Friday, August 18, 2017

Untitled 96

photo: Dana Twining

i stand at your door with my dreams in my hands
afraid to knock
the art of my face is too well known
the stories in my eyes already read
and you
so intent on plucking the fruits of your fantasies
have no time
for the dreams in my hands
     crushed now and broken
or the love in my heart
     aged like fine wine, untasted
you have not even seen me in years
though i lie beside you every night
to become the woman of your dreams

Sunday, August 13, 2017

Pickin Time

                                                                               photo: Catskill Weather
I got here before the bears
the birds
the children
with their endless dark-stained mouths
            and hands
but not before the angry chipmunk
barking his displeasure at my disturbance
berries red
and black
and ripe for picking
drop an offering now and then
to the outraged victim of my theft

I fill the basket with sundrawn sweetness
clip the rhubarb, visioning pies
the peas play hide n seek
seem to ripen by the second
taunt my questing fingers
ineffable greeny-grey
cloaked among the leaves spring forth
by moment
laughing at my clumsiness
my inarticulate pleas for abundance

scent of first dawn rising
in mist from rain-blackened earth
a scent from when the world was new
air clear of exhalations mechanical
warmed by fugitive sun’s rays
hiding benediction of the moon
with rosy translucent fingers
waking the birds with gentle touch
the earthsweet silence suffused with incomparable perfume
– what IS that scent? –

like dreams
like prayers
like the ghost of memory 

© 2017 pamela twining

Friday, June 9, 2017

Water Wars

the State impenetrable
bristling with weapons
all trained on people standing anchored to the earth
channeling the diamond studded heavens
smoke rising
the connection, blood of Life
nourishment from the Mother
take only what’s needed and give thanks
taking Care
there’s a difference between stewardship and Dominion
faceless warriors armored in the latest technology
comic book invaders
only they’re our brainwashed own
defending the killers of generations
against everything they claim as their spiritual heritage
violence without provocation
the best indicator of their own inner conflicts
they cannot answer
cannot look in the eyes
of those they choose to make example
to justify their purchase by those who live on the hill

 They will be going under the river any day now

Monday, March 20, 2017

Walking Man

                                                       For Erick

he loved to dance
his bear his wolf his walking man
feet pounding red red road for all he’s worth
his cries rang out to Spirit

born of man and woman he craved the dancing path
to Light
his anguish translated made us laugh
his body honed to hardness
his wit like sword that always cut through bullshit
his Magic
O, his Magic!
mystified across the veil between the worlds
he brought us the unknown with laughter and songs

he loved to dance
his snake his eagle his walking man
he pounded earth as if on oaken door
begging entrance to the deep
dark caverns we never knew existed, only he

he loved to dance
his dew-tipped grasses his clacking leaves his walking man
he cried of love and loss the way that all clowns do
through their great pain and sorrow
he surrendered to the Dance and then
this walking man
walked on

photo: Brenton Salo


Sunday, February 26, 2017

Sunday Brunch

the infinite intimate ultimate Poets Pancakes
Not to be confused with Ecstasy Pie
Jack and Joyce would know
take one box of buttermilk cinnamon pancake mix
and totally mess up the proportions
find half the ingredients under the newspaper
on the table
and realize you have a second chance
burn the first two misshapen
thick as cakes
eat em anyway
cream cheese icing and cinnamon sauce
add milk and burn the second two
cause y’r too busy eating the first two
like a wolf who’s starved on the tundra
for a winter
even more misshapen
due to having to be hacked out of the pan
but with cream cheese icing and cinnamon sauce
just edible
use oil to slicken the pan
pour two more still misshapen
but the finish plate’s starting to look like a map of the world pancake-style
a stack
a stack develops
none shaped like another
a profusion of continents laid over each other
with cinnamon oceans and melted butter ridge mountains
and avalanches of cream cheese with sugar delight
a breakfast of syrups
dripping down lips down chins
and licked from the plate from yr lips
before we strike out to conquer the globe

Sunday, December 11, 2016


you were told to wear clothes
and given rags to hide your beautiful nakedness
the beings of the forest no longer knew you
scent of water soil and green buried in the sweat of the coerced
an acrid odor
fetid like swamp and all the most delicious prey know
to flee deeper into the shadows that fall across your eyes

buried dreams speak as loud as innocence lost
                as loud as murder

you were given food and you were grateful
belly swollen
stick limbs
you saw your brothers waste and die
turn grey
no dark mahogany coffee cream-soda chocolate burnished skin
just pitted with death and foam at their mouths
no voices left to cry for
                just one sip
                                just one bite
your mother’s shrunken breasts, her salt tears
she had no chance to save them
                are you the lucky one?

the stories in your eyes are nightmares
piercing the lies we tell ourselves in worlds of plenty
                it can’t happen here
the sadness fear and anger eyes of betrayal
you work to pay for all that was free in grandmother’s time
your father held you to the sky in one brief moment of joy
                another nick in the wall of eternity
before the rains dried up and the grasses turned to brown
receded down to dust that rises
coats your skin and chokes your throat
the cycle of the bees broken
no more milk no honey
your mother’s breasts are barren

and help arrives to steal your mind
the price of food and land that used to be yours

you were churched and schooled enough
to pray for the success of what destroyed you
you spoke to me with tortured eyes
you demanded more and, not given
turned in upon yourself
the anomie of unanswered Want
the empty depth that hardens
                                breaks you
the atoms of your death can’t even feed the hungry earth
                no water

we’ve changed the planet to fit a mold
cast by a being no one has seen or heard
except in dreams or visions
and still you stare with ancient eyes
your urgent aching songs unheard

we lost your ripe juicy lips and cheeks
your golden dark
                your sturdy limbs
the center of your spinning galaxies

yet songs like molten honey burn and seduce
sun eye unblinded by the night
                and like the sun
                                you rise