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
Saturday, November 24, 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
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
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
Sunday, August 26, 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
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 15, 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
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
Friday, July 27, 2007
Monday, June 25, 2007
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.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
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
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Two Monkeys
" Two Little Monkeys" by Brueghel the ElderTwo 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
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Big Fish
The Big Fish Eat the Small Fishpen 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
Tuesday, May 29, 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
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
Monday, May 28, 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
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
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
Thursday, May 24, 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
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
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
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
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
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
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Thursday, May 10, 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
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
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
Tuesday, April 24, 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.
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.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
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
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
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Haiku
They fight like bandits
wrestling over trinkets
and who reigns supreme.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007
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
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
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
Thursday, March 29, 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
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
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
Wednesday, March 28, 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
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
Monday, March 26, 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
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
Friday, March 16, 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
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
Wednesday, February 28, 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
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
Monday, February 26, 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
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
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
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
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
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Poetic Punishment
The mind is a trap, you told me,
We can’t escape it.
We will rot here in this dungeon
Our Alcatraz.
We are held to a high standard -
The expectation
of those who want their thoughts
put into words.
Slaves,
Like Hebrews in Egypt.
Find your own straw,
scrape the ground for clay.
I’m getting out of here soon.
If the Sea won’t open up
I’ll have to walk right in
and get my skirts wet.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
We can’t escape it.
We will rot here in this dungeon
Our Alcatraz.
We are held to a high standard -
The expectation
of those who want their thoughts
put into words.
Slaves,
Like Hebrews in Egypt.
Find your own straw,
scrape the ground for clay.
I’m getting out of here soon.
If the Sea won’t open up
I’ll have to walk right in
and get my skirts wet.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Comparisons
All we do is different.
We change.
Our fantasy and ambitions
Off-ramp to Otherwhere.
How to return
Escapes.
Looking cross-eyed and churlish,
We sit still and stubborn.
Quality, quality
I look for it repeatedly
Seeking plump or sturdy,
Genuine.
But I can’t tell
The wax from the marble.
I’m a fool in this gallery.
I’ve turned you over
Until I hate what I see.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
We change.
Our fantasy and ambitions
Off-ramp to Otherwhere.
How to return
Escapes.
Looking cross-eyed and churlish,
We sit still and stubborn.
Quality, quality
I look for it repeatedly
Seeking plump or sturdy,
Genuine.
But I can’t tell
The wax from the marble.
I’m a fool in this gallery.
I’ve turned you over
Until I hate what I see.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
The Ridicule
Jester.
Unkind heckler,
Cruel mimic
Callous buffoon.
Mondays come and go
Winter is creeping in
I’m sickly and slow
Crying, catching my breath
While you spook me.
Hoarse and hairy
Your groggy voice
Is hurtful, hushed
A caustic joke
It is not, not
Funny.
I can’t laugh
Or cry or scream
I am plain as yogurt
Terrible, cold viscous
Unsweetened.
You are between me
Like a squatter.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Unkind heckler,
Cruel mimic
Callous buffoon.
Mondays come and go
Winter is creeping in
I’m sickly and slow
Crying, catching my breath
While you spook me.
Hoarse and hairy
Your groggy voice
Is hurtful, hushed
A caustic joke
It is not, not
Funny.
I can’t laugh
Or cry or scream
I am plain as yogurt
Terrible, cold viscous
Unsweetened.
You are between me
Like a squatter.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Mystery Man
Tarzan, Superman
Squishy-eyed priest of our clan
I’ll never walk a mile in your skin
The vaults I have collected
Are grown-up, closed off
separation
Blank of pain and shame
Your soft white garmented heart
pale dough of skin
hair too thin
knobby knees that I clung to
giant fingers, big as hands
Images of a man disconnected
from affliction, guilt and grief
secrets you must keep
hurts tucked away
I have traced your origin
Wanting to meet you in
wormy bald seclusion
To comprehend
the disgust of whorey kin -
that “dirty slut” you hurled at me
when I was sixteen
was saved up over the years,
withheld from its intended
To observe the dark
fear of being found out
with beer in the fridge
or real filth on your lips
or in your hands
or your secret hideout
along with the bird guts
but salt-aired suburbia
held stunted trees
and powdery, clicking artifacts
nothing real
none of you there
I return repeatedly to a day
spent with three old hags
Wrinkled witch faces
and growling voices
breathing fire over their cards
They told me nothing
I don’t think they ever knew you
and what you knew of them
was slightly askew
their spells were cast before you
their love was taken and given to you -
the last hope; chosen one
Has to be one in every dozen
Beneath the antics
did you watch like a boy
in the dark theater
as your story rewound
and started anew
a new cast of goofs
but the old, tattered script
a noir so surreal, but
cleaned up as a show,
sweeping it under
the same old rug.
Your complacent horror
at passing on this birthright,
Doesn’t compare with
the relieving surprise
of discovering its emptiness.
Your strings are unraveled
You just go along
in your bleak repetitions,
a man I don’t fully know
Who I achingly love
in spite of the mystery
because history can remain,
the known will suffice.
Perhaps you really did
keep us safer, happier
than you ever were
We can thank you
for that, at least.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Squishy-eyed priest of our clan
I’ll never walk a mile in your skin
The vaults I have collected
Are grown-up, closed off
separation
Blank of pain and shame
Your soft white garmented heart
pale dough of skin
hair too thin
knobby knees that I clung to
giant fingers, big as hands
Images of a man disconnected
from affliction, guilt and grief
secrets you must keep
hurts tucked away
I have traced your origin
Wanting to meet you in
wormy bald seclusion
To comprehend
the disgust of whorey kin -
that “dirty slut” you hurled at me
when I was sixteen
was saved up over the years,
withheld from its intended
To observe the dark
fear of being found out
with beer in the fridge
or real filth on your lips
or in your hands
or your secret hideout
along with the bird guts
but salt-aired suburbia
held stunted trees
and powdery, clicking artifacts
nothing real
none of you there
I return repeatedly to a day
spent with three old hags
Wrinkled witch faces
and growling voices
breathing fire over their cards
They told me nothing
I don’t think they ever knew you
and what you knew of them
was slightly askew
their spells were cast before you
their love was taken and given to you -
the last hope; chosen one
Has to be one in every dozen
Beneath the antics
did you watch like a boy
in the dark theater
as your story rewound
and started anew
a new cast of goofs
but the old, tattered script
a noir so surreal, but
cleaned up as a show,
sweeping it under
the same old rug.
Your complacent horror
at passing on this birthright,
Doesn’t compare with
the relieving surprise
of discovering its emptiness.
Your strings are unraveled
You just go along
in your bleak repetitions,
a man I don’t fully know
Who I achingly love
in spite of the mystery
because history can remain,
the known will suffice.
Perhaps you really did
keep us safer, happier
than you ever were
We can thank you
for that, at least.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Monday, October 30, 2006
Relaxing 5/6/06
I watch day in and day out
you hard at work
somber, aching muscles
grim brow
and strained voice
working, providing
dredging up a living
because you love us
too much to enjoy us
This holiday I watched you
all the long, muggy days
hard at play
exhausting strong muscles
careless grin
and hearty laugh
hiking, playing
teaching about living
because you love us
allow yourself to enjoy us.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Quiet 5/5/06
No breeze
sleeping trees
whisper of bugs
chirping frogs and birds
are heard in a separate dimension
their background noise only serves
to enhance the pervasive quiet here.
Over still
serene water
sunshine melts like
butter sliding down the hillsides
and forgotten roads wind soundlessly
past glancing deer and into the hushed distance.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Oak Grove 5/4/06
The fingered leaves are
cheering on a twittering parade.
Covered in thick, crackled skin,
they stand clumped together;
As if each acorn fell from
the same Grandfather Oak,
may he rest in peace.
Straight, black lines -
a platoon of footmen
saluting the sky,
with skinny roots scratching at the hillside.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
I Arise Early 5/3/06
Light emerges on Stoneman Lake.
I sit in quiet,
Waiting for life to occur.
Here comes Raven,
something large grasped in his beak,
Flying low - old show off.
The hummingbirds are
green and purple darts;
sugar-seeking missiles
launching an attack.
A long-legged heron,
siren draped in sleek blue velvet,
woos the water.
Nowhere are seen the lurking
animals whose tracks are sprinkled
on the muddy bank.
Hidden elk and deer
hunt me from tree shadows.
Raccoons fold their tiny hands
under pine needle pillows
and settle down to rest.
I hear a squirrel
laugh at my clumsy peeping -
unskilled, too noisy,
I don’t even know where to look.
But I am here,
on the morning lake -
awake and trying.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Thursday, October 19, 2006
The Crazy Girl
She was a young somber thing
She pressed her ear to the clockworks
Stared at her mother, the goat-girl
She cherished the holiness of marbles
The sad sanctity of a broken crayon
She rolled the street, bottom-down
On a skateboard, slowly
Her hair tickled her chin and her eyes
She trusted mice about everything
Her feet were once mistaken for oysters
In their half-shelled elegance
Delicate curvature and pearled toes
Her heart was devoted to a story
Where a princess fell from a tower
Turned to a white dove and flew
Cooing off to the horizon
She told it, she sang it, she cried
Her mother bleated and shrugged
And pedestrians all looked away
Goodbye, crazy girl, you are young
You are older than me, goodbye.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
She pressed her ear to the clockworks
Stared at her mother, the goat-girl
She cherished the holiness of marbles
The sad sanctity of a broken crayon
She rolled the street, bottom-down
On a skateboard, slowly
Her hair tickled her chin and her eyes
She trusted mice about everything
Her feet were once mistaken for oysters
In their half-shelled elegance
Delicate curvature and pearled toes
Her heart was devoted to a story
Where a princess fell from a tower
Turned to a white dove and flew
Cooing off to the horizon
She told it, she sang it, she cried
Her mother bleated and shrugged
And pedestrians all looked away
Goodbye, crazy girl, you are young
You are older than me, goodbye.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
A Lament for Anne
I am thirty-two
and still wanting to be you.
You aren’t the same you
I desired at twenty
or twelve,
but you. The point is,
not me; not she.
To thine own idols be true.
I crawl to the comfort
of your stylish shoe
and savor its leathery
essence of you.
I run to the mirror
that depicts us as blue
and I never see you.
Give me a hand
from your far-off ferry
that faithfully carried
you there. I swear.
We talked in the pub
and I out-joked your smile,
but you were still you
by a mile.
And what’s a woman to do?
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
and still wanting to be you.
You aren’t the same you
I desired at twenty
or twelve,
but you. The point is,
not me; not she.
To thine own idols be true.
I crawl to the comfort
of your stylish shoe
and savor its leathery
essence of you.
