Ignition

Take me fast, quiet,

two guards at every door.

Wrap me tight

in your extravagant straitjacket,

where the strangling is clean

and silent, since when I kiss,

it will not be as a sister.

You have seen my complete dossier.

I would have made a great man,

but I am a woman,

subtle but effective.

Do not toss me, deranged,

in your landfill;

it is more palatable to give

me something rich

and strange, tribal,
like a Viking funeral.

tk, from my chapbook "Unpressed"

R.A.D. curled up on the steps with my book...

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Unpressed

Thank goodness you found me -
dehydrated, flat, suffering

from a homesickness,
I didn't realize was for you.

I slipped from the page into your lap,
delicate, winter-faded.

You kissed the sleep from my eyes,
unpressed papery petals

with elsewhere hands,
watched me bloom.

tk, from my second chapbook "Unpressed" 

R.A.D. makes my words his own...

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Mother Lode

I squat like a miner;

sift through rubble,

barefoot in Levis.

Memories swirl the pan ―

most of them look the same;

unfossilized, too liquid to keep.

Ruby lips. The American dream. 

Now and then a sparkle ― a nugget

looks up at me with human eyes.  

Clementine!  Can't take everything, darling.

Just a few. I pack it neatly in the box

labeled "Initial Boom".

Souvenirs line up like herring.

Gradually decompose,

bloom sweet and pungent;

fertilize a second chance ―
my destiny.

tk/July 2015


R.A.D. Stainforth brings my words to life...

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Nightbird

It calls with a clear

two-fingered whistle;

how a neighbor summons children

home for summer supper. 

Unabashed wooing.  

A lark?  Or Cherokee mother

clothed in twilight sadness,

blade of grass pressed in her lips.

Run.  Feel night-cooled meadow

under sunburned feet.

Find the moth-specked porch lamp,

the scent of belonging.

Without the chatter of song birds,

it seems human in the dark.  Urgent.

Should I leave by back door or front?
Persistent pipe.  O! Come.

tk/June 2015

Beautiful read by R.A.D. ...

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*A Midsummer Night's Melancholy by Michael Sowa

Milky Way

It's the unassuming way

He holds his cigarette.

Peers sideways from his eyebrows. 

Burning blue.  Liquid voice.

Reined in like a well-bred stallion.

Or is it the way she clings?

Hands open and tactile. 

Golden proportion.

Looking for certainty in his eyes.

She seems brash next to him.

Easy.  Not overpowering.

Smiling diamond in Pegasus. 

Riding velvet. 

We worship the contrast.

Hold on to the backs of our seats.

Weightless.  Milky.

Compelling nebula.

Soft and hard shooting stars.

Constellation too good to be true.
Exotic smear in the galaxy. 

tk/June 2015


Delicious read by R.A.D. ...

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If a Cataclysmic Event Shuts Down the World

I would dress in Dickinson white.

Void.  Laced.  Celibate as she.

Hewn open like new wood.

Faces in my pattern. 

Shave delicate sheets

from my discontented timber,

doodle them icky with dots and dashes ―

maybe a sonnet.  Love hymn.

Roll them in a bale of sacred scrolls,

seal with kisses instead of wax,

corked in the bottle

from the Christmas Cava.

Yelp!  As I heave it from the bridge. 

Watch it bob downstream

in the volume between

my legs and yours.

After months and years,

I would scour my mind for your voice,

open your book and inhale
for your scent.

tk/June 2015

I like what R.A.D. does with my words ... I'll have what he's having ...

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Of That Ilk

From the beginning

kindred voices whisper

between words.

Sea through the windows.

Landlocked roots.

You reel me in without a net.

Gently unhook.  For keeps.

Channels pulse an ancient beat,

deeper in your eyes than blue.

I have been away too long.

Ancestors line the shore.

One of them points―

"Your man over there"

I take him literally.

They applaud as rain.

Rush of belonging sweeps

stronger than a tailwind.

I grasp your arm

to keep from flying―

put me down!

Look at my pale feet

unearthed from nowhere,

still covered in grubs.

I dig in my heels.
Spread my toes like fins.

tk/May 2015

Lovely retro-esque read by R.A.D. ...

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Station

You sprint down

the platform at Piccadilly.

The first time I see you run.

Boyish.  Easy.

Sun pales gray

through the train shed roof,

as if we are lit for a morning set.

I wait for someone to shout "Cut!"

The doors close.

We're late.  The attendant frowns. 

Next train leaves at 11:11.

I don't mind.  It's lucky.

The carriage is warm.  It sways.

You explain why bricks change to stone

in the crosshatch of hedgerows

and sundry farms.

I find a station in your arms.

Stillness in your eyes.

Think how indecently happy,
should I suddenly die.

tk/April 2015

Lovely read by R.A.D. ...like the gentle sway of a train carriage...

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Bridge

No beams or trusses―

just a simple span of obstacles,

make-do suspension, stubborn enough to find a way,

woven one sleepless night at a time.

I take only memory, ditch the bangles.

Each step aches freedom, dreads narrow spaces.

I want to run―but sidle on―frayed ends exposed

as rope unravels, sways so violently I cry out.

Cavernous echo! I dare not look down;

fear the unknown, some great fish throat.

I hear your voice―and remember

this temporary means from here to there.

tk/April 2015

Lovely dramatic read by R.A.D. ...

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Stride

First, I notice

the easy stride. 

You move mainstream.

Two long steps for each of mine.

I think of the time

you wander to Birmingham

for that first punk album―

coins in your pocket

like the silver your grandfather earned,

walking nineteen miles

straight up the middle of Yell

to fiddle for a wedding.

