crawled into bed, did she recognize the betrayals passing from one lowered glance to the next?

Fractured within, she eased the transparent door shut against the harsh words of moments passed, and wondered if this sour dream she awoke to at times was an actual entity, or merely hallucination waiting at the wrong station. 

Gushing out of her heart were all of the hopes she as a rule lashed to a deeply embedded post, for to please others in need petted her conscience far sweeter than a stroll through the garden. 

Heaving with dry dismay, her imagination imploded as the leeches bore down upon her, tasting the blood of resignation.

“I don’t even put up a fight”, she assured herself as she handed over her favorite doll to a beggar man. 

Just to feel alive, she had to give herself away, even as beyond her foggy detection, waves of remorse battered her shores. 

“Keep yourself humble”, she remembered being told; where had that advice led her other than into self-reproach. 

Like a small bird riding a mighty wind, she exerted herself to fly above life’s troubles. 

Migratory flocks advanced into her path like reckless storms, but she smoothed them into smiles without missing a single cue. 

“Nothing beats a good meal”, she always said, and fed the world one artist at a time.

Of all the strange sensations mingling in the crowd, one pretty ripple stood still and solemn, resisting the urge to pour over the edge for fear of the fall. 

Pounding against the rocks below, puddles and splashes caught the light and befriended her inspiration. 

Quests for realities’ illusions churned strangers into spreadable guests, and melted time into a buttery gold flirtation. 

Rounding the edges makes for a smoother ride and a kinder trip, and so she exhaled pumice to soften the blow. 

Such memories can be traced in the garden; branches broken through loving embrace, footprints in the mud from a curious child, or fruit trees leaning away from each other in eternal disagreement. 

Tipping away from her roots, she avoided confrontation.

Under the sun there is always light and shadow, and though she tried to hide her shadows from others, she could not conceal them from herself. 

Very thick with nectar, a swollen peach fell into her hot hand, and she squeezed the fruit tightly, experiencing passion.

"Where are my feet dancing, because somehow in the distance I hear them tapping?" she wondered. 

X marked the spot, for after the pleasures of the satiny skin and voluptuous flesh had long since slid down her throat, she held a round key, covered in a crisscross language, upon which she read directions for tomorrow, and like a seashell, the pit echoed syncopation of:

Yawning beneath velvet quilts and satin sheets, she giggled at the stars and whispered her secrets to them.

Zones of joy and dancing she drenched with color as she drifted off to meet the sunrise.

Jennifer Burnside

Stranger

She dropped her gaze to take him in;

his heart lurched back in fear.

As two eyes slid across him twice,

his mask he knew proved sheer.

She walked him down dark streets of doubt,

her voice served as his lamp.

And even when she ceased to speak,

she waxed the seal and placed the stamp.

No matter that she lied to him

and even though she fled,

his faith in her remained intact,

her songs rang in his head.

He’ll never know from where she came,

or where she lingers now.

But minus understanding,

he still stands to take a bow.

Jennifer Burnside

Shadows

Capped in black, he standing sways.

Keening thunderfall scorns the air,

quakes the flatlands underfoot, while

his sea-legs loop lithely around loss.

As half-awake houses slouch cool,

mocking each other in secrecy,

he scurries behind the spine of vision

to greet the sacred hollows of his shame.

They line the empty streets in search,

burdened with despair,

as he lines his roots with angst

and writhes to the rhythms

of bitterly amplified pain.

The sun screams profanities

on days such as this.

When he rinses down the funnel

like a fabulous comet,

sucked into absence

by one greedy black hole.

And they give up their quest,

cut short

by the light

of dreaded day,

As he is bled away.

Jennifer Burnside

Not Beyond Us

Times like this they shine,

life beams full of light,

song rides sweet through the breeze.

Though the storm has long passed,

I’m still pouring within.

Words are wondrous,

bearing promises                                                     

Yet they are flighty and free.

They come and go as they please,

leaving time to tell the tale.

When you look at me

I’m remembering;

my life flashes behind your eyes.

Though you wear a smile,

my heart hangs upside down.

Words are wondrous,         

hiding resentments,

smoothing the sheets with a sigh.

Always wondering why,

but never asking for the truth

And then the clouds return

And with them doubt returns

I’m searching for a trace of our love.

Next the drips drop dry

sunshine sashays by;

We’re finding our way after the rain,

And learning, we can grow from the pain.

Jennifer Burnside

Farewell

It is not that I feel mere sadness,

but more, a subtle sinking sense

of energy and of hope.

Maybe because I was

unprepared to say farewell,

maybe because the day was grey

and tonight’s gentle sunset

escaped my weary notice.

I don’t know what this silence

is doing for my sanity, save for

creating circles of uncertainty.

This is where questions of why

drive gaping holes

through my ever-searching mind,

and press in from all sides

with such comfortless force.

When all I wish is to be warm,

an icy breeze plays daydreams

across my anxious heart,

reminding me to let things go.

I loathe the sight of a departing back,

fading into distance, pacing the pain.

Retreating footsteps taste harshly bitter

like juice in a cup left from yesterday.

A slender moment weighs next to nothing

in comparison to the memories it stirs up

and slowly simmers on high to attain

an opaque sludge of eternal melancholy.

I thought that this kind of thinking

would bring me down all night.

But now I realize that it’s all right

to feel a twinge of disappointment

when it’s time to say good-bye.