I run to the mirror
that depicts us as blue
and I never see you.
Give me a hand
from your far-off ferry
that faithfully carried
you there. I swear.
We talked in the pub
and I out-joked your smile,
but you were still you
by a mile.
And what’s a woman to do?
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Stranger's Letters
Never through these uniform, white leaves
Can I be known.
Met, perhaps -
A poignant moment shared,
Traumatic bonding of acquaintances -
But there is more than these choice metaphors.
Words spoken, unrecorded;
Smiles and glimpses unnoticed by anyone
But God in His Heaven.
There are things unknown even to me
That would require a grander,
More perfect language to be told.
Aramaic, angelic tongue. God speak
That babies suck their knuckles to
In the wet womb.
And the dying list to hear
On the air, like a Magnificat
In ten kinds of ultra Latin.
Not this babbling Babel’s thesaurus
Of cliché and conundrum.
Not this amateur cryptograph,
Guttural and belching
Childish limericks in Aborigine’s brogue,
Exaggerated angst and dissipating whispers.
Such chronic shifts of telling,
What can they tell?
Tell me,
Do you think you really see?
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Can I be known.
Met, perhaps -
A poignant moment shared,
Traumatic bonding of acquaintances -
But there is more than these choice metaphors.
Words spoken, unrecorded;
Smiles and glimpses unnoticed by anyone
But God in His Heaven.
There are things unknown even to me
That would require a grander,
More perfect language to be told.
Aramaic, angelic tongue. God speak
That babies suck their knuckles to
In the wet womb.
And the dying list to hear
On the air, like a Magnificat
In ten kinds of ultra Latin.
Not this babbling Babel’s thesaurus
Of cliché and conundrum.
Not this amateur cryptograph,
Guttural and belching
Childish limericks in Aborigine’s brogue,
Exaggerated angst and dissipating whispers.
Such chronic shifts of telling,
What can they tell?
Tell me,
Do you think you really see?
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Monday, October 16, 2006
Blood Sisters
We are four ripe cherries
Tart and sweet, dangled
From one tree branch
Full of liquory pus
And pie dreams
Extensions of each other
Mixed and influenced
Like chutney
Like poultice
Wearing and emanating
Our reflections, our selves
We are toothy, freckled,
Stringy DNA traits
Tutored, conditioned,
Nurtured personalities
Complimenting and alluding
To one or an other
Molding incident
Shared memory
We are joined at the intuition
Like Siamese hearts
Sugar-dusted toward familiars
We muddle through
We cling artlessly
To plump life
We are a cycle of learning
We are grown
We are growing
And ready to grow.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Tart and sweet, dangled
From one tree branch
Full of liquory pus
And pie dreams
Extensions of each other
Mixed and influenced
Like chutney
Like poultice
Wearing and emanating
Our reflections, our selves
We are toothy, freckled,
Stringy DNA traits
Tutored, conditioned,
Nurtured personalities
Complimenting and alluding
To one or an other
Molding incident
Shared memory
We are joined at the intuition
Like Siamese hearts
Sugar-dusted toward familiars
We muddle through
We cling artlessly
To plump life
We are a cycle of learning
We are grown
We are growing
And ready to grow.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Night of Renewal
Your safe shoulders return.
What a miracle.
The year’s black spell
Cast off by light.
I fear. I startle,
Ready to back-track,
Wary of morning.
Tonight shines bright
But morning…
Morning could obfuscate joy;
Laugh at my nonage;
Chase off the dream.
No, though, not so.
You are a jaunty jack tar
Capricious and strong.
Nipped, nubile hero,
You take me on.
A turn and a turn
And another, down
The winding path of night.
You lead like a captain.
Yes, yes.
Lead on.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
What a miracle.
The year’s black spell
Cast off by light.
I fear. I startle,
Ready to back-track,
Wary of morning.
Tonight shines bright
But morning…
Morning could obfuscate joy;
Laugh at my nonage;
Chase off the dream.
No, though, not so.
You are a jaunty jack tar
Capricious and strong.
Nipped, nubile hero,
You take me on.
A turn and a turn
And another, down
The winding path of night.
You lead like a captain.
Yes, yes.
Lead on.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Girlfriends
I.
My first was a foolish darling.
Her clumsy laughter
Bellowed in my soul.
She was uncomfortably fat
And never serious.
The sadness fascinated me,
Though I never brought it up.
I was devoted as a dog
To our private jokes,
Our obsessive loves.
II.
One is firm and aloof
To attach to her I must
Become luggage,
I must somehow submit.
There is preciousness
In her broad mouth
And stern eyes that
I love and fear.
She wants to mother me,
But I rebel repeatedly.
III.
One is friendly as a sister
But not too meddling.
She won’t judge me for
My always changing story.
She has narrow finger-tips
And wise eyes like the cat.
Her voice is genuine,
With love or complaining,
But still I hesitate
To always run to her.
IV.
One is true and caring,
Sweet as taffy but sad.
Our tears mingle on some
Star-crossed schedule.
Her small shoulders are mine
And I can give back to her.
I see us as old ladies
Still suckling babies
And praying together
For hopeless causes.
V.
One is a dear, brash hen.
Her voice and her laugh echo
In my heart, in my stomach.
I can’t tell who the child is,
She or I, but I trust
Her simple manner,
Unapologetic and above all
Genuine. Barefoot and strong,
Carving her niche
And showing me how.
VI.
One is fickle and queer,
Fragile as a sea-urchin,
Eerily insightful and nice.
She tells me what I want
But I shy from it.
Too true. Close to the bone.
She is awkwardly beautiful,
A soft-ripe melon.
Her pain and regret permeate
Every flinching word.
VII.
Most recently is one
Whose constant smile disarms.
I expect so little from her
But am surprised by abundance.
I am invited back for more
In spite of myself.
She is thin and pure,
Radiant with God-love.
I fear my own selfishness
Could abuse such clean giving.
VIII.
I cringe to consider
Myself in the light of friendship;
How they see me,
What they must know of me,
The ugly and beautiful,
Raw persona exposed
Like a peeled grape.
I listen, but never call.
I love, but rarely act.
I hope they see the sincere part too.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Then and Now
Back when we fogged
Truck windows
And embraced on
Evening sidewalks
Before the cellulite
And the seven year itch
You made a list
Twenty reasons to wed
Proof of at least
Twenty things to love
About me
Proof you admired me
As I adored you
Meant for each other
Destined by God
Set apart for greatness
Together.
Back when there were
No secrets
And boundless grace
We kissed all night
Without a slice
Of perplexity in your eye
Only trust
Like a ticklish foot
Sole exposed
Laid bare and pink
At your fingertips
On the long road
To New Mexico
We stayed entertained
Snickered at dirty jokes
Smoked ceaselessly
I was a skinny girl
With makeup and fingernails
Who cared only for
Turning your perfect head
And under a moon-lit pier
Your fiancé touch
Tried on husband's shoes
And I, clinging,
More than trusted –
Depended on your love
Love unashamed
To need me
To demur life without me
Somehow, a mystery,
Life together
Robbed that love
Side by side
Sharing every burden
Became a nuisance
The birth of three
Yawning heirlooms
Was disillusioning
Matronly breasts and belly
Betrayed trust
Faulty prayers and
Reeking hormones
Aging destroyed
The idea of matrimony
Nullified your love list
Deserted me on this island.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Truck windows
And embraced on
Evening sidewalks
Before the cellulite
And the seven year itch
You made a list
Twenty reasons to wed
Proof of at least
Twenty things to love
About me
Proof you admired me
As I adored you
Meant for each other
Destined by God
Set apart for greatness
Together.
Back when there were
No secrets
And boundless grace
We kissed all night
Without a slice
Of perplexity in your eye
Only trust
Like a ticklish foot
Sole exposed
Laid bare and pink
At your fingertips
On the long road
To New Mexico
We stayed entertained
Snickered at dirty jokes
Smoked ceaselessly
I was a skinny girl
With makeup and fingernails
Who cared only for
Turning your perfect head
And under a moon-lit pier
Your fiancé touch
Tried on husband's shoes
And I, clinging,
More than trusted –
Depended on your love
Love unashamed
To need me
To demur life without me
Somehow, a mystery,
Life together
Robbed that love
Side by side
Sharing every burden
Became a nuisance
The birth of three
Yawning heirlooms
Was disillusioning
Matronly breasts and belly
Betrayed trust
Faulty prayers and
Reeking hormones
Aging destroyed
The idea of matrimony
Nullified your love list
Deserted me on this island.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Coming Down With Something
The world is staggering
Slowly plodding over grimy concrete
One heavy foot in front of the other
Head down between slouching shoulders
Lazy mouth half open
Eyes stare straight ahead
Lost in thoughtlessness
Like bewildered cows
Decrepitly making a way
Through the parked cars
Balding and weighty
With syncopated pace
Moving forward aimlessly
On cringing hinges
Steps falling heavy in shoes
Ambling zombies in aching bones
Pushing forward with leaden movement
To find the comfort of pillows.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Slowly plodding over grimy concrete
One heavy foot in front of the other
Head down between slouching shoulders
Lazy mouth half open
Eyes stare straight ahead
Lost in thoughtlessness
Like bewildered cows
Decrepitly making a way
Through the parked cars
Balding and weighty
With syncopated pace
Moving forward aimlessly
On cringing hinges
Steps falling heavy in shoes
Ambling zombies in aching bones
Pushing forward with leaden movement
To find the comfort of pillows.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Allow Misery
Let me die
Have mercy
Relieve my poor, worried guts
My aching entrails
That don’t understand
Set free this blood
Pounding on the walls of its cell
My veins are a dreadful prison
Unlock them
And throw away the key.
Until now I thought all my
Captivity was imagined
I found solace in
The idea of insanity
A melodrama I created within
But the lights are on
The ghouls are real
My hell is grown too big
Let me go
Let me die
Have mercy.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Have mercy
Relieve my poor, worried guts
My aching entrails
That don’t understand
Set free this blood
Pounding on the walls of its cell
My veins are a dreadful prison
Unlock them
And throw away the key.
Until now I thought all my
Captivity was imagined
I found solace in
The idea of insanity
A melodrama I created within
But the lights are on
The ghouls are real
My hell is grown too big
Let me go
Let me die
Have mercy.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
The Converse of Love
It vaunted itself,
An elegant balloon on the wind.
Sought after
Loftier properties. Unseemly.
It is not love.
It is advertising.
Marketing us
Through regrettable avenues,
Marching along
The narrow channel.
It occurs to me
How unkind such contrariness
Must appear.
Sans faith. Sans trust.
A debacle of purity.
