dog days

I wake  

as if in a strange bed

the walls rearrange

themselves in the night

after too much coffee

I kick off my shoes

pace lingo-listless

between the lines

of the ceiling and floor

like a caged bird

I file my nails

twiddle my thumbs

sharpen all my pencils

sharpen kitchen knives

a knife thrower

must find satisfaction

in the crack of blade

after blade in wood

the fraying of splinters

as far as jelly jars go

they frighten me

Ball, Mason

those pot metal lids

so tight with corrosion

Tess Kincaid

July, 2011

To join Magpie Tales creative writing group click here.

alias

Cameroon mask, Willow Manor

You think truth

is so prosaic

swaggering

many faces

more poetic

in a roster

of second names

skillfully written

but the thrill

is only self-hate

spread thin

sure to crack

as fate wins

in a slick game

of greasy pole

roulette 

Tess Kincaid

July 2011

Written for Magpie Tales creative writing group.

summer

At daybreak

when the curtain rises

the yellow soprano

double-dip diva

hips the stage

all glitter-gold glitz

belts her biggest aria

sizzling coloratura

bellows white-hot

high as a blowtorch  

the crowd takes note

here comes trouble

today is going to be

a scorcher



Tess Kincaid
July 2011

Have a safe and happy July 4th, my friends. x

image:  Wheat Field with Rising Sun, Vincent Van Gogh, 1889

bite

Unfortunately

there is no morphine

for this kind of death

it is painfully slow

with only wood 

to clamp in your teeth 

and wait for rigor mortis

the impulsive breech 

so naively embraced

is like sugar borrowed

from a neighbor

when it is time

to return the favor

only a handful

of detritus remains

a good screen death

is always impressive

so bite down hard

on this stick in the mud

Tess Kincaid

June 2011

I Can Fly

You found me

earthbound

picked me up

nurtured timid buds

kissed, coaxed

until they bloomed

into wings spread

wide enough to soar

But I am not the angel

you say I am

I am only a bird

not sedentary

enough to resist

the urge to migrate

passing every toadstool

and tree stump

in a passionate flyway

to your longitude

loving a season

until the next

staying until the air

bears just a hint of cool

Tess Kincaid

June 2011

image:  Endeavor, Lino Tagliapietra, Columbus Museum of Art

$1.99

Displaced object

lost in glassware

among single saucers

secrets, sighs

abandoned by parents

lovers, lies

none to cherish

backlit hair, soft eyes

Would you like a bag,
a receipt for non-belonging?

Thanks, no.

Rain in the parking lot

drops hot with tears
on the frame



Tess Kincaid
June, 2011

I like to collect vintage carte de visites of interesting or striking people, so it was no surprise in Goodwill this week when this lovely caught my eye.  It felt it so tragic that she was not proudly displayed on a shelf or in an album as someone's treasured possession.  Tears burned my eyes, as I tucked her under my arm and headed toward the cash register. She has a home at Willow Manor now.

hostage

Twists of feminine

spayed from virgin beds

taken as slaves

briny objects

of lust and remembrance

to line window sills

strut garden runways

far from the rhythm

and slosh, the churning

womb of sand, landlocked

as a milk-wagon horse

cold as any stone

Tess Kincaid

June, 2011

only three more days...

A quick note to let you know the pre-order sales period for my poetry chapbook Patina, a collection of my very first poems stemming from my love of ancestry and all things vintage, ends this week on June 10.  If you are thinking of ordering a copy, it would help me tremendously if you would consider doing so now, since my pressrun is determined by advance sales.  International orders are welcome, as well, just click on the link below. Books will be shipped August 6.

FINISHING LINE PRESS PRE-ORDER

Many, many thanks to all of you who have already ordered a copy. Your most kind and generous support means so very much.  You are the best, dear peeps.  Oh, and by the way, Finishing Line Press has agreed to publish a second chapbook, so stay tuned.

father's eye

I crave a second look

one blink of approval

long to be the apple of yours

or even just a worm in it

lucky book in your hands

the pawn on your chessboard.

If I were a lone cattail at the pond

then maybe I would catch a wink.

They call it the evil eye, but yours

is not so evil, as indifferent.