poet-at-large patti sinclair

sleeping in the basement

for a full and

half moon

free-falling

told the window

i do not

open

pass through the pane

of power, congestion,

circulation

creation

not

many reminders -

being under

and all

i look:

long silver screw

hole

locked white to keep

the unwanteds

out

silver bar

which snaps

it closed

just a pluck away

from fresh freakish air

unfurling

ball of tolerance

bouncing

throw an apple up to air
cut it to a flame

bouquet of white flesh
borders bloom of red
column of heart's lips
reaching spring's light

© 2009 by Patti Sinclair

been sa long since i writ ya
a pome

life just had a stroke
sh'said rehab duz wonders

they hav each oter them grls

and Ise tinks of ya
ya daz bithday day na
yr mum ner a yeer
and Ise went t'us be sestrs
kissin cuzins calld us
how weese playd rode swam t'githr
grews up

live in paradice nw
cum vizit
Ise miss ya

{C} 2009 patti sinclair

is no entrance to the sadness
in her heart, this

the grand burden, the one mercy
swirls around, spirals within,
corkscrews to the stone

caught

in the throat

light comes through the plank-boards

the stone of sadness,
the shame
its threat to cut the winds

and the worst

worn and water-logged I can still
beckon the chant

no place for this
no place for this

this alone


if I lived without restriction
this is what I'd tell you

able to name it

its clean verticalness
how it puts its frame around

restricts

and your softness
your love would cup me
and I would not die if I hit
the water, the wings
you would place on my back
as careful as a thread in the eye
of the needle, my fall-

a billowing skirt

so I write and write these postcards
yet nothing delivers

simply

if I lived without restriction
I'd say
loneliness

© 2009 Patti Sinclair

nothing
but this moment
the unseen flight of harp notes
and although I sit in shadow
I can imagine the sun warming
outside this window
on the salt and pepper snow of spring

how we judge so easily
teach without effort
constantly chug the moments
like the next is more worthy

imagining the song of this poem
sung to my lover
how it will take flight
but he doesn't want to hear it
now
washed am I

(c) 2009 Patti Sinclair

lip jagged

s-l-u-r-r-i-n-g

fine-china words

chipped

couldn't get a handle

drips roll away


beautiful
fine-broken delicate

thanks God for the saucer

©  2009 pjsinclair

you give me flowers
bathe me in red wine
shuffle me in your deck

I offer you my naked words
where you, painted into dark,
white of moon catching
a small square mirror
glued

my head tilts back
even with the stale smell of beer
cigarettes
filthy window panes

a shred from the flint ignites
I’m warmed, then on fire

there is room on your floor
for my tribe to encircle
me
my words
my death

staffs ignite,
red and orange,
bow and lick
the wings alight, speed up

ffffffwap fffffwap ffffwap ffffwap

and she rises        rises
the wind from her wings pulls my hair
from its upsweep,
and we are off
found
dead
here

the new tribe
stands in a circle
cups each others hands, words
and I’m bit

naked my blood
my words,
yours:
the blank page


time s-s-s-s-s-s-serpentines-

I find the night
over
lines settled
map thinned
words traded

the flowers are turning

my eyes dry from light-

you, the other one
lost in the spirits of water
the swirls

the silence that is helpless

your words hook me
I straddle that ‘o’
I hang
the flowers-paper,
the wine-my own blood

the words
my gift
you burn
the mirror-
s’ impermance

© 2009 by Patti Sinclair

the lines of you are so clear to me now

blue of the sky
how it holds
the red brick
the empty building
low windows clad
with white steel
how the pigeons huddle,
sunbath silently in subzero
above and under domed bricks
these love birds
this tilting sun

and wonder if you too
look there, when not here
with me

throat aching with want
of the impossible,
the coo, the perfect note
for you

look again
see the sky, the blue
so effortless

we need only look

[c] 2009 patti sinclair

knotty existence

shaped by landscape
air
bent we hold
the load
the sky bestows,
cumulous, dark, blue-
twisted we are by surprise
blind powers
the fine pocked line of before,
before you-
gray naked tree
yet buds
sky thickens
its roam
of outline
unpredictable
bulbous
and gnarled

© 2009 by Patti Sinclair

lost my hands
to the ones holding hers

body the bridge

to what one can see and what they walk
toward, cannot grasp
the unmoving photograph
cannot reach
into the muted late sun

step in front of them to say

turn around let me thank you
for holding on the best you could

it was enough-

walk them to their suns
soothe blue moving bumps
on their hands

(c) 2009 patti sinclair

walk the land
like I am 51%
part of it, found
a new way to walk
to school in the light
more in the light
and by the path
I find an ice patch
to skate on

[C] 2009 patti sinclair