The Landscape

Months passed without a stroke, but
Does the artist dry up with the paint,
Or fade like old, abandoned pigment?

The wood box creaks open on tired hinges.
The smell is there -
Ancient oils, mineral spirits.
And here are the brushes
Of ox, camel and sable
Laid out, anticipating…
And there the vast, white canvas
taunting.

Slow, wide strokes begin.
Hues spread out gradually,
Picking up speed
Like an old steam engine.

Then smaller brushes,
Tender lines emerge by the
Hands of a musician,
A chef, a gardener,
A father.

Hours go by, muscles ache
But the colors are singing
On submissive canvas.
Vision is clear,
Rhythm is set.
Life, texture, dimension, emotion
Dance unbridled.

Don’t pause or hesitate!
Paint unwavering,
Confident of victory
Over blankness.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

Haiku

Bubble floats on a
puddle in the rain until
drip drip drop it pops.

Accustomed

There was an incredible sound
In the bright light of
last night's moon.

And I hung on a long time
waiting to hear it again
listening to ordinary stillness

You weren't here to consult
I was sitting in our spot
smoking a lonely cigarette

But I went ahead and pretended
"What the hell was that?"
I asked the empty spot beside me.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

The Gamblers

These generations of men
that we cannot do without:
Infectious deviants
whose winning smiles
incur our wrath
and our devotion.
One by one
they tempt
and they taunt
and they goad one another
into utter folly.
In the end, adding one
more bawdry story
to our repertoire.
Saving up memories
like a treasure trove -
or maybe an arsenal -
for the day they are too old
to do more than
tell their tales. Yes,
They will have some to tell.

We sideline observers
vie for their dedication
like jealous cats
and curse the last dregs
of their spontaneity
as if we were surprised.
Somewhere within us
it is their predictable
unpredictability
that lets us welcome them
home again warmly on
yet another early morning.

(C) Tasha Chinnock 2007

Turning Thirty

And so it has been
three full decades.
The first one marked out
in a neat row on the chalkboard,
rhymed and colorful.
The next, glommed together
In a reckless, vibrant heap of late teens
and early twenties.
Followed by this last set
of full, budding years -
a crucible of human experience,
of realizing and forsaking dreams.

At thirty, coming into my own.
Full-grown
but young and open and fertile.
Stronger because of failures,
not yet overwhelmed by grief.
Walking more securely through life,
with a healthy tiredness
attesting to so much hard work.

Jesus was thirty
when he went out to preach.
Old enough to really know
the world he cried out to
and young enough to love it
in spite of what it was.

My own mother was thirty
when she bore me,
her fourth darling –
and most like her.

There is a pride comes with thirty
we look forward to it
we advertise it
and hesitate to move beyond it.

There is an introspection comes at thirty
Tallying up what we amount to,
setting our sites a bit higher,
striving for the mark with fervor.
At thirty we have permission
to fine tune things
or completely restructure
before it is too late.

Because forty will be set in its ways
and growing old will then be
imminent.

(C) Tasha Chinnock 2007

Look At This!

You say your don't believe
in luck, with a pitying smile
at my simpleness
I know exactly what
you mean, but act intrigued
urging you - tell on
Tell of Careful Design
the watch in the junkyard
Texas knee-deep in quarters
Quote chapter and verse of
the end from the beginning
your practiced apologetics.

And never take one look
At the wondrous four leaf clover
I was trying to show you.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

Parade Day

As usual, I’m ill-prepared.
We rush off
Without breakfast
Hoping to find parking
Within a mile.
Detour around the route -
A-flutter with feathery marchers.
Wind up at the garage
Where a smiling old man
Forgives our lack of cash.
We park for free
On the fifth floor.

Find our friends, and settle in.
We are all young and old.
As the first flag passes
We are awestruck, reverent,
Cheering, remembering
We are free
To parade our colors.
Bagpipes whine right in
To my heart
Pushing goose bumps
Like champagne bubbles
to the surface.

