Dying is Hard Business

© carol shoot 2008

 

Gravity presses the throat

Each breath labors in shallow gasps

The sky mocks the air sucking in and out

Nailing stained sheets with grey sweat

And clammy brine

Steel eyes stare to the world beyond

Mouth parched and gaping, calling home

Too late for prayers

For they are being answered with

Tapping time slowly measured in

A hollow drum

         A faded beat

A white rain

Suspended silent in its last reflecting drop

The Rock in January

The Rock in January  writen in reference to my days in San Luis Obispo County and Morro Bay California  (c) carol voccia 2007 The spine of the ancient valley All but disintegrated into dust Save the last vertebrate Poking its rugged slate in the sand     Lapping surf edged horizontal to the Morro.   A moss drenched reminder that Once lava flowed to the sea And the earth quaked in spasms Along the San Andréa's and other slips of rock Inching minuscule moments As one continental plate went north     The other traveled south over         Ten million millenniums of time   The valley of sweeping grass feeding bovine, steer Fragile lambs, sheep and herds of goats and other hooves Furrowing sweet roots and thick green blades   As the centuries moved from native brown to Spanish monks Thieves of land squatter, settler, merchant and rogues of commerce Farmers and cattle ranchers prevailed While the rock stood stoic          Silently guarding the gores                 Of fishermen belching and hooking the gills                   Of the seas bounty        The bay lying at its feet took Shape designed by a huge sand bar running north and south Dredged its depths for docks But not deep enough to host monumental ships of enterprise Housing only small craft and sail boats lazily bobbing in the sandy shallows Lapping along the tranquil bay And the rock stood stalwart casting a granite eye                         Over green waters watching, its brooding eroded jetty                         Ragged and seaworthy Glanced to the wide pacific       Peering in fog and some time slanting sun streams                   Over vasts of sea to thin horizon promising                              Exotic places far in its endless west.   And, here I stand along a humble wooden dock              Soaked in briny salt              Grey dappled sweater wrapped around me               Rose cheeks lifting a smile                                        On my lips Contemplating along lines of water tide and crashing wave Small gulls over head cawing against              Water breeze and slapping swells   All history brings to this place       My standing watch, gazing, and thinking Of the others before me and the ones who will follow Tossing the moments of wind and bobbing boats My mind strikes against the Sea leaking its cross against tides  Gashing cliffs chucking up abalone hulls For gulls to pluck and feed from the bounteous pacific   It's the end of another year And the beginning of all that is new and unfolding As the sea and the eye of its grey mineral rock            Casts its arm and lava breast to the west kissing the                                      Angled sun    Hold up the coastline, my friend,                For a trillion more moments                As I turn and start a new January

His Name Sakes!

He had a six pack gut with puffed

Pectorals that gave way to his short frame

For a man who disdained tats or piercing of any

Kind he liked his women earthy thick and looming large

With full mountain breasts and wet cunts

Ready to flood a doorway primed at

Any bend for rutting

He climbed trees scarring only the dead ones

Leaving the rest to flourish like he wanted

His women

Fruitful and willing to sire as many of his seeds as he could spill

And when they were ripe with child hovering in stirrups to

Push open a bloody offspring

He preferred men for fucking

Their only requirements were condoms and a dark

Place to cavort

He prided himself in keeping fast company

While his bitches gave him name sakes

© carol voccia 2008

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Fashion Statement

Swizzle stick

With clouds of billowing hair

Glittered haughty glances

Through smudged lids and

Bat wing lashes

Hip line scant as

Arrows

Lithe and angled

A clothes hanger stance

Heeled pumps

Don't even shape the

Calf

Bossom-less

Full of neck line

Ear loops larger than

Her waist

Strut and saunter

Fashion move'n

Runway groove'n

Robust me wondering~

Does any of this matter

At 50 something?

(c) carol voccia 2007

Too White to sing the Blues

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I hold on to Mr Zoloft

When my shoulders emit searing pain

My pounding blond head fills up dazed

Someone wound up the birds

They harass opening up the

Sky with their noise

I oft time reveled in those songs

When life was green grass and tender

Moss

But today my body betrayed me

So I plucked the joy from their

Murdering throats

Someone once said

I was too white to sing the blues

(c) carol voccia 2008

His Memory of Her

The memory of her Was like a saffron mist of Sunlight Breaking through clouds Recalling the smell of her Rose like a soft rain On a gentle field of jasmine The smile of her Freckled with white Alyssum Crowned her face Her breath Sewn into a wreath Her words crooned birds From swinging branches Her poems pressed the sunrise to Weep in joy He recalled it all As the day waned to indigo And stars winked And the hollow moon tipped Soft shadows He was naked in memory His life Tumbled scarlet © carol voccia 2008 all rights reserved