Eager to a fault. An
Unforgiving impeachment.
Chiming its emptiness
In still, motionless air.
A jealous cat,
Hissing and fitful.
I confess. I confess.
I am nothing.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
An elegant balloon on the wind.
Sought after
Loftier properties. Unseemly.
It is not love.
It is advertising.
Marketing us
Through regrettable avenues,
Marching along
The narrow channel.
It occurs to me
How unkind such contrariness
Must appear.
Sans faith. Sans trust.
A debacle of purity.
Eager to a fault. An
Unforgiving impeachment.
Chiming its emptiness
In still, motionless air.
A jealous cat,
Hissing and fitful.
I confess. I confess.
I am nothing.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Friday, October 06, 2006
Un Communication 3/14/06
Un Communication 3/14/06
Contradiction, contradicting
My standard, your standard
My hypocrisy, your hypocrisy
Injustice – unfairly meted out
Silent argument
Hear what you want and I’ll
Guess what you’re saying
Unbalanced arbitrary
Reject, refuse, resist
Looking past…looking through
Half-hearing half considering
Talk until eyes swell
Silent until brain screams
So long…centuries silent
Like Egyptian mummies in our
Tombs of rage and pride
Wishing for cancer or
Terrorist attack or
something to finish this.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Contradiction, contradicting
My standard, your standard
My hypocrisy, your hypocrisy
Injustice – unfairly meted out
Silent argument
Hear what you want and I’ll
Guess what you’re saying
Unbalanced arbitrary
Reject, refuse, resist
Looking past…looking through
Half-hearing half considering
Talk until eyes swell
Silent until brain screams
So long…centuries silent
Like Egyptian mummies in our
Tombs of rage and pride
Wishing for cancer or
Terrorist attack or
something to finish this.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
To You I Am 4/18/06
Is it the swallowing abyss
of uncaring in your eyes
Which sucks me down and under?
Is it the futility and
uselessness of my existence
Causing me to suffocate in a muddy slough –
Sinking, slowly sinking
Through layers and strata
Of barely accomplishing life.
I can see now that
you never truly cared –
Or even paid attention
to who I was.
For you I was a crusade –
A conquest for your king –
And a victor’s spoils.
And now I am uninteresting
Insufficient is my effort
Inadequate my zeal
for your significance.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
of uncaring in your eyes
Which sucks me down and under?
Is it the futility and
uselessness of my existence
Causing me to suffocate in a muddy slough –
Sinking, slowly sinking
Through layers and strata
Of barely accomplishing life.
I can see now that
you never truly cared –
Or even paid attention
to who I was.
For you I was a crusade –
A conquest for your king –
And a victor’s spoils.
And now I am uninteresting
Insufficient is my effort
Inadequate my zeal
for your significance.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Whose thoughts 4/6/06
Whose thoughts 4/6/06
You never even know
Anything is wrong.
Maybe the kids got on her nerves today,
You think, unconcerned.
I don’t want you to ask.
I’ve lost the desire to tell you.
I want you to read me.
You never will.
You’re not psychic are you?
No. Or even observant
Or interested for that matter.
Why don’t I just get over it?
Shall I climb it with a ladder?
Or use a grappling hook?
This mountain of madness
With snow covered peaks.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
You never even know
Anything is wrong.
Maybe the kids got on her nerves today,
You think, unconcerned.
I don’t want you to ask.
I’ve lost the desire to tell you.
I want you to read me.
You never will.
You’re not psychic are you?
No. Or even observant
Or interested for that matter.
Why don’t I just get over it?
Shall I climb it with a ladder?
Or use a grappling hook?
This mountain of madness
With snow covered peaks.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Revelation
I knew it. I knew
that the stale smell of your touch
was rooted in baseness
My writing reveals
what my head would not admit.
Your groping and chiding
testy game.
Swaddling me in satin
flogging me with bitterness
I knew.
Then was it vengeance
that took me to the edge?
I spat out my vitamins
and took the drug
I passed the time in naughty blindness
and withheld the truest words
that paper ever thanked me for
It was too true,
I knew.
In my fixation I sanctified your profile
you were high priest to my sinning
but what strange fire
went up in place of my prayers.
I want to strike you with lightning
I want to suffer for your transgressions
How can we pardon
what we always knew?
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
that the stale smell of your touch
was rooted in baseness
My writing reveals
what my head would not admit.
Your groping and chiding
testy game.
Swaddling me in satin
flogging me with bitterness
I knew.
Then was it vengeance
that took me to the edge?
I spat out my vitamins
and took the drug
I passed the time in naughty blindness
and withheld the truest words
that paper ever thanked me for
It was too true,
I knew.
In my fixation I sanctified your profile
you were high priest to my sinning
but what strange fire
went up in place of my prayers.
I want to strike you with lightning
I want to suffer for your transgressions
How can we pardon
what we always knew?
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Tormented 10/5/06
Tormented 10/5/06
Come coarsely, my lover,
Tell me your need.
I’m a giver. I favor
your musk.
Take refuge in anger.
Fall sacredly in.
Come challenge my heart
yet again.
What perfume is it
that drips from your hands?
Don’t worry, I never will tell.
I’m a deaf-mute doe,
wide-eyed and leaping,
one gunshot away from
the end.
Come sit with me, lie with me.
Give me your word.
I sold all my quibbles
for love.
I wonder when you have gone
back to your self,
will I then be able
to live?
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Come coarsely, my lover,
Tell me your need.
I’m a giver. I favor
your musk.
Take refuge in anger.
Fall sacredly in.
Come challenge my heart
yet again.
What perfume is it
that drips from your hands?
Don’t worry, I never will tell.
I’m a deaf-mute doe,
wide-eyed and leaping,
one gunshot away from
the end.
Come sit with me, lie with me.
Give me your word.
I sold all my quibbles
for love.
I wonder when you have gone
back to your self,
will I then be able
to live?
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Culture, shock
Culture, shock
Spilling out of the tender trough
that anxiety feeds from,
your fleshed-out fantasy
perforated lives.
A craving was hidden,
mushroomed under musty cover -
the dirty underbelly
of yesterday's smiles,
all that gave hope
to keep up the farce,
to never ask who -
who were you really?
The truth will not do.
An enigma, a lie,
spoon-fed like porridge
to the so-called True
Until leanness of soul
could stomach no more.
Then out of the topsoil,
ducking the cross-fire,
squinting like mice,
they rise, two by three;
by thousands; in droves;
A legion cast out, made free.
Is there bread enough for me?
Preyed on by confusion,
trounced by bitterness -
relief held at bay.
Liberated, but malnourished,
alive and not kicking.
Sowing their tears
until harvest's moon.
Then sheaves will be reaped
and old wounds healed.
Yes, your fate is sealed.
Ugly and lecherous
you will be revealed.
Upbraided for falseness,
an ironic justice,
for twisting those words.
But joy will come
life will come
all will be whole
and nothing you do from your hole
will ever ensnare us again.
Our dying has come to an end.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Spilling out of the tender trough
that anxiety feeds from,
your fleshed-out fantasy
perforated lives.
A craving was hidden,
mushroomed under musty cover -
the dirty underbelly
of yesterday's smiles,
all that gave hope
to keep up the farce,
to never ask who -
who were you really?
The truth will not do.
An enigma, a lie,
spoon-fed like porridge
to the so-called True
Until leanness of soul
could stomach no more.
Then out of the topsoil,
ducking the cross-fire,
squinting like mice,
they rise, two by three;
by thousands; in droves;
A legion cast out, made free.
Is there bread enough for me?
Preyed on by confusion,
trounced by bitterness -
relief held at bay.
Liberated, but malnourished,
alive and not kicking.
Sowing their tears
until harvest's moon.
Then sheaves will be reaped
and old wounds healed.
Yes, your fate is sealed.
Ugly and lecherous
you will be revealed.
Upbraided for falseness,
an ironic justice,
for twisting those words.
But joy will come
life will come
all will be whole
and nothing you do from your hole
will ever ensnare us again.
Our dying has come to an end.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
My Fortress
My Fortress
for Ardara
In my sadness
your song is
a lullaby of love
never sung before
heard only by me
just for this instance
trilling and lilting
like celestial melodies,
an ethereal sonance.
I am pained
and your fingers are
delicate wands,
softing away my heartaches,
smoothing me
with reassuring care,
combing my hair
and tickling my arms
with five years' favor.
Your tenderness relieves me.
Your sweet words console me.
The smell of your hair
and your perfect young skin
renew me like morning mallow.
I prayed to be
compassed about by angels
and you arrived,
flawless as a new peach,
mild and winsome,
pearl of my being,
bearing azure windows to heaven
and silken filament of softest gold.
Your precious coming
answered my supplication.
I am graced anew with every gentle breath
exhaled through your tiny teeth
as you bestow a new smile,
a laugh or a kiss
to your likeness in me.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
for Ardara
In my sadness
your song is
a lullaby of love
never sung before
heard only by me
just for this instance
trilling and lilting
like celestial melodies,
an ethereal sonance.
I am pained
and your fingers are
delicate wands,
softing away my heartaches,
smoothing me
with reassuring care,
combing my hair
and tickling my arms
with five years' favor.
Your tenderness relieves me.
Your sweet words console me.
The smell of your hair
and your perfect young skin
renew me like morning mallow.
I prayed to be
compassed about by angels
and you arrived,
flawless as a new peach,
mild and winsome,
pearl of my being,
bearing azure windows to heaven
and silken filament of softest gold.
Your precious coming
answered my supplication.
I am graced anew with every gentle breath
exhaled through your tiny teeth
as you bestow a new smile,
a laugh or a kiss
to your likeness in me.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
First Light
First Light
Shucking off darkness, Dawn arose.
Molten and oozing, she spread
and spurred to life
whatever her light encompassed.
In glorious morning
her bronze sculpted form
led triumphant birds and breezes
flooding with the river
past oaky markers
and granite milestones,
through crevice and canyon.
Onward like armies
driven by passions they charged
toward a gulf of orange-lit sea.
Daybreak,
victorious decanter
of Heaven's splendor.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Shucking off darkness, Dawn arose.
Molten and oozing, she spread
and spurred to life
whatever her light encompassed.
In glorious morning
her bronze sculpted form
led triumphant birds and breezes
flooding with the river
past oaky markers
and granite milestones,
through crevice and canyon.
Onward like armies
driven by passions they charged
toward a gulf of orange-lit sea.
Daybreak,
victorious decanter
of Heaven's splendor.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Spying Together
Spying Together
I felt ashamed
looking through that portal
caring for what I saw,
though uncommitted as yet.
We were silent
like sarcophagi,
making an inner vow
to leave this untouched,
never to enjoin ourselves
to this shadow game.
