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My Own Girlfriend, poem


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My Own Girlfriend   


It’s funny to talk to
myself when often it’s
not me who’s talking.  
It’s not funny that
someone else lives
in my head, knows
it better than I.


Can there be two
of me in here?
Who am
I when one
talks down
to the other?


When can
we both
live here in



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A Sweater's Arms


My first love should have
been me—but it wasn’t.
Well . . . it was half me
but I let her die before
kindergarten one day.
First loves shouldn't be
a hole unfilled—but Pixie
was more than half.


Later, crawling from
one of life’s bomb craters,
I discovered her smile
in the curve of a feather,
the arms of a sweater.
I hugged her life back.
She shrugged into mine.  


She's forever now.
Her skin is my skin,  
her eyes are my eyes.
Pixie—say yes, yes.
I say yes.



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  • Forum Moderator

So sweet, beautiful and so real.... thank you @Davie

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“He’s a California hot--crap-,
  lusts after shiny objects.”
Who does she think she is
to paint my best features
so roughly in this letter?
I’m an extremely moderate
person of California sin.  


Why do boys like me act
tough while girls like you
act kind as they can be?
How rough are my colors
now that I’m half a girl?
I’m not half-Californian
but yet soft enough to
care about a solty you.


We snuggle in my mom’s car
behind a barn, watch a river
made from glacier water,
while your lips melt my pain.
You sail me to tropical waters
like a south wind flows hair.
Even if you did lure me north,
I’m grateful to be your captive.
You allow me to steer all by
myself, alone at the wheel.
For once I feel safe.  




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  • Forum Moderator

And yet another beauty from a true wordsmith. Thank you.

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“He’s a California hot--crap-,
  lusts after shiny objects.”
Who does she think she is
to paint my best features
so roughly in this letter?
I’m an extremely moderate
person of California sin.  


Why do boys like me act
tough while girls like you
act kind as they can be?
How rough are my colors
now that I’m half a girl?
I’m not half-Californian
but yet soft enough to
care about a salty you.


We snuggle in my mom’s car
behind a barn, watch a river
made from glacier water,
while your lips melt my pain.
You sail me to tropical waters
like a south wind flows hair.
Even if you did lure me north,
I’m grateful to be your captive.
You allow me to steer all by
myself, alone at the wheel.
For once I feel safe. 



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  • Forum Moderator

Not sure why you re-posted - but it made me read it again and enjoy it as much if not more.

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Whoops. I forgot. I'm way too close to 90 years old today. There is a new one--but not quite ready for publication, yet. But thanks. My subconscious is doing most of the writing.

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I’m the perfect blackboard
to draw me into your fantasy.
I’m yours like daddy was not mine.  
Paint me up with blood-red chalk

or wipe me cleaner than clean.
Paint me with courage
like my daddy did not.
Smear me pink and lavender.
Jot me Shakespeare sonnets so
rich my lips twitch to rhyme.
Write a story in Mom’s voice  
but don’t make her a heroine
because I’m Dad’s hero insane—
do or die, I don’t know why.
Why isn’t my story rich
enough for both of us?


If Dad was such a war hero,
why does he need my help?
Why tackling a rainy football
won’t bring my nose to wit or    
to sunshine that dances in
the California of my dreams.
Rain is hell—fungus rules here.
Football blood runs puke green.
People drown in it standing up.


I’m lucky to be young, I guess.
Maybe God knew himself well
when he gave little girls
the strength enough to
survive as little boys.



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  • Forum Moderator

Another beautiful and colorful use of language.

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I climb to deadly heights more
afraid of a sharp tongue than
any spanking on skin scares me.
Redwood trees are best friends
to space girls, to cold comfort,  
so my escape velocity is zero
from my heaven to my hell.  


I sit safe as rain in my sequoia,
a perfect moon escape vehicle.
Safe enough to dream out loud,
hidden enough to speak out loud,
so every word I say gets judged  
only by the wisdom in the silence
of this quite earthly sea breeze.  


