Signed.....bkm

sales

2012-01-27T09:58:00.000-08:00

i am writing a book, a book about my husband. his life has undoubtedly
been more interesting than mine. even now he is in
Bogota, Columbia and i am sitting on the couch. he is heading for
Brazil next month and i will be here. i suppose that
is how life goes and you take it for what it presents. not that i do
not like the couch or where i live or that i am not happy. i have always
been a happy person you could say, just not very interesting i suppose. so i
will start this book about him (my husband) give it a shot in the dark
as all writers do (again supposing). i could put together something i have done,
self -publish and throw it out there - to the wolfs -though i do not think
even the wolfs have time to read all the self-published Amazon print
on demands, but truly i see no profit in it. it is (truly) a dog eat dog world
and they say (they being the science types) that this little four legged
furry thing licking himself here on the couch has descended
from the wolf (canine furry-one) which is still hard for me to believe. but enough said
and sought as it now only a matter of clarifying a timeline and the use
of the F...word in the text that needs to be determined in this book. it is what it is
though - reality - and to glamorize it i say would be like glamorizing
sex with the word love and then placing it on the shelf with great romance novels
where as reality places things like sex on a shelf in the adult book store.
(what's right?) it is all based on social order i suppose
and what is being tweeted around this globe and what is actually selling.

which is why i am here - my husband he is a salesman....

bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2012

sushi

2012-01-25T21:19:00.000-08:00

you can not move through the room without noticing her there, without
the smell of her perfume can you? i mean move through the room. it is like
a pillow of down asking you to rest your head or sit on a chair, there is the
breeze filtering through the half cocked window and that
plate of something being passed around
and the perfume, did you notice? all that has transpired has been replaced
with a thought of who she could be and the perfume she wears. the stairwell
is filled with the coveting, wife's are not vigil and the waiter carries sushi on a
platter. one most take notice of everything that has measure and there she sits
with a room built for her, with hands extended and armchairs drawn and all asking
about the perfume and -
where did he find her?

bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2012

border lines

2012-01-22T11:33:00.000-08:00

i wanted
to get away from

writing about
dreams - and mustard yellow
bricks

i
wanted - want

to get back--- to lines
to grey matters - to thought
bound

with
border; associated
meanings; channels of straight passage
the wants
tell much about human soul

lines appear as truthful, clean - contained
there in lies deceit (contagion color)
it pains

this tongue - torments
this inner eye - like a curved body, like a barbed wire
twisted tight around my mind - calm me
sooth my heart
with

slate - Do NOT EVER..make my
rose

red....

bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2012

the eternal embryo

2012-01-16T09:07:00.000-08:00

the eternal embryo i am, aged beyond my virgin skin
with all the oceans i have met - that long for purity again

i taste the salt upon my face, i know the sun that calls rebirth
yet my heart will not embrace, the place that human named as earth

i am a liar, infertile wench
tied to weed of sea so bound
and so frowned upon by god and men
i hear not an angel nor earthly sound

eternally waiting, i unborn
eternal as the unlit star
i stand within a cloud held silent
and conceive of a land that lies so far

from this faint and beating heart, from this place
in which i stand (alone) - eternal
as an un-christened captain - still awaiting blessing
from the throne

an eternal embryo i fare, aged
and tattered life taunted thin, and
cry the oceans (seven) i have met
that long to taste of earth again, taste

but so faint now my hearts
last beating - taste, that so longs to taste
of an earth again....

bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2012

posted for Magpie Tales and d'Verse open link night

Botero's Babes

2012-01-14T12:36:00.000-08:00

all babes are
born of babes - fat and round
round-ton babes - the world view
is round, round and rough - filled with lust of roll'in
round, roll'in round
with babes

babes are birthed between the thighs
between the round and sweating sighs
between the sheets a mother
lies - lies and sighs and cries her
birth - birthing babes so round

the men they watch
as watch they do, the birthing and the boring of
the round as rounder a woman (babe)
she rolls and rolls - til moon and babe cry at night
cry for a mother's breast so full, as breast
so round so warm with milk, suckle, suckle it
all gone dry, all gone
those round-ton babes

as babe is born
of full and fat and roll'in babe - of round and thighs
sweet and whole, flesh on flesh
so full and round - til milk is dry all fall
round...as all fall down