We clap and wave for
Magnificent Clydesdales;
For rodeo queens with
Cascading curls
Under their hats;
For the governor in
A shiny red convertible –
Even though she isn’t from our party.

The real fun begins
With the firemen. One we
Know is uniformed
And stiff, but smiles
Covertly when we call his name
We never seem to be ready
For the cavalry and their
Real gunpowder muskets;
The whooping, hollering of
Mountain men and shady saloon girls;
Or leathered bikers,
Their vrooming hogs
Always leave one baby crying in terror.

Local businesses display
Decorated floats to honor
“Unspoken Heroes”
They toss candy, souvenirs
And we wave our little flags at them.
Cheerleaders march between floats
Carrying banners and we
Have fun requesting
The turn-around they must learn
In parade class. They do it
Faithfully, aiming to please.
Enter the pooper-scoopers
In cunning disguises
Competing with rodeo clowns
For our laughs, easy today.

We’re so worn out by the end –
Sugar high is fading –
The final floats are a blur
Unremembered.
Who can stick around for a boot race?
The winner will get ice cream.
Anyway, we ought to have
Ice creams all around
And drive home in sleepy,
Sunburned silence.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

A Day of Sickness

I barely slept
Awakened all night
By my own snoring
I ached all morning
to the vibrant shrieks
and squabbles of children
resounding through my deaf head
conducted by swollen glands
into the throbbing
echo chamber

I winced all day
with rolling over
lifting an arm
walking to the toilet
my skin hurts
I'm dying slowly, I'm sure of it

Still not sleeping
fitful at best during
naptime, my toddler
nearby with angel lids
still as a stone
he coughs and coughs
and smiles in his sleep
Phone ringers are turned off
but still the muffled trill
of the fax machine
stirs me again

Afternoon was chaos
so unfair
no one to tend me
no chamber maiden
the children seek out
mischief, trail in rubbish
a toad in a bucket
very special sand
and God knows
what is going out with them

I bravely rise
to get them ready to leave
but horror strikes my senses
its worse than I thought
I buckle...really lose it
name calling
swinging my angry spoon
shooing them off like dirty flies

Alone, I collapse
try to read
I hurt, though -
like Joyce, too aware
of my iniquities
I must bathe apologetically
wash it all away
down the drain
trade it for a fever
precious burning
purging heat
in my joints, my eyes
my wet, dark mouth

I simmer and ache
through the evening
peel an orange
hardly tasting the juice
for all the mucus in my
throat my nose my ears

what cruel neighbor
would pound on the door
at the bottom of
all those stairs?
I carefully descend
hunting his quarry
in confusion
utterly displaced
trying to seem normal
am I dressed?
Oh, good at least there is that

Once alone I phone you
bleary-voiced
I can't laugh at your jokes
I just need some soup
not from a can
even a packet would be better
yes, yes I have taken
my vitamins
yes, hurry home and
rub my back
It will be ten
when you get here
and I won't get a moment's rest
without you.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

A lark sang to my want of words.
A bird, a lark, a silly whim.
I heard the song as in a dream,
and sighed o`er whispy thoughts of him.

Storm at Sea

Storm at Sea by Pieter Brueghel the Elder

Storm at Sea
by Tasha Chinnock

Why throw off balast?
Its too late for precautions
Swells bounce
Every which way
Birds circle
in black of sky
Wreckage of ships and
of nature herself
A gutted whale
Headless, ship
without a sail
Here in this aqua eye
a beacon from below
exposes the ruin
But the far off shore city
enjoys sunlight and seagulls
the latter perhaps a little
fatter for the storm fishing
Tiny pillows of overturned vessels
sideways sails
dot their horizon
looking restful at such a safe distance
No muffled screams
reach their ears
above the roar of wind and wave
and screeching scavengers
You are alone, desolate.
Nought but deep stillness awaits you.

