Kisses I Have Known

The first ones, the last ones 

And all those in between  

The elementary pecks 

Before I learned the language 

In time for sweet sixteen 

The ones in their father's station wagon 

The practice ones on mirrors 

When I was a little girl 

The ones when the snowflakes  

Circled overhead and swirled 

The ones during intermission  

When we’d play tonsil hockey 

The ones that were slobbered  

The ones I witnessed  

In the darkened Cineplex

The ones that were stolen  

The ones that led to sex 

The ones at the stoplight 
And when we said our vows 

The ones upon my pillow 
Before you were by my side  

The one I'm thinking of right now     

The Soundtrack of My Life

In my teenaged room 

Walled with paper, paneling and paint 

I listened to the radio 

Bought with money that I earned 

Digging out the earth  

Where our rumpus room would go 

I tried to drown the raucous noise 

Beneath my green shag floor  

Of the prodigals in stereo  

Who challenged the  

'My way or the highway' rules  

As old as Grandpa Joe 

Eight days a week 

I listened to the thumping, 

The harsh discordant beats 

Dreaming I was happy  

With thunderous applause 

And the rose, planted at my feet  

Now I collect the songs 

That made this young girl cry - 

He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother; 

Lean on Me; You've Got a Friend; 

Don't Cry Out Loud; 

Bridge Over Troubled Water 

Brittle fingers fumble  

With anthems of my youth 

On worn and yellowed keys

And some melodies I never heard  

(On the countdown or Dick Clark) 

That stretch my songbook's seams       

Four-part Harmony

Four chambers of the human heart - 

One chamber for music, no doubt,  

An intimate stirring of visceral strings; 

An atrium, pulsing with passion  
For romance, the arts 

Whose sculpted walls, unbridled, sing  

One airy space with muted corona  

Where contemplatives' breath 

Is silken, soft-pedal sound  

One earthen, cave-like room -

The epicenter of all life -

Receives form from ground  

At home with one another, 

They resonate within -

Melodious tremble and thrum                                                    

  

Conception of an Artist

The psychology of creativity is in its essence feminine because the creative world of art leaps from the unconscious depths, that is, from the domain of mothers. Carl Jung 

As if from the womb, she leaps 

Armed with implements of balladry,  
Within her fingers' grip; 

In timeless time 
She was immersed in mystery 

Siphoning sounds into her chemistry - 

Those murmurs from another world, 

Resonant  

Upon her liquid tongue; 

A luminescence guides her, 

Beyond her pool of incubation,  

Into waterways unknown; 

Her lungs expand  

And vibrate  

As her hands glide 

Over ebony  

And parchment  

Where she fully comes to life