Jennifer Burnside

Departure

His wells ran deep behind the eyes.

Like mysteries denied, they

sparkled despite themselves.

Strangely familiar as though

we had once whirled together dancing

beneath a heavy pool of stars, like clusters

of mismatched glass which, in disarray,

reflect glimpses of hope in the passing.

We shattered then, and wonder now

how a sinking sense of sadness

had prepared departure’s bitter brew,

in which we steeped our anxious hearts.

Now, pacing the sorrow of footsteps traced,

slender moments sludge eternal,

swerving down the wretched sway,

as laughter erases her own animation,

one fine frame at a time.

Jennifer Burnside

Tender Moon

It was a fabulous day, until it was not.

Like the sun shining strong on a vulnerable face,

the warmth of love beams with a chuckle.

Brighter than light the heat beats relentless

when at dusk, the knifing occurs…

Blood flows steady to the music of adrenaline

as anger builds up to its final destruction.

And, victim to his own rage, his soul sighs in utter anguish

even as he battles invisible tears with fresh hatred.

The room is empty and frozen,

yet it feels like the whole world is watching;

this display of explosive ferocity,

lit by the spark of one deformed thought.

             

It was a peaceful morning, until it was not.

A question swerves, then he snaps,

and an avalanche of curses escapes

from sensuous lips set far too tight for comfort.

Shrieking in tongues while we all fall down…

All of these two, crowded close in the cavern,

embrace involuntarily, and breathe

with hideously focused concentration.

How can a room lack in oxygen

when its windows gape open with slack-jawed remorse?

Precipitation distresses the landscape, and silently floods

a thin stream of soul-scars freshly erupted,

from which no sound can issue.

But, now since the lava has hardened and cooled,

he can look back with wonder,

at how fantastically time saves him from himself.

After all, he wasn’t the one to blame, and…

It was an enchanting nightmare, was it not?

Jennifer Burnside

Noni Butterfly

Where are you my dear;

wandering somewhere

to chase feathers in the wind?

Within a spacious dream

you must have lost your way.

Perhaps you’ve misplaced

the key, the doorknob,

or even the entire door

that opens to the garden

of flowers who love you.

We are knocking on time-

crying hope across a canvas.

Each day we become

a fresh landscape for you

to sketch yourself into.

As crescents of cinnamon

glisten like shiny marbles

shot out of a wet hand

on a rainy day,

we hold our breath.

Anticipating recognition.

And wishing we had gazed more often

into your sweet eyes

when we had the chance.

So now on edge, we wait

for Noni butterfly to land.

Jennifer Burnside

Finger Trails

Night calls the train to chug

down the clacks…

A celebration of echoes

contained by grime and soot;

The compiled scent of actions worked

and intentions missed by a long shot.

Excessive length allows curves to connect

a different set of truths,

clicking down the spine,

and pulling over to the right shoulder.

Fond embrace catches me off guard.

It’s far too loud to think out here.

Jennifer Burnside

Yesteryear

There’s something strange within

my head beyond familiar sheen.

So scarcely can I banish remnants,

chanting words that weighty lean.

Limping with indecency and dusty

from misuse, the actions passed

leer wickedly across the yard,

running loose.

Haggard fronts they flaunt smeared thick

to outshine hidden lairs;

curdled by the dreams that died

in well-worn rocking chairs.

Impatient petticoats combust

before a crowd of hesitations,

beneath whose lace haste’s scent

leaves room for foul imaginations.

Cheers are muffled by the sound

of rusty wheels on rock, while

brocade land mines frame my pain  

and weave their spell of talk.

Here I sit and bate dismay

and lure in thoughts of doubt,

but soon I’ll up and trot away

in search of different route…

Jennifer Burnside

Weary

Through the shadows of a weary night,

two paths cross despite the fog.

He slows to a stroll,

she merges her pace with his,

and they clasp one another

in deeply aching recognition.

Around corners they traverse,

speaking joy and sharing light,

until an entrance hovers,

its mouth veiled with mossy linen.

Within, scenes grown from coal

give birth to brilliant shades of passion,

while hues and shapes dance wildly

to the beat of rhythmic hearts.

Walls lean in, with candles lined,

to bring to light one shifting world.

And ceiling weeps dense drops of wet dismay

when paired pools of dreams burn dry.

Through the shadows of a weary night,

two paths trudge back to their separate sides.

Jennifer Burnside

At the Brink

At the brink of dawn someone shuffles

down the hall, around notions passed,

and across the gracious doormat to rub clean

moist thoughts which ambitiously scabbed to

weary soles deep in the night.

Steps like a slow motion dance beckon the river to return;

hopefully this time, all shall remain inside flowing neat and tidy,

leaving no sensation of pins and needles,

no stains in sight or tattletale recollections

peering grossly through smudged sky-lights.

Within the formless wonder,

before light bares all

stale dreams are gently dismissed or softly drowned.

It is the alluring breath of damp horizon

that recalls who was the star in the night,

and who made a wish that might

never have come true; a sparkling promise in disguise.

Nothing is being written these days.

For more is being done in a moment

than could be recounted; a fortunate circumstance.

Thus, scarce is time in which to recount

stories concerning some juicy morsel of life.

But no more does one feel sad about what used to be;

Things have happened!

And the now

is utterly delicious,

and oh so forgivably sweet.

Jennifer Burnside