You stood breathless
and defied motion.
Your eyes belied
the movement of
your pulsed wrists
which pounded
against your sides,
an indictment
neither of us could deny.
Not another step.
We turned away,
never to forget.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
I felt ashamed
looking through that portal
caring for what I saw,
though uncommitted as yet.
We were silent
like sarcophagi,
making an inner vow
to leave this untouched,
never to enjoin ourselves
to this shadow game.
You stood breathless
and defied motion.
Your eyes belied
the movement of
your pulsed wrists
which pounded
against your sides,
an indictment
neither of us could deny.
Not another step.
We turned away,
never to forget.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Winter Comes Cruelly
Winter Comes Cruelly
What manner of love is this -
That sneaks in loneliness
to be fulfilled alone;
That nods and smiles
hardly hearing;
That lines the ground in
poisoned eggshells all around,
a crunchy mine field
of subtle deadliness.
What manner of love, indeed -
That inspires tug-of-war
manipulations;
That sets me, a ringed board,
in the arrow field;
That hordes its measly cup
of nectar joy
where, smelling, I recall
but never taste.
What manner of love is ours -
if love it may be called
after such a long silence;
for love was meant to nourish,
not deplete, a heart's soil.
It is fermented now,
not juice or wine, but vinegar
and a chilly allusion to a kiss
that you hardly remember.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
What manner of love is this -
That sneaks in loneliness
to be fulfilled alone;
That nods and smiles
hardly hearing;
That lines the ground in
poisoned eggshells all around,
a crunchy mine field
of subtle deadliness.
What manner of love, indeed -
That inspires tug-of-war
manipulations;
That sets me, a ringed board,
in the arrow field;
That hordes its measly cup
of nectar joy
where, smelling, I recall
but never taste.
What manner of love is ours -
if love it may be called
after such a long silence;
for love was meant to nourish,
not deplete, a heart's soil.
It is fermented now,
not juice or wine, but vinegar
and a chilly allusion to a kiss
that you hardly remember.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
The Crafting of a Star
The Crafting of a Star
Now it's time
for your work to begin.
How you know…
only something tells you
that right now,
three o'clock on Thursday,
it is time to start.
What tools you gather
for the work at hand
are few, simple.
You are an artisan,
trusted by strangers;
the fabled smith
who relies on instinct
as much as skill,
producing a brilliant
as seen only in
unearthly realms.
In night-light it glimmers,
luminary and warm -
a vernacular tribute
to timeless Neverland.
It is an undertaking of hope,
an impossible design,
miracle in demiurgic dazzle.
And now underway, I see it.
I know why this time,
beyond punctuality, called
to your pursuit;
lured you to launch
this crafting of gossamer yarn
for subjects of heavenly meadows
and yearning dimensions
to fondle, untinctured
in wakeless ambling.
Why this moment,
chosen of itself,
is the only possible marker
among elusive continuance
for an illusioned diamond to be cut;
for an intangible gleam to be forged;
for fantastic flax to spin
from the bobbin of the instant.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Now it's time
for your work to begin.
How you know…
only something tells you
that right now,
three o'clock on Thursday,
it is time to start.
What tools you gather
for the work at hand
are few, simple.
You are an artisan,
trusted by strangers;
the fabled smith
who relies on instinct
as much as skill,
producing a brilliant
as seen only in
unearthly realms.
In night-light it glimmers,
luminary and warm -
a vernacular tribute
to timeless Neverland.
It is an undertaking of hope,
an impossible design,
miracle in demiurgic dazzle.
And now underway, I see it.
I know why this time,
beyond punctuality, called
to your pursuit;
lured you to launch
this crafting of gossamer yarn
for subjects of heavenly meadows
and yearning dimensions
to fondle, untinctured
in wakeless ambling.
Why this moment,
chosen of itself,
is the only possible marker
among elusive continuance
for an illusioned diamond to be cut;
for an intangible gleam to be forged;
for fantastic flax to spin
from the bobbin of the instant.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
apology
apology
Your "I'm sorry" thuds
with dead weight
to the floor -
Words used so many times
without thought
their meaning has been lost,
similar to
my "I forgive you".
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Your "I'm sorry" thuds
with dead weight
to the floor -
Words used so many times
without thought
their meaning has been lost,
similar to
my "I forgive you".
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Let's
Let's
The feeling crossed my heart,
As thoughts cross minds,
That while there is time -
However short it may be -
We should make room for each other,
Unlock ourselves
And be brazenly honest,
Indulging every drop of love
We have been filled with
Because there have been
Too many "too lates"
And not enough "just in times"
And what else is there?
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
The feeling crossed my heart,
As thoughts cross minds,
That while there is time -
However short it may be -
We should make room for each other,
Unlock ourselves
And be brazenly honest,
Indulging every drop of love
We have been filled with
Because there have been
Too many "too lates"
And not enough "just in times"
And what else is there?
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Tess' sonnet
Tess' sonnet
What profit is there in remembering you
When I pay dearly for each flashing thought?
At such a price my visions must be few
Or build a deficit much overwrought.
The price tag that accompanies reverie
Demands far more than currency or gold,
I pay with pain of heart to think of thee,
Pawning my joy for what I cannot hold.
The tapestry of richly woven dreams
Offers no warmth to my frost-bitten flesh
My bosom's purse is bursting at the seams
Till mooning leaves my soul broken afresh.
Still, gladly to the poorhouse I would flee
If my reflection stirred your mind to me.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
What profit is there in remembering you
When I pay dearly for each flashing thought?
At such a price my visions must be few
Or build a deficit much overwrought.
The price tag that accompanies reverie
Demands far more than currency or gold,
I pay with pain of heart to think of thee,
Pawning my joy for what I cannot hold.
The tapestry of richly woven dreams
Offers no warmth to my frost-bitten flesh
My bosom's purse is bursting at the seams
Till mooning leaves my soul broken afresh.
Still, gladly to the poorhouse I would flee
If my reflection stirred your mind to me.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Crossroads
Crossroads
The land, swathed in green,
stands ready for us,
as we kick up clouds of earth,
our van stumbling through the wash
that hints at a future bridge.
Little fingers of prairie grass
wave at the passing trains.
Pottery pieces rise to the surface
leaping out of their dust beds
to be found and fumbled with.
The storm clouds are constantly
billowing like country skirts
colliding and inflating and
playing tag with the huge,
ruddy farmer's face of the sun.
From under this juniper I see
our stretch of rails -
our side of the mountain -
our neighbor's hill -
our cattle pond -
I am turning and turning around
to see what is ours.
Cheery surveyors' flags
whip pinkly in the wind.
Every foot of space is contentedly
inhabited by velvet-sided cows,
foraging grasshoppers,
the stink bugs, the blister beetles,
the jack rabbits and toads.
All the same natives who buzzed
and cowered here so many years.
Back when pot makers and
arrowed bow-men sent columns of smoke
up, up from this hill.
A hill now characterized by cattle scent,
sparkling with quartz and iron dust.
In quiet early mornings I imagine
it is grazed by mule deer and pronghorn
and patrolled overhead by crow and buzzard,
ready to pick clean the landscape
after coyote and cougar have dined.
We will fit here, we will live here
because man longs for a place
to make his own, and woman longs
to be settled in her Home.
And the land is ready for us.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
The land, swathed in green,
stands ready for us,
as we kick up clouds of earth,
our van stumbling through the wash
that hints at a future bridge.
Little fingers of prairie grass
wave at the passing trains.
Pottery pieces rise to the surface
leaping out of their dust beds
to be found and fumbled with.
The storm clouds are constantly
billowing like country skirts
colliding and inflating and
playing tag with the huge,
ruddy farmer's face of the sun.
From under this juniper I see
our stretch of rails -
our side of the mountain -
our neighbor's hill -
our cattle pond -
I am turning and turning around
to see what is ours.
Cheery surveyors' flags
whip pinkly in the wind.
Every foot of space is contentedly
inhabited by velvet-sided cows,
foraging grasshoppers,
the stink bugs, the blister beetles,
the jack rabbits and toads.
All the same natives who buzzed
and cowered here so many years.
Back when pot makers and
arrowed bow-men sent columns of smoke
up, up from this hill.
A hill now characterized by cattle scent,
sparkling with quartz and iron dust.
In quiet early mornings I imagine
it is grazed by mule deer and pronghorn
and patrolled overhead by crow and buzzard,
ready to pick clean the landscape
after coyote and cougar have dined.
We will fit here, we will live here
because man longs for a place
to make his own, and woman longs
to be settled in her Home.
And the land is ready for us.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Tools
Tools
Put disdain on a shelf
Low and within reach
Where we won't forget
Its threat, its imminence.
Hang up scolding on its hook
Where at the ready
We must ever maneuver past
Trying not to disturb it.
And in this box go
Blame and burden
Clearly labeled for easy access
They are handy to have near.
For now is peace time, so
Everyone smile nice and bright
Or I will have to retrieve
All the utilities I keep
To teach you to revere me.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Put disdain on a shelf
Low and within reach
Where we won't forget
Its threat, its imminence.
Hang up scolding on its hook
Where at the ready
We must ever maneuver past
Trying not to disturb it.
And in this box go
Blame and burden
Clearly labeled for easy access
They are handy to have near.
For now is peace time, so
Everyone smile nice and bright
Or I will have to retrieve
All the utilities I keep
To teach you to revere me.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Contrast
Contrast
A spent butterfly
rested a moment on my knee,
thinking me safe.
Why think that?
Why see yourself smarter
or faster, you waif?
What inadequacy lurks
in my feeble stature
to earn me tiny wings of powder
taunting my tough heart?
I am moved to coveting
conscious yearning for sundry force.
Take this flagrant storm
of quick-witted show.
A micro-burst that flaunts
its power and resplendence.
Terrifying, electric mistress
I'm jealous of your clouds,
your lightning bolt confidence.
I want to be the hurricane
that blows you away
into oblivion, brewing luscious
menace for a weak world.
Not this stooping, hapless pedestal
for banal beauty.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
A spent butterfly
rested a moment on my knee,
thinking me safe.
Why think that?
Why see yourself smarter
or faster, you waif?
What inadequacy lurks
in my feeble stature
to earn me tiny wings of powder
taunting my tough heart?
I am moved to coveting
conscious yearning for sundry force.
Take this flagrant storm
of quick-witted show.
A micro-burst that flaunts
its power and resplendence.
Terrifying, electric mistress
I'm jealous of your clouds,
your lightning bolt confidence.
I want to be the hurricane
that blows you away
into oblivion, brewing luscious
menace for a weak world.