The Misanthrope

The Misanthrope by Pieter Brueghel the Elder

The Misanthrope
by Tasha Chinnock

There is a little
of the misanthrope
in all of us

and who can blame you
to have reached
your winter years

and still have all
the filthy, smiling beggars
pilfering your heart.

Oh, to fold my own
tired hands
and turn a dark shoulder

to the sheep
and their stooping shepherd
and the miller beyond

to become a part of
the greying expanse
of sky

and blend with
the shadows
of a nearby wood.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

Two Monkeys

" Two Little Monkeys" by Brueghel the Elder



Two Monkeys

It looks like a lovely imprisonment
Situated high on the wall
A view of the sea
boats in the harbor
salt air tousling fur

But imprisonment itself
goes against their nature
their ape eyes are wild
not docile and tame
what torture to see it all from afar

Theirs is a sad, powerless state
nut shells litter the little cell
seagulls laugh at their captivity
some vain owner calls
the painter for their portrait.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

Big Fish

To see where the inspiration for these poems came from, go to my other blog

Pictures From Brueghel

The Big Fish Eat the Small Fish
pen and ink by Pieter Brueghel the Elder 1557


Big Fish
by Tasha Chinnock

I nearly nose the stench
swamp-foul and spilling
out like a hard-learned
lesson. Listen
to your father, son
let him
warn you, urge you
beware the powerful;
ascertain your own guts

The truth of the big fish
is boundless
no species is safe
snake, crustacean, mollusk
even bird falls prey
to that predatory pisces
He won’t stop with his
own watery country
Taking wing
making tracks
to gorge himself on paltry
to conquer
because he can
he must cloy with his
wide open mouth
never sated until he
outgrows his pond.

The one aberration to the proverb being
man: the biggest, hungriest
most consumptive fish in the sea.
Yes, Father, I see.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

Conversion

Regrettably, I interrupted
a carnivorous frenzy
a ravishing of corpses
meat stuck in the teeth
What were there, ten,
twelve on your plate
the last time I found you?
It is savage
the heart’s blood still pumping
sharing a common rhythmic drive
It is dead blood,
smelly and coagulated
but you have a taste for it.
What makes you crave
that death feast
stacks of steaks
looking at you alluringly
tough not tender
a whole side of gristle

I want to avoid that corruption
Give me the clean water-blood
I will eat plants
the fresh, chlorophyll taste
that grows in the garden
Purify me with such roughage
In bright, lively colors
sweet and fresh
it tastes so chaste
it is right, this diet of purity
this Eden meal
without hair or bones
without fat or a name
the seeds and pits that remain
will continue to feed me
life after life
while your orgy of carnage
can only breed death.



(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

Lamenting for the Children

For me, it was a returning to my past
It was waving the dead cat
above my head
Its mortified flecks
Falling in my teacup
spattering on the bed sheets
smudging my children.

For you, it is something new, now
Never put to death or buried
Dangerous and cunning
hot with fervor
slicing with a switchblade
at me, at us and
our defenseless children

These are only two things out of
the hundreds that threaten
monogamy, purity
true fidelity
openness with a spouse
marriages all around us
hang by a thin cord,
thoughtless of the children.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

Failure

Lord, bless this egg house
This poor, debauched room
It has suffered enough

This is your punishment
for faulty carrying of
that fragile package marked
Handle with Care
(Never mind that I slipped it
into your box unawares)

This torrent of sorrow
that crimps you
pushing blurbs of cooing
to the surface

In your defense,
it was not you
but a bad batch of jelly –
no tenacity
that dropped my parcel
(Butterfingers, you maladroit)

Did someone say punishment?
But that debt is pre-paid
This must not be put to your charge
you are acquitted.
Now, hold on tight,
this one will be true.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

Alex on the last day of school

Sonny, you are right at the edge.
This summer is given to you,

hung around your tan neck
like an Olympian’s medal.

For all the afternoons that you sat,
quiet with your books -

a word worm,
young philosopher -

remembering four years of lessons,
combining them to make

a volume of riddles,
delivered with clever expectancy

and perhaps an excess of sobriety -
a need to be taken seriously, even in jest.