as babe it born
of babe---

bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2012

January Moon

2012-01-14T10:46:00.000-08:00

it January
and the moon has fallen
head first, head first into
the night to sit quietly on my lap - a white rabbit
finds no followers
in his frostbit, unfed sleepy world , this is an unknown lesser meaning
of the winter - where gossamer wings
can not fly - where zephyr winds die quickly, dying
unheard - winter is that forbidden
side of living; with snow
leaving his fingerprint
on my open window - winking at the moon
to the beat of a quiescent
human heart

i seek only
to comfort this pale
allowing forbidden estate, a room in my presence; for
together we will query the righteous
and call the waxen
to rise

bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2012

a Sunday Afternoon

2012-01-10T12:54:00.000-08:00

i never knew my great uncle
in his youth, never knew
what he did for a living, or saw him
tie his shoes

i only knew him by his laughter
his wit, his sarcasm and twinkled eye, only knew
his aged walk and candor - only knew
him as my grandfather's
older brother

together they could fill
a room, gather an audience
no charge, no tickets
no back stage pass - lucky i thought myself as
a child able to move closer
steadily between legs, between pastel printed shirts, between
gossip and an off balance
center table, til

up i looked at him, this uncle
sitting on a tall
wooden stool, his elbow on the bar
his hat next to his beer - that
is how i know him
i could not know his childhood
my grandfather's brother - together

in suits and ties, in hats
with brims, in vests with memory lined pockets
tied shoes -
calling out tales, first one
then the other, proud and pronounced

they sat
bar-stool to bar-stool

"You" this and "You" that
"He" this and "He" that,

a woman moved to sit down, ordered a Seven-Up
seemingly familiar in scene
as hat to hat,
as beer to beer
these old men sat
filling the room

as only laughter can
on a warm Sunday afternoon

bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2011

my Great Uncle Mike ( in picture) poem of how I remember him

posted for dVerse Open link night

give it up

2012-01-09T12:49:00.000-08:00

i step on tile
because i prefer the cold
the slower
the heart beat equals longer life - even grey life
is a way of living i suppose

i have always been forced
to look up to you, drown myself
in sky, wear colors that do
not become me, jewels are for spoiled dogs
and feathered whores - i want

black on black, grey
on black and the chill of ice
brilliant and blue
over a vodka soul - slow it down
burial rites have become all
to common in the land
of no-bodies, give it up for a those
creatures who walked these
streets without reservations, give it up
for a grey existence - before kingdoms
and presidents wrote
their own biographies and man
did not need rainbows of promise
or abstract art

bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2011

posted for Mag 99

i come here

2012-01-06T12:39:00.000-08:00

i do not want
to write like everyone else - that is not why

i come here - i
do not understand the building
of a sameness, a repetition of therapies
that have failed to produce

produce corollary
emotion maybe

i have
so very long ago fallen in love
with passion - should - has it kept me
at bay? - there i long for it even
the more - as a narcissistic reflection
longs for self, longs for as any mirrored
image - hidden within
a self deception- who can

comfort me, can console me?
any phantom lover can provide release
only the truest
passion can write
itself into existence - tally all your
wears, place them on the hearth

bread does not bake
itself - a daughter knows this
at birth - not so
the poet, not so

bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2012

Clarity

2012-01-02T18:35:00.000-08:00

it was the matter
of a U-turn
that found me here
against your shore - even

a natural high
can be hard to come
down from - my whittling was
not an art form but
a nervous condition - thinking
i could forget
the way you wrapped
around my mind
thinking
the fog was something
i wanted to give
up for vision
and blinding clarity

bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2012

Posted for Magpie Tales

New Years

2011-12-28T11:45:00.000-08:00

and all i know
or is or was - has left
me now at years end
reflecting on both time and friend
those i have gathered
have lingered with - in timeless passing of
four seasons - in a give
and given passage for all thought
for all reasons

why the sentiment? why recollection?
why the making of the word?

the year has left us
leaves us older
leaves us with bones
and blessings borrowed, let us
call them to our own, let us give them to father - mother,
call out to such friend, to such sister - brother - call
out friends all well gathered
in such pages left to closing
bound and pressed
and pulled together - clasping, clasped
a year remembered
as we now prepare to open

yet, another....

bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2011

Posted for d'Verse open link night...bkm

Merry Christmas

2011-12-22T21:15:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas to everyone.....Love you ALL...
thank you for a fantastic year of poetry and friendship...bkm