Not this stooping, hapless pedestal
for banal beauty.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Pseudo-Transcendence
Pseudo-Transcendence
When I step into the too hot shower
and feel the steaming water thunder
over my shoulders, flattening
my hair in warm streams,
I wish this was my whole life.
The shining aluminum tile
and holy white curtain
would make up my landscape,
shielding me from the stress and fear
and worried responsibility
that lies outside.
I want the patter pounding on my skull
to drown out family noises
leaving only the sensory rush
of stimulated skin under heated falls.
Let that be everything, all there is.
No Psycho paranoia
or auto-erotic fantasy,
Not even Farrell's contemplation,
that some may attach to this sanctuary.
Just me, cleansed by the torrid sprinkle,
and the puerile scent of soap
eternally melting under the kind deluge.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
When I step into the too hot shower
and feel the steaming water thunder
over my shoulders, flattening
my hair in warm streams,
I wish this was my whole life.
The shining aluminum tile
and holy white curtain
would make up my landscape,
shielding me from the stress and fear
and worried responsibility
that lies outside.
I want the patter pounding on my skull
to drown out family noises
leaving only the sensory rush
of stimulated skin under heated falls.
Let that be everything, all there is.
No Psycho paranoia
or auto-erotic fantasy,
Not even Farrell's contemplation,
that some may attach to this sanctuary.
Just me, cleansed by the torrid sprinkle,
and the puerile scent of soap
eternally melting under the kind deluge.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
This Carousel
This Carousel
Long ago with a furtive grin
someone set the world to spin
and ever after we must all
hold on tightly lest we fall
a merry-go-round of wind and wave
that starts with a cry and ends in a grave
some must suffer and all must die
and each of us asks the proverbial why
are we merely playthings puppets of whim
did we do something to anger him
and when we find answers we hold them up high
trying to ease humanitys sigh
to show them the hand not covered in skin
of a thoughtful creator with a friendly grin.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Long ago with a furtive grin
someone set the world to spin
and ever after we must all
hold on tightly lest we fall
a merry-go-round of wind and wave
that starts with a cry and ends in a grave
some must suffer and all must die
and each of us asks the proverbial why
are we merely playthings puppets of whim
did we do something to anger him
and when we find answers we hold them up high
trying to ease humanitys sigh
to show them the hand not covered in skin
of a thoughtful creator with a friendly grin.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
walking away
walking away
You come to me,
pain in your hand,
see if I
can understand.
I want you to
see me like that -
a body in clothes,
mysterious chat.
Where can this affair go?
In the end, who knows?
Will it be love
or the death of my soul?
You followed me
home from the show,
you waited there
outside the store.
You called me with
nervous amours
and everyone
wondered what for?
Why did you do this?
Why put me through this
sunny illusion,
mirrors and smoke?
Then go ahead,
tell me its done.
I never was
the real one,
Go forward now
following hope
and dont look back
over your shoulder.
Ive made a full circle
since walking away now.
I wound up behind you,
watching you shine.
I dont have to be here
besmeared by your future.
Ive got my own
I could turn to, I know.
Just look back once -
show me you know
how hard it was
letting you go.
Dont say a word -
Ive got your pain
right here now
and it stays.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
You come to me,
pain in your hand,
see if I
can understand.
I want you to
see me like that -
a body in clothes,
mysterious chat.
Where can this affair go?
In the end, who knows?
Will it be love
or the death of my soul?
You followed me
home from the show,
you waited there
outside the store.
You called me with
nervous amours
and everyone
wondered what for?
Why did you do this?
Why put me through this
sunny illusion,
mirrors and smoke?
Then go ahead,
tell me its done.
I never was
the real one,
Go forward now
following hope
and dont look back
over your shoulder.
Ive made a full circle
since walking away now.
I wound up behind you,
watching you shine.
I dont have to be here
besmeared by your future.
Ive got my own
I could turn to, I know.
Just look back once -
show me you know
how hard it was
letting you go.
Dont say a word -
Ive got your pain
right here now
and it stays.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
halfway
halfway
Tremble
Take apart this puzzle
shuffle and start
Torpid
mixing soft and hard
helpless card
Faded
fantasy of stirred senses
feverish dream
Hover
folded under petals
clinging breeze
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Tremble
Take apart this puzzle
shuffle and start
Torpid
mixing soft and hard
helpless card
Faded
fantasy of stirred senses
feverish dream
Hover
folded under petals
clinging breeze
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
opposites attract
opposites attract
His intrepid flopsy
beguiled her grace
were he sheepish
snob might snub
but each clomping
crude step fell
with such bravado
apathetic to her
gaze and strong
with clumsy chap
her lust oozed
for sloppy gait
that called her
poise too prissy
her soft features
too proper fixed
so it was
disgust drew both
like wanton flies
toward dirty delight
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
His intrepid flopsy
beguiled her grace
were he sheepish
snob might snub
but each clomping
crude step fell
with such bravado
apathetic to her
gaze and strong
with clumsy chap
her lust oozed
for sloppy gait
that called her
poise too prissy
her soft features
too proper fixed
so it was
disgust drew both
like wanton flies
toward dirty delight
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Treachery
Treachery
Posy
wrapped in ropes of
tare tendril
delicate plant
a week untended
overtaken
by choking roots
overshadowed
by blanketing leaves
you can't recognize
this, your enemy
evil in its sprawl
stronger for its fight
the unloved weed
upholds you
your unloyal handmaiden
strong but malicious
killing you slowly
as you sweetly embrace
each creeping branch
the spikey pungent stem
and snarling toes
replete with bugs
your secret foe
disguised as you
doppelganger plant
posing as a posy
your friend
your nemesis
left alone will drain you
taken away will collapse you
stand alone
in floral beauty
take solar strength
and flourish.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Posy
wrapped in ropes of
tare tendril
delicate plant
a week untended
overtaken
by choking roots
overshadowed
by blanketing leaves
you can't recognize
this, your enemy
evil in its sprawl
stronger for its fight
the unloved weed
upholds you
your unloyal handmaiden
strong but malicious
killing you slowly
as you sweetly embrace
each creeping branch
the spikey pungent stem
and snarling toes
replete with bugs
your secret foe
disguised as you
doppelganger plant
posing as a posy
your friend
your nemesis
left alone will drain you
taken away will collapse you
stand alone
in floral beauty
take solar strength
and flourish.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
5 of Cups
5 of Cups
Again I am chomping on metal
my vise-jaw clamping it
while you do heartless surgery on my ego.
How disappointing it is for you
to be human
surrounded by humans -
not God, or King, or Robot
infallible and in control -
but human as Adam, as your father,
as me.
How joyless for you
this selective blindness
that narrows your sight to
the empty cup.
How disappointing it is for me
to be woman
vulnerable to man -
not strong, independent or callous
satisfying myself -
but weak as Eve, as Ophelia,
as me.
How wretched I am,
wrestling - bored and bitter,
Grasping at an elusive star
taunted by romance.
Again I bear down,
taste the steel,
devotedly taking each incision.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Again I am chomping on metal
my vise-jaw clamping it
while you do heartless surgery on my ego.
How disappointing it is for you
to be human
surrounded by humans -
not God, or King, or Robot
infallible and in control -
but human as Adam, as your father,
as me.
How joyless for you
this selective blindness
that narrows your sight to
the empty cup.
How disappointing it is for me
to be woman
vulnerable to man -
not strong, independent or callous
satisfying myself -
but weak as Eve, as Ophelia,
as me.
How wretched I am,
wrestling - bored and bitter,
Grasping at an elusive star
taunted by romance.
Again I bear down,
taste the steel,
devotedly taking each incision.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
sonnet
You shaved your beard and part of me awoke
A part that pined over you at the start,
which had been hibernating in my heart,
was now un-caved and lively with one look.
For, though your beard and moustache were well-groomed,
and though you boast the features of a king,
I would not trade your jaw for anything
or shroud your mouth in that dark, hairy room.
I've loved you in your hair mask all these years
and told you how minute the matter seemed
(but ever were you smooth-cheeked when I dreamed).
You roused me when you lifted silver shears,
restoring with the lather and the clips
the vivid touch of your unhindered lips.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
A part that pined over you at the start,
which had been hibernating in my heart,
was now un-caved and lively with one look.
For, though your beard and moustache were well-groomed,
and though you boast the features of a king,
I would not trade your jaw for anything
or shroud your mouth in that dark, hairy room.
I've loved you in your hair mask all these years
and told you how minute the matter seemed
(but ever were you smooth-cheeked when I dreamed).
You roused me when you lifted silver shears,
restoring with the lather and the clips
the vivid touch of your unhindered lips.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Night Picnic
Night Picnic
I laid out a soft blanket
Over blue-green grass, freshly mowed,
Spreading before us a feast fit for folk
In dim evening's half-light.
Our hushed neighborhood
Listened to squeal upon titter,
The growing triumph of our night picnic.
There went a bat! Through the velvet blue air
Swoop-flapping with rubbery puppet wings.
It's not a bat, it's a birdie,
Chirped a skeptic observer
While the resident linguist screeched
And squeaked a welcome and
We all waited expectantly for the
Return of that near-mythic aviator,
Until the conversation turned to
Fireflies. They don't live here,
so far west. But I saw them in
dreams last night. As a child
we caught them of a Missouri evening,
barefoot and chiming excitedly, just like this.
How well I remember. Will they?
I squelch the impulse to hush,
To settle, thinking how few the moments
And passing like breeze.
And so proceeds a frenzied chase
Dog, tot, princess and grizzly bear,
Until stars evoke quiet
And we are all still together
Then I don my mortarboard and robe,
Point to the sky and reveal
The wonder of constellation.
These same stars, as long as we live
Is all the sky will hold. Charted, mapped
And designated by older wizards and magi.
They will outlive us. You will show
Your own entourage one day.
It is warm in this instant of meshing.
I want to lengthen it, but it's time is
as predetermined as those stars
and now is ended. Fold up the blanket
and tuck into bed my own twinkling gems.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
I laid out a soft blanket
Over blue-green grass, freshly mowed,
Spreading before us a feast fit for folk
In dim evening's half-light.
Our hushed neighborhood
Listened to squeal upon titter,
The growing triumph of our night picnic.
There went a bat! Through the velvet blue air
Swoop-flapping with rubbery puppet wings.
It's not a bat, it's a birdie,
Chirped a skeptic observer
While the resident linguist screeched
And squeaked a welcome and
We all waited expectantly for the
Return of that near-mythic aviator,
Until the conversation turned to
Fireflies. They don't live here,
so far west. But I saw them in
dreams last night. As a child
we caught them of a Missouri evening,
barefoot and chiming excitedly, just like this.
How well I remember. Will they?