So, outside is dusty sunshine,
promise of an endless respite

and here in my nap house
your clean, white socks rest

on the cushions of my Swedish couch.
You are bored, but optimistic.

You brandish your neat row of early letters -
A’s and B’s that announce your realized potential:

You can rise above the turmoil
of a fragmented picture frame.

You are worth over a million words,
more than a mere merit;

augmented by the extra letter of reference
tucked sweetly by –

the unofficial with the certified,
both of solid value.

So, this is the content of your pack -
a year’s hard work summed up

in seven bent papers and a book
of head shots whose names will ever be

embedded in the synapses of your mental corridors,
though you may capriciously scratch them off the page.

Not just work – experience. Social forays,
physical testing, the ultimate feat of overcoming.

I am trying to see you as a peer,
to remember who has ever been like you -

Handsome and awkwardly funny,
sugar cane brown and a smile like an epiphany.

I am tempted to find your strata, your niche,
but you are worthy of so much more.

Juvenilia should get its sticky fingers off you.
Even your vices are pure

in the light of the future
and the inevitability of growth.

(c) 2007 Tasha Chinnock

What is the moral?

It was a day of over-emoting
my children swam through
bleary pools of compassion

Early morning was ushered in
with vindictive back-slapping
met with my barked reprimand
Broke loose a floodgate
of self-pitying sobs
utter despondence in the eyes
that swept through me
exposing my despotism
impeaching my love

Detour to the garden
as micro-examination closes in
on a tree, a leaf, a web
a massacre of miniscule
proportions. The horrified
shriek that conveys
torture, blood, painful
suffering and death
rings through the
neighboring yards. Panicked
pleas for aide answered
by futility – a spider has
caught and poisoned
a fat, green caterpillar
no winged glorious future
only writhing, spewing
malevolence. My soothing
assurances that all is right
smack of disinformation.
Her cries of compassion
are real – not affected

We stay inside, huddling
on our cozy sofa with the TV
relaxing in musical utopia
Even here, fear
and sympathy invade
the smallest mind
bring momma running
to calm a pounding pulse
rock away alarm
wait for the next melody
to chase off this latest
affront to a child’s
tender awareness.

I am teaching them to
accept injustice and misery
I am pointing them
toward pleasant apathy
and the bliss of ignorance
Because I am their mother
Shouldn’t I lead them around
all the painful rocks of
hardship they are powerless
to maneuver?

(c) 2007 Tasha Chinnock

Spoiled Serenity

I sought out a public refuge from
the corners of my mouth
clamped around gall
I chose my idyllic grassy plot
to forget the whole sour chronicle
I floated there, quite apart
suspended from listening
exempt from watching
immune to doing
only in such busy pavilions
can I momentarily be set free.

Until one shirtless invader
compromised my immaculate sanctuary
with wall-eyed vulgarity
with blaspheming spittle
and confused laughter
I was accosted with
unsanctioned familiarity
and repelled back to my piss-bog
unraveled further
rent and shaking like a victim.

It only confirmed to me that either
infirmity does not speak to infirmity
or I am not as touched as I once surmised.

(c) 2007 Tasha Chinnock

Magnetic Poetry #3

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

Magnetic Poetry #2

A collaboration with Ardara



(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

Magnetic Poetry #1

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

For Sara

My enemies have always been Sarahs
They are following me
haunting me through life
Baning me with their name.
At seven she was
the prig who unctioned me
told teacher on me
laid bare my secret
At twelve she was
the ugly, weird object
of my derision
I kicked her hooded head
on long bored bus rides
Of course, those days
the stigma wasn’t set.
I hadn’t realized that Saras –
with or without the sneaky, silent H –
were my nemesis
their evil didn’t signify just yet.
And so adolescence and its
high-low shame had something
to teach me of that
princess name.
That royal Sara of my lover’s covet
whose perfume I was taught to wear
whose hair
was straighter than mine
Taught me to hate
in spite of virtue,
to despise my betters.
I was the exploited Hagar
dark and bitter
the more faithful, and second-loved.
And moving on through closets of men
I saw Sarah pursuing
each of them.
Enchanting, stealing
harrowing them.
Sara mocked me
and pilfered my joy
Sarah - accented, busty
talented, smart
well-traveled, well-versed
well-endowed -
sent me into hiding,
sealed my Ishmaelic curse
to roam the land unloved, wild
the rejected mother,
wasted child.
To all my Abrahams,
I still can’t forgive your precious Saras.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

