un rêve à retenir

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greeted by her eiffel highness
midnight mark
historic park
rumbling, rolling, romantic, righteous

bite for bite on a sweet, cheap crêpe
across the seine
sneaking then
to a quiet bench, we two escape

noses close, we chat and laugh
minutes pass
french rats dash
la lune illume on your cheeks abash

with a tuck and a roll, you’re on one knee
brown eyes wide
some dreamy ride
I watch my body float up over the trees

madame Tour winks and twinkles on repeat
hands clasped
running fast
we rush to recieve her blissful bonne nuit

along the river, smiles bloom and steep
bartered bubbles
foreign doubles
who look like us, but with a promise to keep

strolling towards “home” in the middle of the night
this living love
hovering above
the greatest hour of my favorite flight.

11:04 pm — on a rainy porch in providence, one week later.

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goodbye broom

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Flying coven.

Plunging fall.

Morning birds.

Hopscotch pumpkins.

Broken witch.

Enchanted broom.

Sweep, sweep, sweep.

Chop, chop, stop.

Growing fondness.

Scheming neighbors.

Cultish fervor.

Human fire.

Ghostly woods.

Packed bags.

White paint.

Family dinner.

Soaring tango.

Happily Ever After.

 

photos of Saturday night’s “Widow’s Broom” by Ty Parmenter.

 

a b&b tour of the Berkshires

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white horses and red lions cradling our heads

striped walls

antique-scattered halls

baked french toast and four-poster beds

John and Naji and Sylvia and Steve

teapot shelves

helping ourselves

to hidden matchbooks as we leave

buttered mussels and english muffins

double kale

unsent mail

crispy dolma with thick rice stuffed in

monument mountain surrendering to our feet

poolside tunes

quarter moons

goodbye sweet Berkshires, until again we meet.

-from the fondly reminiscing brain of a wait why am i still awake right now?

10 days down under

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as we touched down in Queenstown

island vegetation and mini eco-system formations

welcomed us to a land down under

avo toasted plates and brekkie bowls

dark fruit breads and savory scones

skyline hikes to starfish dives

winding drives past brown beehives

by rocky vineyards and cold Sound rocks

then cute salads and long bird walks

sweet TimTams and fijoa fruits

just Keds and my trusty boots

exploring a world upside in and downside out

leaning left in round abouts

now a fat stack of boarding passes

sits in my home like wasted ashes

artifacts of our 40-hour days

and proof of passports so well played.

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-from the weary mind of a NZ traveler

boat house love

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blue glass

blue china

blue sky

blue sea

a long weekend for lobster

and a fluffy dublin tea

late night whisky scrabble

leaks into breakfast babble

sticky griddle we will dabble

breakfast for dinner, dialogue for dessert

warm wood surrounds us

empty space confounds us

still this young love abounds us

drowns us, pouring over every day

with

nutella lips

ginger sips

goosey quips

my person sticks

to yours like beans 

bean legs

soda breads

looking out

where the ocean ends

tiny hands

frozen sands

perfectly aimless

weekend plans.

to the moutains

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rising up before the sun
with fuzzy stardust eyes
through sherbet-tinctured pink webs we blink
to wake the sleepy sky

a cozy Coffee Pot sign
says “celebrate everything!”
so strawberry waffle, pockets all full
my REAL maple on the side

out and up the mountains now
towards the clouds we climb
we sneak and peek and dare to swim
in the veil of a marvelous bride

on the road we snack and sing
over lakes we row in time
these hearts a part of the same blue chart
under stars our two combine.

 

 

photos of me by Michael (cutest) Collins.

tracing our tracks

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with the chill of an april night in may,

we march out again to float above the river.

365 days dustier, our train tracks seem only to have magnified in magic…

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so too has my aversion to such height-induced adrenaline,

but now we are we, and together we walk free.

clutching your expert hands I tread since-vanquished coals with care as if they still burned.

I follow your flippers, tracing your tracks and placing each velvet slipper on the rail behind yours.

someone else’s mother’s leather floats across the divide and I trail…

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it seems 12 months time has erased my subtle cool completely, and I freeze.

please.

please wake my feet that they may flee in tidy take off,

incite my knees that they may ensure a steady landing,

and oh please, leave my racing mind at peace that it may not tempt curious eyes to seek the water below.

a shaky leap and at last I meet you for the first and five hundredth time…

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we turn to face           a searing sky.

burning hearts pressed together,

now above the train tracks

over the river

we fly.

 

5.24.16. written on a cool tuesday morning, dreaming of the past weekend…week…year…and all of the painted skies to come.

books and brunch in boston

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I have bruises on my body, but spring in my soul, following this warm weekend up north with my favorite human.  M and I brunched and browsed all over Boston, and the sun stayed with us far longer than we’d even hoped.  From Brighton to Brookline to Chinatown, Beacon Hill, Cambridge and back again, we made our way through boro(ugh)s and backstreets until our tired, unscented brains* could explore no more.  We visited some of our very favorites, including Tatte and The Middle Gray, where I scribbled this little ditty into my journal, which I’m going to call Ode to An Arepa…

black and white

and grey all over

where beginning 

meets end and

trains transcend

tea-stained flowers

bloom and bend

sriracha-soaked arepas

poison sinuses

our bodies defend

fight the careful blend

my dearest friend

you challenge my senses

so I guess the contents

in your favorite hot sauce trend.

 

*Have you ever googled “What does a human brain smell like?”  Not recommended.

whirlwind

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in a whirl of tulle

and white lights

and lace

rosin’d pointes rock away

sticky grid lock

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parties move on

from Silberhaus to 

my own

a growing tree stacks its dust

where festive bulbs

once shone

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flower petals brown

in dark skips where

they lie

whispering of stale sweets

and waltzes 

gone by

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gauzy ghosts of dancers

now wisp in 

their place

flooding the empty theater

with a harrowed

hallow grace

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final bits of chalky snow

flake away and off

the stage

a calendar completely cracked

it must be time to turn

the page…

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creepy poetry by a sleepy me, photos of FBP dancers by the talented Jacob Hoover.

for more from Mr. Hoover and his ultra cool camera, head on over here.