I squelch the impulse to hush,
To settle, thinking how few the moments
And passing like breeze.
And so proceeds a frenzied chase
Dog, tot, princess and grizzly bear,
Until stars evoke quiet
And we are all still together
Then I don my mortarboard and robe,
Point to the sky and reveal
The wonder of constellation.
These same stars, as long as we live
Is all the sky will hold. Charted, mapped
And designated by older wizards and magi.
They will outlive us. You will show
Your own entourage one day.
It is warm in this instant of meshing.
I want to lengthen it, but it's time is
as predetermined as those stars
and now is ended. Fold up the blanket
and tuck into bed my own twinkling gems.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Mother Mimi 3/8/06
Mother Mimi 3/8/06
Mother Mimi
Can you hear
Baby's screaming
In your ear?
All the children
Run amok
And on your teats
The wee ones suck.
Mother Mimi,
Fetch the switch.
You've become
A raging bitch
All the children
Cower now
Can't compete
With such a row.
Mother Mimi
Hides alone
Someone's knocking
We're not home.
Finally she
Prays for grace.
Peace returns
To frantic face.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Mother Mimi
Can you hear
Baby's screaming
In your ear?
All the children
Run amok
And on your teats
The wee ones suck.
Mother Mimi,
Fetch the switch.
You've become
A raging bitch
All the children
Cower now
Can't compete
With such a row.
Mother Mimi
Hides alone
Someone's knocking
We're not home.
Finally she
Prays for grace.
Peace returns
To frantic face.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Musing 5/12/05
Musing 5/12/05
There is no philosophy
Afforded mothers.
Responsibility requires
Practicality, not pondering.
Days of fascinated learning,
Eloquent expression, and
Mature conversation
Float in peripheral memories
Farther away.
When was the last moment of
Placid
Pensive
Poetic?
Precious character of personal ideas
Slipped softly through busy fingers.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
There is no philosophy
Afforded mothers.
Responsibility requires
Practicality, not pondering.
Days of fascinated learning,
Eloquent expression, and
Mature conversation
Float in peripheral memories
Farther away.
When was the last moment of
Placid
Pensive
Poetic?
Precious character of personal ideas
Slipped softly through busy fingers.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Window Cleaner
Window Cleaner
A man like you
Has reasons for your ways.
Your vacant presence
Is reaped through daily buffeting.
You stand tall
Performing your careful craft -
Perfect strokes,
Water paints glass,
Each pane another masterpiece
With seldom an audience
But plenty of critics.
To them you are
Blue collar, dusty shoes
Unschooled and not worth your wages.
Once in a while, on a good day,
You bother to strike a conversation,
Startle their pug ears
With gentle intelligence.
Their interest roused,
They watch you
Systematic, meticulous
Opening a vortex of light
To their cleverly disguised filth.
Not a wrecking ball, tearing open
The side of their cave
But an archaeologist,
Scrupulously removing obstructions.
Yes, you are better than them.
When we met,
Your life was a simple integer.
One narrow shelf held your
Mementos, arranged just so.
The next shelf held your entire wardrobe
Folded with exactness.
Your fading, favorite polo shirts
And clean white tees.
White sheets smoothly fitted
To a single bed sat
Directly under straight linen curtains.
Your tidy desk drawer held
A file folder of five monthly invoices
- Your sole trappings -
Paid in cash on their due date.
You changed the oil of your spotless blue truck
Before every road trip.
You trimmed your nails
And soaped your ears daily
And shaved with ritual piety.
Clean, exactist.
You were the foreman over slobs
Who resented you
For your neat precision,
Jeered your ethic,
And envied your steadily rising earnings.
But you went home satisfied,
Appreciated by your employer.
Now you enter the house
Tired and distracted.
Eyes take in nothing,
Blank like old light bulbs.
Not grumpy, but absent.
You simply forget to stop sulking.
It doesn't occur to you
There are details to notice,
The small mercies of home.
The noise bothers you.
You are irritated by aberrations.
Your daughter may invoke momentary delight
But is quickly brushed aside.
This is no longer your domain.
You never find it just as you left it.
Although you opened your arms
To each beloved intruder,
Now you are lost, disoriented
By asymmetry and irregularities.
The artist's vision
In your belly keeps you
Plugging away on what I
Only count incidental,
Wasted calendar pages.
I see you missing, overlooking
So much fleeting fortune.
A nest egg of moments,
Falling out of pockets with holes.
I want to slap you out of
Hysterical somnambulism.
I want to plead,
We are not as perfect as you,
But we are your perfect fit
We are the ones who recognize your genius,
Who applaud your cunning,
Who cherish your determined deftness.
Share it with us, forgive us our trespasses.
Father us in the same adroit pride
With which you have always lived.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
A man like you
Has reasons for your ways.
Your vacant presence
Is reaped through daily buffeting.
You stand tall
Performing your careful craft -
Perfect strokes,
Water paints glass,
Each pane another masterpiece
With seldom an audience
But plenty of critics.
To them you are
Blue collar, dusty shoes
Unschooled and not worth your wages.
Once in a while, on a good day,
You bother to strike a conversation,
Startle their pug ears
With gentle intelligence.
Their interest roused,
They watch you
Systematic, meticulous
Opening a vortex of light
To their cleverly disguised filth.
Not a wrecking ball, tearing open
The side of their cave
But an archaeologist,
Scrupulously removing obstructions.
Yes, you are better than them.
When we met,
Your life was a simple integer.
One narrow shelf held your
Mementos, arranged just so.
The next shelf held your entire wardrobe
Folded with exactness.
Your fading, favorite polo shirts
And clean white tees.
White sheets smoothly fitted
To a single bed sat
Directly under straight linen curtains.
Your tidy desk drawer held
A file folder of five monthly invoices
- Your sole trappings -
Paid in cash on their due date.
You changed the oil of your spotless blue truck
Before every road trip.
You trimmed your nails
And soaped your ears daily
And shaved with ritual piety.
Clean, exactist.
You were the foreman over slobs
Who resented you
For your neat precision,
Jeered your ethic,
And envied your steadily rising earnings.
But you went home satisfied,
Appreciated by your employer.
Now you enter the house
Tired and distracted.
Eyes take in nothing,
Blank like old light bulbs.
Not grumpy, but absent.
You simply forget to stop sulking.
It doesn't occur to you
There are details to notice,
The small mercies of home.
The noise bothers you.
You are irritated by aberrations.
Your daughter may invoke momentary delight
But is quickly brushed aside.
This is no longer your domain.
You never find it just as you left it.
Although you opened your arms
To each beloved intruder,
Now you are lost, disoriented
By asymmetry and irregularities.
The artist's vision
In your belly keeps you
Plugging away on what I
Only count incidental,
Wasted calendar pages.
I see you missing, overlooking
So much fleeting fortune.
A nest egg of moments,
Falling out of pockets with holes.
I want to slap you out of
Hysterical somnambulism.
I want to plead,
We are not as perfect as you,
But we are your perfect fit
We are the ones who recognize your genius,
Who applaud your cunning,
Who cherish your determined deftness.
Share it with us, forgive us our trespasses.
Father us in the same adroit pride
With which you have always lived.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
curriculum
curriculum
I can only teach you what I know
Things never listed
But collected unwittingly over a lifetime
The basics of survival
The joys of creation, music, imagination
Words and images and their power
The dangers to avoid
This hurts, that scares
The reward of doing something unenjoyable
What you must do
We call it work, because it isn't fun
But there is the reward
Gratification
Life
Sustenance
Sometimes treasure
The why and how of some of it
- Some of it I just don't know
Maybe how to find the answers
To love
To receive love
But not protect your heart
I can't tell you where or when
Your first heartache lurks
But I will hold you while you cry
Tell you "I know, I know
It hurts like death"
Then make sure you go back and love again
Because the hurting only makes the bliss of love
Stronger, more beautiful.
Introduce you to people
Hope you show yourself friendly
But never push you to begrudged graciousness.
Take you before God
Pray you put your hand in His
But not for me.
No third party has any place there.
Go before you
Build bridges for you to cross
Un-peril the chasms
That's what I'm entrusted with
But I have so much to learn, and
I can only teach you what I know.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
I can only teach you what I know
Things never listed
But collected unwittingly over a lifetime
The basics of survival
The joys of creation, music, imagination
Words and images and their power
The dangers to avoid
This hurts, that scares
The reward of doing something unenjoyable
What you must do
We call it work, because it isn't fun
But there is the reward
Gratification
Life
Sustenance
Sometimes treasure
The why and how of some of it
- Some of it I just don't know
Maybe how to find the answers
To love
To receive love
But not protect your heart
I can't tell you where or when
Your first heartache lurks
But I will hold you while you cry
Tell you "I know, I know
It hurts like death"
Then make sure you go back and love again
Because the hurting only makes the bliss of love
Stronger, more beautiful.
Introduce you to people
Hope you show yourself friendly
But never push you to begrudged graciousness.
Take you before God
Pray you put your hand in His
But not for me.
No third party has any place there.
Go before you
Build bridges for you to cross
Un-peril the chasms
That's what I'm entrusted with
But I have so much to learn, and
I can only teach you what I know.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Baby's Kiss
Baby's Kiss
You put everything into it.
Steadily leaning in, slightly
Stretching, with short arms
Wound snugly around my trunk of neck.
Your eyes are open, watchful.
Your earnest mimicry
Surpasses any monkey.
Perfect pink pucker
Soft and tiny, but
Firm as an early raspberry.
Your lips bunched up
Purposefully, carefully
Placed directly over mother's mush.
The tiny pip of your purse
Pronouncing the proper 'p'
Like a punctuated hug.
Ah! It clutches the crux of me
And holds it for a second
With all the infinite love of God
Before toddling away, leaving me
Astounded by sublimity.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
You put everything into it.
Steadily leaning in, slightly
Stretching, with short arms
Wound snugly around my trunk of neck.
Your eyes are open, watchful.
Your earnest mimicry
Surpasses any monkey.
Perfect pink pucker
Soft and tiny, but
Firm as an early raspberry.
Your lips bunched up
Purposefully, carefully
Placed directly over mother's mush.
The tiny pip of your purse
Pronouncing the proper 'p'
Like a punctuated hug.