Leaders and Followers

You favor one foot over the other
So I can always hear you
shadowing me
sneaking up behind
ta-tump, ta-tump
you come
I refuse to be frightened by it
your handicap, not mine
I could wait in shade
and quietly point a toe
trip you up
send you sprawling
If I had to outrun you
I’m sure I could
Fly away, fleet of foot
With your ta-tumping
growing quicker and quieter
behind me
I could escape
I could overcome
I am not worried
over you
Gimp limp
sneaking shrimp
I hear you
You’re a sloppy spy
amateur stalker
your stockings slid down
quitters
shaken loose by your
uneven reverb step
why not pull it over face
become shadow
no, you are too keen
on being known, heard, seen
I could take you
but I’m not sure I want to.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

The Disfiguring

Looking is all its good for
This smooth, flat kitten foot
Rabbit’s paw good luck charm
You look and don’t touch
No, please, don’t touch

It is childish but seasoned
Dappled and coarse
Its good enough
It will do for you
Don’t feign shame
You wear it well

Do you have to feel
To go against my grain
Your vigorous shoving hands
Sanding and sawing
Don’t feign consideration
This is all of you

I wish it was of me too
I drive myself to that end
But I confess I am elsewhere
Mine is a different softness
Not the smooth of satin,
but cushion of tenderness
The gentle softness of giving

What have I done for you
Today or ever in life
This is one thing
But it wouldn’t satisfy me
If I were keeping score
Which I’m not.

The Liberty of Love

I drank wine with my lunch today
because you were gone.
I had cioppino full of clams and mussels
the fishy taste that you despise.
I sat in silence without leaving my chair
and ate every drop
I didn’t have to share
because you were gone.

I heard a song that I used to love
so I cranked it up and danced
a silly dance with no one to watch me
because you were gone,
and I didn’t care if the neighbors heard.
I watched that show that drives you crazy
and I laughed and laughed
at every obnoxious word.

I got a note from a friend
that his lover’s gone for good,
he was crying and upset
and a part of me sort of understood,
and I told him I’d be praying for him
and he knows I really am
because you were gone
so in silence, I really can.

And now I know that when you come home
and do the things you’ve always done,
I may wish to dance
or eat dinner alone
but I don’t really wish you forever gone.
I don’t want to find myself broken like that.
When you are gone,
I thank God you’ll come back.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

Haiku

They fight like bandits
wrestling over trinkets
and who reigns supreme.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

What a Flame it Makes

Where is the gall
that lets you execute your
disdain on me
like a guillotine
a judge’s mallet
looking at me through your ivory glass
telling the world that I am brass
and all the while
You kiss me like your meat
You coddle me with notions

I have no delusions
I know who greets my morning
I know what I behold
in slow motion odium
I see the sagging double you
hiding loosely in folds of fabric
and the hips agreeing with
the stretched out elastic
that strains to cover them
make them fit
perceptions and corduroys alike

No, maman, it is not flaunting
that your refined taste abhors
it is apathy
for you,
for the men -
your constant suspects
accused of staring,
and for myself -
I am finished caring

I had a day in the sun
when your contempt would have been just
I have been the sparkle-lust
This is altogether different
I am older
My passions molder
in a sess of empty eyes
and why try’s

Suspect yourself
discover what you’re hiding
covet someone else’s privacy
invade the rights of number two
you.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