Those boyish endeavors bring you luck,

make your heart beat like a drum―

ancestral rhythms, word of mouth,

a fine-tuned ear.

You offer me your arm,

my feet barely touch the ground.

We dance a simple reel of lamp-posts,

paving stones, letterboxes―

speaking of―we stop the incessant writing,
to walk what's left of our wits.

tk March 2015

*photo: Old Bank Street, Manchester, UK by R.A.D. Stainforth

A most lovely read by R.A.D. ...

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Picasso's Eye

Picasso's eye is lodged

in the sugar maple,

like a scuttled vessel

brooding in the limbs.

It no longer dispenses

late night wisdom,

early morning insight,

from the perch outside my room.

The all-knowing stare

becomes reluctant

under chlorophyll eyelids,

dark spring rain.

My psyche's new caretaker

scries wet kisses in leaves,

with flop of roses,

gentle thrust of trees.

tk/March 2015 

Sumptuous read by R.A.D. ...

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Yorvik

R.A.D. Stainforth on the City Walls, York, UK  (photo by Tess Kincaid)
 

Like the city, your grip is strong.

You guide me in quiet stride. 

Minster rises distant in paper-gray sky.  

We step the same medieval stones.

Wool-jacketed school children swarm the crossroad,

laughing.  The Ouse laps and sighs "Camelot!"

Creamy limestone becomes mildewed churches.

Rose windows.  Gothic curves.  Human efforts.

You point to chimney pots from station road walls.

I look up, hold tight against the cobbles.  

Our feet touch.  Suddenly, you are an ancient king,

noble as a chess piece, handsome among the yew trees. 

tk/March 2015 

Beautifully reminiscent read by R.A.D. ... 

York City Walls, March 5, 2015, photo by Tess Kincaid

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Solace

Words linger unsaid;

no compulsion to fill space.

They are seen in eyes,

the way the head leans to one side;

half-breaths hang luxurious,

simply for the pleasure of it.

Natural rhythms weave calm;

lull without inflection or solution.

We do not rely on talk;

ours is a contented silence,

not at all awkward.

tk/February 2015

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Secondhand Scent

I press your palm,

inhale a brand new head note.

Dry-down does not alter its mellow ego. 

It smokes grassy through skin,

overrides all previous compounds:  memories,

migraines, cheekbones, jawbones.

Bouquet lingers like the last days of summer.

I hone it, catch it in a Mason jar,

screw the lid on tight; save it for when

I need odorous bliss, an oracle

that calms all sorts of butterflies,
claustrophobia, and scars. 

tk/January 2015

Lovely evocative read by R.A.D. ...

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In the Beginning

I sleep two time zones,

wake in the small day between.

Darkness on the face.

No rest on the seventh.

The dustbin lid cracks down

on kitchen dreams.  Ashtray speaks

with gently-hammered elbows

and knees.

Only a blue-lit kettle

shines through the deep. 

Everything is transformed,

microwaveable.

I thank the god of oven mitts;

my fingers free to make

evening and morning,

and it is good.

At last we sleep

on the crumb-strewn floor. 

Evolved.  Immortal.
Creation under my nails.

tk/January 2015


Brilliantly delivered by R.A.D. Stainforth...

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Simplicity

If you look close enough
a garden becomes a meadow,
walls give way to windows.

A magpie watches from the edge,
jaws at anything complex.

It is time to throw out mismatched socks,
the king-size that never fit;
stuff the cache in yesterday's hamper,
unfence simplicity.

We find beauty in clothespins, hairpins,
a line swaying behind a dryerless nest.
The wet towel we share.


tk/January 2015


A rare glimpse of R.A.D. Stainforth in color...his most beautiful read to date...

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Heroic Pink

There is a brave new shade;
coming flush of innocence 
made complete. Color 
stretched globally, wielded 
with a twist; juicy mix 
of wicked and meek.

Archetype hues conquer 
celebrated softness, embody 
giving and release. Rampant
sunset, blush without apology; 
semi-divine pink 
of Amazons and queens.


tk/December 2014


Excellent read by R.A.D. Stainforth...in a slightly different venue...

Photo

Our fingers lace,
as if they were always knit;
you guide me into the street,

where centuries of secrets rise
between paving stones,
from under darkroom doors.

Like our first embrace,
my new jacket goes unnoticed 
in monochrome. 

Stolen glance ― snap! 
Your eyes flash Kodak,
encompassing everything north. 

Nothing important is exchanged; 
a few riddles, exhaled laughs, 
camera-shy smiles. 

Under a suspended crescent,
you surprise ― all quick-turn and lips ―
like the Doisneau.



tk/December 2014

Evocative monochrome read by R.A.D. Stainforth...

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It

Sleep is innocent.

It runs, hides in the dark,

is easily frightened by radiators,

the drop of a digital clock.

I have access no longer

to the lull of manifold sheep.

Time zones are corrupted

with a single cunning sock.

Night spins uncountable hours

in a game of blindfold;

I hear your voice in my head,

misidentify your face on purpose,

wanting always to be it.

tk/December 2014

Deliciously soporific R.A.D. Stainforth...

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Scioto Snow

Prints cross ice;

imagine a doe

coaxed to the river,

enveloped in lust

and white.

Gloved fingers,

breath exhaled

like anxious chimneys;

all of me

in your pocket.

We thrust low,

confound the cold,

unable to see beyond

the crosshatch of blue ash

and sycamore.

Wonder how

this flux can survive;

fresh unbodied rush,

metallic, more feverish
than spring.

tk/November 2014



Exquisite read by R.A.D. Stainforth...

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