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, I am 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