Don't force it

Maybe I could just sleep
While the words wash over me
Internal poetry
The feelings just get swallowed
sucked back down
sponged up
maybe I don’t need a pen
to set it all in order
line it up
put it in its place
for once and finally
I told you I was too tired
too somnolent to speak
exhausted by silence
drained into quiet
Perhaps I don’t need to write it
it is there and obvious
apparent to me
and easier to feel
than to say, to repeat
in words and their limits
Come closer and I’ll whisper it
sing it to you in a minor key
Or stick it like a shiv
under your rib
so you can feel it
deeply
and see what words come to you
Beautiful and poetic
or seeping and weeping
I chuckle seedily
in my unfit sheets
I am sleeping
I don’t need to write it
I only need to sleep
through the sensations
and the lack of
orations
I am a drowsy silent poet
and you are an unworthy audience

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

The Listener

How useless for me to understand.
For all my cries of “understand me”
what good will commiserating do?
I won’t change the way you feel.
You will still seek blankness
albeit knowing that I do too.
I wanted to knell with you
Express that I too, my dear clay one,
conclude us to be the balanced, authentic few
while those who don’t grasp it
are liars, dirty cowards.

You do know.
Have felt this!

But why does it hunt us so heavily –
others shrug it off
resuming their smiling lives –
Is it there, but unrecognized?
Too scared to acknowledge it
in all its renoun
In any form, it comes as
a welcome relief
the ecstatic release
A period to passion.
If only some merciful quietus
would find us and spare us
the difficulty
that captivates us in stasis.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

Adoption

Your moue whispers in my ear
the bald, cold figments
that signify your voice.
You inspire the derelict mouths of
weary, insipid moppets,
Expose the blood of your spirit
like a milky moon
or a yearning organ,
Leave shaking a faint heart.
It is thievery,
a sly trick of the tongue
and my keys have ears for you.
I can hardly hear my own
small heart through your
pounding loth shrine,
and as they coincide I am prone
to listen to either
the louder
the stronger -
when one faints the other burgeons
like a blood red poppy
flapping perilous
waving a wand of contrition
a rueful garden.
I grow my blossom
from your own opiate pod.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

Second Guessing

They should not be laid to my charge
I can’t be trusted with these -
I’ve always lost earrings,
spilled guarded secrets,
and broken small porcelain things.
Anger and selfishness constitute me.
No one ever gave me a test
or ascertained what would suit me the best
Am I my own keeper
All a-buzz with bees
Should I offer nets
and balm for the stings
How did I become a keeper of things
of such precious plum gems?

You mustn’t walk away yet
expecting me to oblige.
I live in a lurch of compunction
where Heaven’s awash with the tide.
Consider the dark purple flower
wretching a savory rush
while I in my phlegmy heart
wish I could sleep
through the gurgle and moan
of primal abdominal push.
Through the crying for peace
I am vying
Thinking as a sole fish.
I am careless, vicarious,
Wanting and wrong.
Your desire requires
the spurning of lassitude
shifting to staid aches -
sincerity,
cherishing -
while I offer reticence
Unworthy of thanks.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

Contusion

Chain ganger, Thor,
take your mallet and pound.
Bring it down.
Crush out a banger.
Bone crusher
Spike right through
Without a warning
Chink. Chunk. Chink.
Hammer and nail
Usher in silence
Fall on the rock
Crack without echo
Heave, ho. Heave, ho.
A dusty crunch
under iron cudgel
Pegging a pin
With a knuckle down whomp.
To bludgeon the grit
you must clobber it.
A rhythm is set
in my bloody veins
ba bump ba bump
throw it hard
ba bump
I don’t want to see it coming.
Another swing,
another inch deeper
the stake is driven.
Blow upon blow
pound hard
move slow
The redundance of labor
a sweaty endeavor
Steady monotonous
plea for my liberty.
Quash an urge
To fade weakly
I prefer obliteration
With no hope of reformation
Just drub a wedge
Into the socket
Knick knock
Knock it.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