Ah! It clutches the crux of me
And holds it for a second
With all the infinite love of God
Before toddling away, leaving me
Astounded by sublimity.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
the spinster's romance
the spinster's romance
I spend uncharted moments
Contemplating intangible you
Divining where you are
Right this second
Wondering if you are talking
Or eating
Or sighing
I imagine you are thinking of me
Perhaps even with longing
I have determined
In consultation with myself
That you must - by mere compulsion -
Enshrine me in your heart
Among your other idols and icons
Chosen so carefully
And never ever dispossessed
I have practiced telepathy
- Breathe in power
Breathe out a message to you -
I used to be quite talented
Ripples of thought departed me
And every time you would call
But now I am an unsure pigeon
No evidence of your amours
No return on my invested seconds
In my musing
I see you generations younger
Mischievous and lithe
Adonis of my fledgling swoon
I see myself silly as a junebug
Laughing and charming
Vowing to continue vernal for you
But what wrinkles and fades to gray
Does not touch the pure, green
Fidelity of my patient expectation.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
I spend uncharted moments
Contemplating intangible you
Divining where you are
Right this second
Wondering if you are talking
Or eating
Or sighing
I imagine you are thinking of me
Perhaps even with longing
I have determined
In consultation with myself
That you must - by mere compulsion -
Enshrine me in your heart
Among your other idols and icons
Chosen so carefully
And never ever dispossessed
I have practiced telepathy
- Breathe in power
Breathe out a message to you -
I used to be quite talented
Ripples of thought departed me
And every time you would call
But now I am an unsure pigeon
No evidence of your amours
No return on my invested seconds
In my musing
I see you generations younger
Mischievous and lithe
Adonis of my fledgling swoon
I see myself silly as a junebug
Laughing and charming
Vowing to continue vernal for you
But what wrinkles and fades to gray
Does not touch the pure, green
Fidelity of my patient expectation.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
In Our 11th Month
In Our 11th Month
It had been a surreal year.
We were these innocuous invaders
Refusing to be tourists,
We made the Israeli streets our own.
In the past months
We had watched, stricken with grief and heartache,
Every news report divulging details
Of suicide bombs,
Wilderness ambushes
Exploding malls and cafes.
We watched religious workers
Sift through wreckage to find
Bits of bone and flesh to bury
On white-stoned hillsides.
We watched babushkas huddle together sobbing,
And despairing shopkeepers bow, bewildered.
We peered through barred windows
At suspicious luggage in the streets.
We boarded busses,
Brushing past teenaged protectors
With adult Kalashnikovs.
We obeyed them like school children -
When they told us to disembark
We hurried away, allowing them to face the danger,
Those unafraid sons and daughters of Zion.
We wrote home weekly
Of near misses, of wounded acquaintances.
The terror was commonplace there,
Like traffic or weather.
The horror gradually subsided
Only to return with the next gruesome report
Children Bludgeoned to Death In Ravine;
Family Held Hostage In Their Home, Then Slaughtered;
A madman on a street corner, gunning down
Jews and Arabs and tourists alike
Until taken out by a soldier -
An eighteen year old boy -
Made out a hero, but
What choice did he have?
And the next day
You wake up and go back to work.
You get on another bus identical to the one
That is now cinders and bloodstains.
You just keep going.
So it was in that
Mindset of helpless invincibility
That we had our first child.
Your mother came to visit.
We played tour guides through all the old countryside.
After months of frustration and fear,
And holding our breath,
We put on big smiles and it all
Became new again.
A new little creature to care for
And your dear mother to share it all with,
Packing it into weeks instead of months.
At three days our baby was strolling marketplaces,
Visiting the Galilee,
Praying at Yad Vashem.
We were fearless of Arab taxi drivers.
We laughed and joked through the dirty shuq.
We forgot precautionary wisdom.
Traveling an outer highway
After dark, we saw a roadside attraction.
Wilderness Tabernacle Replica,
A must see for your mother.
We knew it was closed,
Just wanted to stop and read the sign.
We wound out the little dirt road,
Pulled around the car park slowly
To shine the headlights directly on the sign.
All of us peered together
Till one of us, was it your mother?
Dropped our glance a few feet down.
Startled eyeballs glowed from the dust.
A confused moment we pondered
What this meant.
The face
Stared up at us, dirty, scared.
Why is anyone lying on the ground
Outside the city, on the edge of the desert
At night?
Then he stood, advanced.
We saw bulging, zippered jacket,
Dark skin and hair,
Nervous, purposeful gait.
Dread seized our ribcages
No time to put into words what we knew.
Just GO! Just drive! Turn around and flee!
And we threw gravel up the little road to the highway.
Stopped at a gas station, conjecturing
Where he must have crossed the border
And where he must be headed. That dark menace
in the secluded night.
A crowd of soldiers
Stood there smoking and talking.
Alerted, they headed off together with
The strength of their rifles, their
Youth, their duty to protect their
Tiny homeland from villains,
Desperately slithering through
miles of dirt to destroy them.
And we took our baby
Back to our flat,
Reminded again
That hatred has still not been annihilated.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
It had been a surreal year.
We were these innocuous invaders
Refusing to be tourists,
We made the Israeli streets our own.
In the past months
We had watched, stricken with grief and heartache,
Every news report divulging details
Of suicide bombs,
Wilderness ambushes
Exploding malls and cafes.
We watched religious workers
Sift through wreckage to find
Bits of bone and flesh to bury
On white-stoned hillsides.
We watched babushkas huddle together sobbing,
And despairing shopkeepers bow, bewildered.
We peered through barred windows
At suspicious luggage in the streets.
We boarded busses,
Brushing past teenaged protectors
With adult Kalashnikovs.
We obeyed them like school children -
When they told us to disembark
We hurried away, allowing them to face the danger,
Those unafraid sons and daughters of Zion.
We wrote home weekly
Of near misses, of wounded acquaintances.
The terror was commonplace there,
Like traffic or weather.
The horror gradually subsided
Only to return with the next gruesome report
Children Bludgeoned to Death In Ravine;
Family Held Hostage In Their Home, Then Slaughtered;
A madman on a street corner, gunning down
Jews and Arabs and tourists alike
Until taken out by a soldier -
An eighteen year old boy -
Made out a hero, but
What choice did he have?
And the next day
You wake up and go back to work.
You get on another bus identical to the one
That is now cinders and bloodstains.
You just keep going.
So it was in that
Mindset of helpless invincibility
That we had our first child.
Your mother came to visit.
We played tour guides through all the old countryside.
After months of frustration and fear,
And holding our breath,
We put on big smiles and it all
Became new again.
A new little creature to care for
And your dear mother to share it all with,
Packing it into weeks instead of months.
At three days our baby was strolling marketplaces,
Visiting the Galilee,
Praying at Yad Vashem.
We were fearless of Arab taxi drivers.
We laughed and joked through the dirty shuq.
We forgot precautionary wisdom.
Traveling an outer highway
After dark, we saw a roadside attraction.
Wilderness Tabernacle Replica,
A must see for your mother.
We knew it was closed,
Just wanted to stop and read the sign.
We wound out the little dirt road,
Pulled around the car park slowly
To shine the headlights directly on the sign.
All of us peered together
Till one of us, was it your mother?
Dropped our glance a few feet down.
Startled eyeballs glowed from the dust.
A confused moment we pondered
What this meant.
The face
Stared up at us, dirty, scared.
Why is anyone lying on the ground
Outside the city, on the edge of the desert
At night?
Then he stood, advanced.
We saw bulging, zippered jacket,
Dark skin and hair,
Nervous, purposeful gait.
Dread seized our ribcages
No time to put into words what we knew.
Just GO! Just drive! Turn around and flee!
And we threw gravel up the little road to the highway.
Stopped at a gas station, conjecturing
Where he must have crossed the border
And where he must be headed. That dark menace
in the secluded night.
A crowd of soldiers
Stood there smoking and talking.
Alerted, they headed off together with
The strength of their rifles, their
Youth, their duty to protect their
Tiny homeland from villains,
Desperately slithering through
miles of dirt to destroy them.
And we took our baby
Back to our flat,
Reminded again
That hatred has still not been annihilated.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
In Dreams I Can
In Dreams I Can
I passed an entire night
Scratching
Scratching it out
A hen in the yard
I scratched, I scribbled
On floating books
Wall-sized canvases
Blank white expanses
Filled with my sagacious scrawl
My Pollack poem
This will explain everything, I said
The supreme expression of
Passion and fervor
Black and white gouges
Of despondence, of elation
All of it.
Perfect random chaos
To finally expose the soul
An entire night
My dream-self worked
A thrall of conception
Till morning roused me
I had to work fast
With every imagined scribble
Fresh in my head
Frantic with inspiration
I lifted my pen
But the light of day
Revealed nothing more than
A tangled web of lines
Knots of ink
Insanity's Garden of Verses
Damaging my page.
(c) Tasha Chinnock
I passed an entire night
Scratching
Scratching it out
A hen in the yard
I scratched, I scribbled
On floating books
Wall-sized canvases
Blank white expanses
Filled with my sagacious scrawl
My Pollack poem
This will explain everything, I said
The supreme expression of
Passion and fervor
Black and white gouges
Of despondence, of elation
All of it.
Perfect random chaos
To finally expose the soul
An entire night
My dream-self worked
A thrall of conception
Till morning roused me
I had to work fast
With every imagined scribble
Fresh in my head
Frantic with inspiration
I lifted my pen
But the light of day
Revealed nothing more than
A tangled web of lines
Knots of ink
Insanity's Garden of Verses
Damaging my page.
(c) Tasha Chinnock
10 Minutes of Coping
10 Minutes of Coping
She couldn't make
The leap
It just wasn't in her.
And pulsing pain
Is more than she could bear.
Naughty rendezvous
Would make her stomach turn.
She's dreamt of bolting
- a scared deer
but duty captivates her
- those tell-tale headlights.
So she is escaping
(withdrawing within)
Living out a jaunt
Sophisticated, casual
In her chaise lounge.
A visitor of the South Seas
She bustles through bitter cold New York
Fondly remembers her dear Italian countryside
And an empty runway in Africa.
If I was the other me
What would I say?
What cig would I drag?
What color hair would I toss
From my shoulder?
Ten minutes of coping.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
She couldn't make
The leap
It just wasn't in her.
And pulsing pain
Is more than she could bear.
Naughty rendezvous
Would make her stomach turn.
She's dreamt of bolting
- a scared deer
but duty captivates her
- those tell-tale headlights.
So she is escaping
(withdrawing within)
Living out a jaunt
Sophisticated, casual
In her chaise lounge.
A visitor of the South Seas
She bustles through bitter cold New York
Fondly remembers her dear Italian countryside
And an empty runway in Africa.
If I was the other me
What would I say?
What cig would I drag?
What color hair would I toss
From my shoulder?
Ten minutes of coping.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
History
History
A black and white photo
Taken decades before I was born
Your face trying to smile
That is me
That is my thrashing
Uncertain look on our face
Thoughts lost on phantom wishes
Who saw your feckless id?
Who knew how you skirmished?