Time winks at tropic dreams  
to sail a stolen sailing ship to
an island country made from   
hot beans, rum, and brown skin   
in our days of Caribbean joy.  
Even the fears in crocodile tears
on Boricua’s snake island can’t
touch this wild fantasy.


I’ll sit safe as rain in Boricua.
On its beach full of trees of    
deathly heights, safe, so safe.
Spy glasses of pirates can’t
catch me here. Privateers can’t
betray me to Spanish galleons.
I’ll trade my redwood trees
for goose-neck palm trees,  
forested volcanic mountains,
and the girls of the Caribes.


Today, the girl in me finds
safety on a tree-top hill to
watch sunrises and listen to
bees and meadow larks, but
when she dies of loneliness,
they will all fly away. Away to
join meadowlark ghost songs,
and safe only from the wrath
of the muses and goddesses
in my tree of heaven or hell.
My tree of heaven or hell.  



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  • Forum Moderator

@Davie you might consider a book of poetry. You latest work has been well written and even a reader not well versed in the language and imagery of poetry has fallen in love with your words.

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So Strong


Maybe if the army hordes
of Alexander marched over it.
Maybe if elephants danced
on the overlapping parts.
Maybe if a nuclear bomb
exploded between us.
Maybe if the Ku Klux Klan
burned a cross here.
I never thought a love
so strong could
break so easily. 



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  • Forum Moderator

I hope that a love has not been broken. These words at short, crisp and to the point.

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Thanks, @Shay Heather.

For context, it is not a recent poem. It's from 2005 and it was a done-and-healed situation long ago. The death of that relationship (with a soprano who had pipes of gold) led me to discover my novel writing again—which saved my life and led me to find my real self, here in a confusing but satisfying new identity. In renovating my apartment and sorting every little item of paper in my life I poem I found the poem scrawled on the back of a work order fax. Sign of the times.  — Davie

One of her choirs:



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  • Forum Moderator

@Davie I think a catharic poem titled Pipes of Gold is in order.

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Remember the novel, Cantab Tango? Jack's ex was the catharsis object, in that. I wrote a whole other novel that I trashed called Blues Pizza about her. That done and gone—I was able to write Cantab. And I'm Feelin' Good now. Nina says it.



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Loneliest Giant


The first game I ever
see has a home run from
Willie Mays and a walk-off
winner from Felipe Alou—
so excited I almost forget
how afraid of my father
I am. The ride home
is too quiet after  
he fails to stir
any joy.


After that, day after day,
I try to stir joy with a radio.
I listen for Alou and Mays,
and play solitaire to win
changes for Giant fates.
I hope against hope to
change this game.
I win at solitaire, but
I can’t make Willie hit,
can’t stop hits at home.
My fingers can’t cheer
so my daily ride
at home stays
too, too quiet.




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  • Forum Moderator

I hope this is cathartic as the images rolled across my mind so vividly I felt the sorrow and pain.

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  • Forum Moderator

Working on it. It is so hard but working on it.

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Second Guess


Contusion wisdom short circuits

every song sung in vain. Every plan

comes wrapped in barbed wire

and apprehension. The gift that

keeps on stealing. Stealing every

sense: the ears lie to the mouth.
The nose lies to the lips. The right

hand fights the left its rights. The left

foot just bites. None of my clothes

fit again. My left sleeve shines redder

but my right sleeve is wrong. My left knee

does what it’s told by the whom? Friends

argue about my hair length, length

of jail sentence, five minutes of solitary

confinement, solitary confusion followed by

horse whips on my back-to-the-future mind.

Every thought  I ever thought was ninety percent

wrong fifty percent of the time, but the jury is

still out on appeal to a lower judgment.



  — [Perhaps this should be set to hip-hop beats.]


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  • Forum Moderator

Another gem and hip hop might be an interesting experiment but not necessary to expose the depth of thought and meaning.

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Thanks, @Shay I hope it helps clear the muddy thinking in my mind, hip hop or not.

The rhythmic pulse is actually adapted (inexactly) from old Norse saga narrative poetry.

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