A Christmas Song..by bkm

2011-12-15T14:40:00.000-08:00

it seems the snow has fallen down
and left the world in winter bound
without a word, without a sound
where? hope this cold cold morning

the laughter of the children lost
the seas of north all edged in frost
and warmth now sought at any cost
where? hope this cold cold morning

where my mother who loved me so
where my sister of long ago
where the hope and where the glow of a Christmas morning

some claim a savior he has come
some say he is God's Blessed Son
await I do for ship bells rung
where? hope this cold cold morning

the roads now empty without soul
the debt of sins have left their toll
and who? this child I must know
where? hope this cold cold morning

where my father his life now claimed
where my brother who bares its shame, and
where the hope and where the glow of a Christmas morning

oh, do I hear the call of bells
the sound of angels too as well
and is this child of which they tell
come this cold cold morning

the shepherd and the shepherd's lamb
they both take knee where they stand
and pray the child is at hand
born this cold cold morning

where? the children once at play
they now sing in choir night and day
resound the joy of the babe born they say
born this Christmas morning

the warmth of love comes from the light
that God has sent in darkest night
a Holy Child pure and bright
born this Christmas morning

Hope was born this Christmas morning...

bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2011

the bell tower

2011-12-06T07:08:00.000-08:00

i have grafted paper
to skin, recorded your touch
between each sheet

shedding and shelving remain
uncommon and puliztered - "who
goes there?"

an old woman gathers
in clothes line, places each
pin into proper perspective, wringing
hands threadbare

below the streets pool wet, words
remain shrouded (lost prophecies) hidden
beneath open umbrellas, behind beveled
glass windows - a carol

rises up, the old woman echoes "Glor...roi..a, in excelsis deo"

i re-read your touch, decipher
your memory, the madness in new
wine skins

the bell tower listens...

bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2011

posted for d'Verse Open Link Night

it is an art form

2011-11-30T08:23:00.000-08:00

a river flows on its own
we move in concert with concrete on wheels, in walking

it is art form -
it is the city -
it is the echo of a single vowel,
the spacing of a single numeral -(minus itself)
it is the heartbeat of all civil and un-civilized alike

there are scores here
whores not always in red - there are priests and paupers here
pilgrims in buckled shoes, pushers and politicians
toting charities with cheating
the holy nurse here - suckling the milk of mothers
counting their blessings, selling their souls

it is art formed -
it is nature painted as un-natural
framed and auctioned to high bidder
pawned for penance and a trip to Rio

bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2011

posted for Magpie Tales

common is never enough

2011-11-29T10:33:00.000-08:00

there is a punctuation mark
on the road
a broken protocal
overlooked - i hunt with copper in my shoe
root for semblance and aspect

solitude requires its own sheltering, its
own significance far from warmth and contentment
a return to season is placed
on hold - a return to hearth unacceptable
the hounds task breaks all chains, ties no knots

the night will fall
common is never enough for winter

bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2011

posted for d'Verse Open Link Night....bkm

i will not see frost

2011-11-15T12:18:00.000-08:00

i have nothing
to give - a book or a plate
nothing of value even
in thought or cupped tea - a red bird minds
its own business
sharing not more than given
the days timing is all off
and when the wind appears to soften
it is only lying - there are wet stones
to walk and leaves that still require dying
the season is not over - i will
not see frost tonight

bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2011

the precipice i walk

2011-11-08T17:25:00.000-08:00

i hold a cataclysmic catheism
in my lap - counting on prospective indulgences
to do my saving

Can God ever forgive me? for
loving you - forgive me - for allowing you residence so high
in my steepled heart...

i can-not worship beneath stained glass
nor can i worship between a daylight and dawning
on such it is the precipice i walk,
on such without postulated prudence, for

Is it not true? that
Wisdom loves her lover as the violet
loves the sweet warmth from
the wintered window - borrowed or bought
bathed and blessed

bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2011

posted for d'verse Open Link Night

life

2011-11-06T09:12:00.000-08:00

any artisan knows
you can craft beads
out of bones (coveted and cleaned )

but you will not call it life

any poet knows
you can pen a thought
out of granite stoned (purchased and polished)
smooth

but you will not pen it as life

any wood-smith knows
you can plane, you can whittle
you can sand something
beautiful out of death - but we all know

it will never be called Life...

bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2011

three steps - backward

2011-11-05T09:58:00.000-07:00

i need a chair

and 6 pieces of paper

a wall to write on - a full moon hanging

from a peeling window

come soon before the sun

blinds us to what

we have written

ii.

i have decided

against the burgundy shades

there are so many stories below- people moving

i want to join them, but

there is an unmade bed

and burgundy

is guarding the door

iii.

will you sit next

to me like a warm tidal pool

it is good to be wet - you and i, we

were born mer-mates

counting on pearl stars

so afraid to

be human

bkmackenzie

copyrighted 2011

developmental bard-ing

2011-11-03T08:47:00.000-07:00

i have collected
key rings of every monogram
rested momentarily against
a space bar - vodka and tonic was the order
of the day - cursing
a sun that is always subtle in its awakening
it - having lasted longer
then most writers or instruments
of a developmental bard-ing

me, for me - that elusive key is
still out of reach leaving only
a single (?) mark and
outdated backspace, but (true) true even Mercury
goes retrograde - i suppose there is some
lesson within an
introspective reversal (never publish
until all goes in your direct-ion)

come midday
a future reflects an aging,
using fear tactics to
highlight an unregulated tab key and talk
of a delete - i can not
change gods now - i have spent
a lifetime
covered in correction
paper threatening a timid shift key
into vowing the
fifth ....

Who? Who else would listen to my confession????

bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2011

posted for Magpie Tales

five reasons

2011-10-29T13:24:00.000-07:00

there is
a canvas bag with
yellow words

in it, black leathers with

extra buckles - i crawl in

and out, rub myself

in your musk - drinking

yellow

ii.

the bed

is red paisley, i antique

white, the window

holds all texture (burnt

oranges on blue silks) a

mahogany table

engraves

the day in mono

iii.

there are

licorice strings tied to my boots,

stones to my neck -

the thatched hut we dwell

in loves linen light

i love cashmere skin -

comets attached

to notes

undressed

iv.

my gloving

has ears and the

housing i carry prefers

doors that open

outward onto mosaic

rivers with a floating

language and a buttoned down

bodice

all reason

is held in a single shoe and a number

three - divided by

itself - the you

the me and a place name

leaning left across the bookshelf

of morning math

times

two expressed

Pardon Me's

bkmackenzie

copyrighted 2011

straddled

2011-10-28T10:33:00.000-07:00

my mobile app
has me straddled between
dimensions - seemingly
biological - seamlessly android

my movement in thinking
has become controversial, clouded
lining up levied truth with
prevaricated sighs

color now has drawn its
blood inward, simplified itself into
a mirrored image - an icon
stretched, intent on listening
for the falling glass

from the last tree

bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2011

posted for Magpie Tales and d'Verse - Friday Crit on Conflation

i found a dream

2011-10-20T20:03:00.000-07:00

i found a dream
in a fountain pens leaning on the door
and life in a paper pasted
to a newly waxed wooden floor - i found

you in the window
next to a wishing well - wishing well on a stardom
as I exhaled my thoughts of such a living hell
without your touch - without a drop of your laughter
landing on the rim

of this glass of burgandy that balances
my act of caring between
One - Holy Amen!
and all the diamonds
dancing on the night , and i dream too

within the spaces left
by the simple words - you scattered so neatly on the day
along with kisses to each my sighs
now given well away

as a wooden floor holds the paper, and
a window holds my hearts last flame - all within
a fountain pen's dreaming of some lover
without an earthly
face or a binding written name

bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2011

When I Dream in Autumn

2011-10-20T14:42:00.000-07:00

When I dream in autumn, the wood, its glow, leaves tossed
I can dream in no other… I only dream in Robert Frost

as meadow calls me walk
to the back woods edge
and hedgehog gestures follow
to place I lay my head
where stream - now swallow murmurs
touch me, as I whisper and I weep
of the beauty
that surrounds me and the secrets that I keep
while the wind pulls me forward
to view a fielded land
gently guiding me
through this moment
others will never
understand

No, I will not dream of heaven, or vision of seasons lost
For when autumn calls me dreaming ....I only dream in Robert Frost

bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2010

thought I needed to move into something a bit more mellow - I wrote this one last year for One Stop but never published on my blog....bkm