You were painted in nimbus
By so many demotic poltroons
No one measured your ulage
And God, that baleful despot,
Gave you no clemency
But allowed you to rout entropy
Soused with vapor
And disappear out of three lives
And enter into thousands.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
A black and white photo
Taken decades before I was born
Your face trying to smile
That is me
That is my thrashing
Uncertain look on our face
Thoughts lost on phantom wishes
Who saw your feckless id?
Who knew how you skirmished?
You were painted in nimbus
By so many demotic poltroons
No one measured your ulage
And God, that baleful despot,
Gave you no clemency
But allowed you to rout entropy
Soused with vapor
And disappear out of three lives
And enter into thousands.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Kind Diane
Kind Diane
Your call was a glint
My paradigm shift
And then red poppies
Sprouting up
And a hug
Of tenderness that meant
Something
It started with your call
And ended with a smile.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Your call was a glint
My paradigm shift
And then red poppies
Sprouting up
And a hug
Of tenderness that meant
Something
It started with your call
And ended with a smile.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
handsome illusion
handsome illusion
I loved your face
It was all smiles
Your straight nose
Straight as a bone
Perfect centerpiece
For laughing eyes
Full of wisdom and life
Your teeth were uneven
But brilliant
And always there
My old enameled friends
Dressed in juicy, plump fruit
Plums that spoke and laughed
Segments of blood orange
That kissed and whistled
Riding on an oval chin
Which never quivered
Seldom frowned
Your heart was in your face
So accessible I thought it was mine.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
I loved your face
It was all smiles
Your straight nose
Straight as a bone
Perfect centerpiece
For laughing eyes
Full of wisdom and life
Your teeth were uneven
But brilliant
And always there
My old enameled friends
Dressed in juicy, plump fruit
Plums that spoke and laughed
Segments of blood orange
That kissed and whistled
Riding on an oval chin
Which never quivered
Seldom frowned
Your heart was in your face
So accessible I thought it was mine.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Unwanted Visitor
Unwanted Visitor
I peeked in
Under a thick brown rock
Selected arbitrarily in the garden
One hurried millipede blinked
I was unexpected
Legs busied themselves to and fro
No need to straighten up
Are you putting the kettle on?
I have intruded on him
I hate to impose sir
Really you look fine
Shiny and segmented
A perfect coil of limbs
Don't bother yourself
I'm going now
If only my own rock was so easily replaced.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
I peeked in
Under a thick brown rock
Selected arbitrarily in the garden
One hurried millipede blinked
I was unexpected
Legs busied themselves to and fro
No need to straighten up
Are you putting the kettle on?
I have intruded on him
I hate to impose sir
Really you look fine
Shiny and segmented
A perfect coil of limbs
Don't bother yourself
I'm going now
If only my own rock was so easily replaced.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
foot in mouth
foot in mouth
Jake rushed in swinging
Ready for a fight
And though Jake was smaller
Jerome was surprised
He had little chance
To brace for the blows
Jaw knuckled up
Responses were slow
A look of dumb defense
Arrived in his eye
Jake fisted like hail
Bestowed his rage high
His arms stretched up heavenward
Longer than fear
Jerome lashed out blind
A strike caught an ear
He toppled like blocks
But Jake wasn't done yet
Declined the spare moment
Would not catch his breath
But, as the bloke fell
He lunged to the street
And tackled those ribs
He could not retreat
Till pride's debt was paid
No word of reproach
Was offered from we
Who hovered in close
When Jake did slow down
And sauntered away
Jerome's shame of face
Kept him where he lay
But when the crowd scattered
And returned to their ale
He wandered off humbled
The end of the tale.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Jake rushed in swinging
Ready for a fight
And though Jake was smaller
Jerome was surprised
He had little chance
To brace for the blows
Jaw knuckled up
Responses were slow
A look of dumb defense
Arrived in his eye
Jake fisted like hail
Bestowed his rage high
His arms stretched up heavenward
Longer than fear
Jerome lashed out blind
A strike caught an ear
He toppled like blocks
But Jake wasn't done yet
Declined the spare moment
Would not catch his breath
But, as the bloke fell
He lunged to the street
And tackled those ribs
He could not retreat
Till pride's debt was paid
No word of reproach
Was offered from we
Who hovered in close
When Jake did slow down
And sauntered away
Jerome's shame of face
Kept him where he lay
But when the crowd scattered
And returned to their ale
He wandered off humbled
The end of the tale.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Intrusion
Intrusion
God! It's like winter!
This chill, this unraveling
I recoil, ashamed as a sowbug
From all the questioning faces
How did you get in my little book?
A wind blew so deafening it shook my roots
Reverberated in my guts
What a swollen bladder of ego
To exhume my heart
To disturb the mortal ruins of my happiness
Rows of unglib mouths
Dressed in sour waistcoats
Prohibit me, I am constipated here
And I never did violence
I only chased the eels into shadows
Yesterday I could name it
I could say it right out loud
I haven't forgotten
My tongue is frozen
And wouldn't you like to know.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
God! It's like winter!
This chill, this unraveling
I recoil, ashamed as a sowbug
From all the questioning faces
How did you get in my little book?
A wind blew so deafening it shook my roots
Reverberated in my guts
What a swollen bladder of ego
To exhume my heart
To disturb the mortal ruins of my happiness
Rows of unglib mouths
Dressed in sour waistcoats
Prohibit me, I am constipated here
And I never did violence
I only chased the eels into shadows
Yesterday I could name it
I could say it right out loud
I haven't forgotten
My tongue is frozen
And wouldn't you like to know.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Developed
Developed
Here's the set of twenty four
Memories neatly packaged
Here is what we take away
The part we'll always cherish
We can tell the kids this tale
We can show them evidence
They will have glossy legends
Of the time they don't recall
That full-color paradise
Scenicly captured table
Wonderful silent frolicks
Here is the proof of our smiles
Truth is here, documented
And you were there, yes you were
Was I there too, I'm not sure
There is no photo of me.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Here's the set of twenty four
Memories neatly packaged
Here is what we take away
The part we'll always cherish
We can tell the kids this tale
We can show them evidence
They will have glossy legends
Of the time they don't recall
That full-color paradise
Scenicly captured table
Wonderful silent frolicks
Here is the proof of our smiles
Truth is here, documented
And you were there, yes you were
Was I there too, I'm not sure
There is no photo of me.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Isaiah 42:3 [ACROSTIC Part 1]
Read Part 2
"A bruised reed he will not break and a dimly burning wick he will not quench"
Isaiah 42:3
Assuredly
Beloved one,
Reed
Unguarded,
I shall ever
Save thee from
Evil that seeks thy
Destruction;
Redeem thee,
Even though
Enmity runs
Deep;
History hath shown
Even my enemies
Worn and ashamed
I have upheld,
Loved,
Liberated.
Never failing
Only healing
Till bruises fade.
Battered and worn;
Ready to perish;
Eating the bread of
Affliction;
Kneeling;
Again I say
Never shalt thou
Doubt.
Anointed,
Depend on me
I will be
More than bright
Light of day
Your flame
Behemoth
Under the sea
Recoils from me
Not even that beast
Is able to quench
Nor stifle the torch
Glowing in Me.
Wind and waves
In all their power
Can not defy their
King.
Heaven and
Earth are mine.
Wonderous things
I will show thee
Life abundant
Love and joy.
Not to thine
Own heart lean,
Trust in Me.
Quiet and still
Under my wing
Even the darkest
Night
Can never touch you
Here.
"A bruised reed he will not break and a dimly burning wick he will not quench"
Isaiah 42:3
Assuredly
Beloved one,
Reed
Unguarded,
I shall ever
Save thee from
Evil that seeks thy
Destruction;
Redeem thee,
Even though
Enmity runs
Deep;
History hath shown
Even my enemies
Worn and ashamed
I have upheld,
Loved,
Liberated.
Never failing
Only healing
Till bruises fade.
Battered and worn;
Ready to perish;
Eating the bread of
Affliction;
Kneeling;
Again I say
Never shalt thou
Doubt.
Anointed,
Depend on me
I will be
More than bright
Light of day
Your flame
Behemoth
Under the sea
Recoils from me
Not even that beast
Is able to quench
Nor stifle the torch
Glowing in Me.
Wind and waves
In all their power
Can not defy their
King.
Heaven and
Earth are mine.
Wonderous things
I will show thee
Life abundant
Love and joy.
Not to thine
Own heart lean,
Trust in Me.
Quiet and still
Under my wing
Even the darkest
Night
Can never touch you
Here.
Small comfort
Small comfort
Our vaudevillian yaws
Breaking up parity
Dragging the reaches
Like a barge of blithesome jawing
It may only be
That I pretend it is joint
That you are closer than carpet
Bright and clean
We volley superlatives
Rummaging for each others teeth
Beneath it I clutch like wonder
I think you might smash me
Enclose my feathers
In swarthy doses
Of virgin solace
All in such a high cupboard
Reachless and unlit
Inventoried by a mizer
With tenacious eyes.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Our vaudevillian yaws
Breaking up parity
Dragging the reaches
Like a barge of blithesome jawing
It may only be
That I pretend it is joint
That you are closer than carpet
Bright and clean
We volley superlatives
Rummaging for each others teeth
Beneath it I clutch like wonder
I think you might smash me
Enclose my feathers
In swarthy doses
Of virgin solace
All in such a high cupboard
Reachless and unlit
Inventoried by a mizer
With tenacious eyes.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006
Mum
Mum
I am a secret
Hiding like a crawdad
I can only be whispered
Or gestured, implied
Chameleon colors
More like armor than camouflage
I have a spy glass
That looks far and deep
Through the little peep hole on the door
A hermit, a shrew
Secluded newt
Albino under a rock
Buried in sand like a toad
Watching eyes like the unseen alligator
Quiet as a wart
Covered in cotton
I walk, unheard, like a brave
To the cracked closet door
I am a shadow
Not worth noticing
Unrecalled, subconscious
But to those aware I am
Locked away ignominious
Dangerously veracious
An asp in fragile digs.
(c) Tasha Chinnock
I am a secret
Hiding like a crawdad
I can only be whispered
Or gestured, implied
Chameleon colors
More like armor than camouflage
I have a spy glass
That looks far and deep
Through the little peep hole on the door
A hermit, a shrew
Secluded newt
Albino under a rock
Buried in sand like a toad
Watching eyes like the unseen alligator
Quiet as a wart
Covered in cotton
I walk, unheard, like a brave
To the cracked closet door
I am a shadow
Not worth noticing
Unrecalled, subconscious
But to those aware I am
Locked away ignominious
Dangerously veracious
An asp in fragile digs.
(c) Tasha Chinnock
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