Bulk Mail Is Poetry

Is this enough, or isn’t it
your austere mantra
lets go check it out
get-together or concede
I think i can help you out
with an empire kiss
this soap wardrobe
so stinking
annihilates the urn
in sag monotony
disheartened by the therapeutic
I wanna go commando
A lane of creation and collaboration
important for tomorrow
maybe before then
is this possible
bedspread invader
The westerners’ concurrent eruption
they’re traitors and foes
or so I’m guessing
Your prima donna suicide
with a convoy of grill tractor-trailors
so fascinated that I’m afraid to use it.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

The Brush-Off

Horridly it strikes me
Right between the eyes:
You did my dream,
yet still denied me.
I am rejected again
by your apparition.
You came so close
but gave me nothing,
not a pittance.
At a casual call
I might have silently begged.
On your appearing,
engulfing me in heavenly shock,
you know I would have
rolled right over,
Lapped up your gorgeous arrogance
like mothers milk.
I am tortured to see
your unaccompanied ubiety.
I think you must relish
the shameless guilt
of creating a jealous illusion
without even the grace
to involve my worshipful heart.
But this bold promulgation -
a flinty jab -
Made public, but oh so personal
is worse than your maiden offing
more painful and ribald,
And still I would suck up
All you have to give.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

Cycles of Something

See how we fracture time
With our little worries?
Hammer and pick.
We struggle upstream.
We chase the old scent
With coalescent uncertainty.
It is a strenuous loathing,
A dark choking madness.
It comes on in a sneaking ambush of despair.
What creeping flame ignites
The soul to deviate from right?
The spark of Hell
Leaves, breathless and troubled,
A belt-bound heart.
You ring me and I come up short.
I can’t find in me the change
To buy some time;
Cheaper than truth
And decidedly prettier,
But out of my range, nonetheless.
You can’t see that?
The loathsome shudder -
Hell seeping through the cracks
in the floorboards.
I gather my stuffy ears
And, hunkering onward,
Forget I was there
In the Old Country,
Senses invigorated
By laughter and breath.
Breath.
I almost remember
Breathing in and out,
A leisurely indulgence.
I complain through my teeth
That my precious sorrow left me;
And somehow I am rushing
Back again to the darkness
Where I breathe easy
The fresh air of sadness.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

Found Within

I guess I wasn’t ready
For your attitude.
Not smug, but satisfied.
There was a face of hate
in my dream.
So blank and calm
but hating as a mongrel
For two nights
it sat in the dream corner
soundless and still
not frightening
I was not frightened
I knew it was you.
Your harmless contempt
Has become my familiar.
And I don’t run from it
I just turn away.
Back to my dreaming.
I must not satisfy
Your silent desire
to bring me to nightmares.
Go on dreaming
dreaming, dreaming
Don’t look
don’t shudder
don’t fear or submit
to the hate
the placid menacing
of that dream face
gargoyle you.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

Purchased

She flutters helplessly
leafy limbs and
feet of floss
Tell her, tell her
what she missed
what crinkled her papery
thoughts
what crusty pinching
sold her out
Her dreams are more real
than today, than home
yet roughly they cram her
full of truth
But heaven heard the shackles clink
and tramp her swimming bunch
of petal parts
Deeming it all
injustice and falling
she was blown dry
and dusted for soul remnants
and dropped from the highest peak
to start again.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007

The Struggle

Held down by an unseen fist
suffocated and oppressed
I chose to make an effort
a defense, however lame
I dragged myself out,
hair clipped and lip-sticked,
willing joy to come.
When it doesn’t I scream -
my throat so scratched
that swallowing lends to retching.
These screams are real
not silent, not inner.
But they only empower my oppressor.
No, I must quietly conquer.
I must try again.
To my feet and forward -
force a smile, join in.
I gain figurative ground
until a literal boot
connects with my nose,
pain shooting up my brain
to my spirit cell.
So at last, I am still prisoner
to the unseen push.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007