For Tomorrow, Parting

She, the child, she, the universe.

Oh soft loneliness.

And her body, alone, again.

Sorrow swells in her belly

Full of water and blood

While she brings plasma to life,

To clone her destiny.

She stretches passion

Beyond walls of sanity.

Smelling softly of matrimony

She oscillates amid her moods

Swelling moistly under August heat,

She vacillates in summer misery.

Vanillin scent wafts from her womb,

Bathing her in narcissistic lymph.

Head bent toward her thoughts,

She mourns the crowded seed

And offers a certain sadness

To the posterity immured within.

Through her plump arms and breast

Courses a savage tenderness.

She, the child, she, the universe.

Oh soft loneliness.

And her body, alone, again…

A Poet Apart

A Poet Apart

somewhere a man sits
in his chair
contemplating a sad belly

dark stubble creeps on his jaw
a stubborn set against it all
eyelids low reveal none
none of the bad hangovers
that crowd the memory
and corrode perception

his pen opens a poem
only to close upon the mystery
of lingering loneliness

the tilt of his head a perfect egg
bright against evening shadows
words beat the winter about him
exposing veins where rages blood
and beer flooding plains of love and loath

crude honesty leaves no gap for fresh air
it slaps the truth into the cracks
ink over vodka laced in smoke
a perfect cocktail of senses
to follow the clock around

to earn that rare recognition
in a stranger's pupil
a man a chair one poem

Hunting Camp at Yucca Valley

French writer lost in buffalo dreams, where grass grows tall and oceans never meet.
The words keep coming, the readers expecting, and soon we should all be satiated.
From the trail of tears, i translate thoughts to poetry, life to fiction and love to text.

This poem is an excerpt from the upcoming book of desert scratchings, etchings and sketches. It was published in Hobo Camp Review.

..
-----------------------------------------

Hunting Camp at Yucca Valley

A thrush sharpens its beak on an Atriplex,

and suddenly, it is morning;

I push the sand with naked toes,

I am alive with need, waters beckon.

The thrush is in full song,

the mountain in full rose.

Children stir.

Hunger makes its usual rounds.

First the men grunt, then they sway toward the rocks,

shivering quietly in their long-johns and woolen socks,

they put their boots on in haste; no time to waste at dawn.

The grain ground up and boiled,

I prepare the gruel for the children

who groggily slither out of their bed-sacks,

one by soft one,

vulnerable.

Coffee begins to sing on the makeshift grill.

I blow on my fingers in silent anticipation.

Gun propped up against the tent,

I watch for any movement, alert.

The men walk out of camp,

whispering position and angle of their prospective prey.

Now sun is ready to return to hell in its quotidian chore,

to suffocate life down here by noon.

A last coyote silently lopes away

not far from the fading embers of our last fire.

A game quail marches by, in full breast and cocky plume,

to lead me away from its young.

At that moment,

I decide to let the carbine rest on its wooden pedestal,

a harsh token of my weakness.

Eye full of grits and fat;

Hunger subsides to conscience.

Let men rip the air with their power in the mid-morning hush -

let them drag a heavy carcass home to the mining camp,

for me to butcher, for the children to grow.

One shot is all I hear:

Winter will be kinder

with a burro in the freezer this year.

------------------------------------------------

With sincere apology to the animal kingdom for the humble distribution of protein for healthful childhood development.

--
you may meet me at: www.omphalosdada.org/nadinesellers

Women' s Month Ongoing.

  In order to commemorate half the world of humanity, i shall post poem or prose a day.

The feminine side of all in all its aspects. An exercise in blogging and topic maintenance.

This humble beginning was published on Durable Goods, a micro mag which is printed and edited by Aleathia Dremmer--a Wonderful Woman. mother and friend, with a keen eye for the written word.

Two women

one solemn one silly

sat at a wooden table

and read each other' s work

they laughed they cried

written words to surface

to show to share

kitchen wisdom

in great rifts of passion

dressed in light fare

some solemn some silly

one classic one rustic

borrowing burying

sorrows in serious lines

writings of toil

memories of soil

never far from tears

never faint from fears

they laughed at the script

some solemn some silly

nadine sellers written in Colton CA on a steamy day...years ago.

Of Indifference and Savages

see the second sons
heirs of nothing
dreamers of all
brothers of escape
abuse and abandon
intoxicated by adventure
hungry for liberty
they came onto the path of travail
full of self
one propelled by repulsion
in a forsaken mother city
filled with disgust and competition
he came to divest himself of pretense
to rid his gut of religion
the other with wife and child
rode horse and wave
for work well paid
solid gold and ignorance

the dreamer marches on
with savage determination
to cement the virgin prairies
with insult and flowing blood

Cabin Fever

No  Hunting sign on privy. Turn left at pheasant cage.

Cabin Fever

 As geese vee overhead and snowbirds flutter in the naked quince, i drag an old note with tight scribbles of

a lurching pencil and fading mind chronicling the ravages of neurotic frostbite.

this staccato poem has been performed in universities and between the black walls of cultural dives,

against spare musical background or guttural solo scratches.

here, alive and relevant, revised and insolent, a universal day by day tribute to indoor weather.


Cabin Fever


12 by 12:

White all over - heavy ceiling twelve feet high - the cold walls - sweating slimy lime - snow on the sill - ice on

the panes - cold on the news - smoke from the stone suspended in gray currents above stale air - pale -

pale white - pale gray - like your face - like my mind - do you like me?


11 by 11:

Gray couch - open to sleep in - blue blanket - you shiver - a chair - a desk - I ponder alone across the

linoleum we laid over the bare concrete - an insult to ancient walls - the spirits are restless - are you bored?


10 by 10:

The cat between us - I wish I were the cat - purring belly up - the radio speaks French - squeaks shortwave

noise then barks German - it’s dark outside now - you hang the shutters on the door - I close the curtains -

stuff rags in the cracks - shut - shudder - close - closer.


9 by 9:

Your tail just twitched - did you shut the stove lid? Today is Tuesday - yes, the thirteenth - mail must have

come today - I think - silence you read - a ball comes rolling across the floor with a cat on it - I grin as balls

fall off the holly twigs left over from would-be decor- do you love me?


8 by 8:

The front room shrinks as the gap across the floor widens - we inflate - Cerberus stands at the door

dressed in silent whites - can you hear me? - bladder calling - the back door is still there - the garden path

is frozen and the outhouse still stands - do you care?


7 by 7:

The house is reduced to one room - one wood stove - is this Alaska or Southwest France? A lush

temperate zone with a Scandinavian breath of fresh air - Ah, you stirred - fingers shaking - Eagle-Eye here,

watching for signs of life.


6 by 6:

Getting tense - radio wave off - cat on duty - outside coming in through the keyholes - white night moon

awake - coffee surplus - nerves astir - unspent - solitary confinement a deux - cozy fireside chats and other

impossible dreams - getting romantic - good luck.



5 by 5:

Seventh day like this - are there lots of divorces in Alaska? - do they bother to marry in the cold? - are we

in love still? - oh - you coughed - you are alive - you get up - find an English-speaking station - stir the fire -

you stir me - the stew smells good - I am alive!


4 by 4:

What? - what is it? - you can’t stand my constant writing? -  I don’t hate your constant reading! smile? - oh

okay -  is the air getting heavy? - is there any air? Air - I mean - full - the eyes - brim - the nostrils - soft the

sounds - did we die?


3 by 3:

Green eyes - still beautiful - I’m tired - going to be ugly - I can’t hide - can’t hide from your big green eyes

that hide from me - I am tired.


2 by2

Eat stew till I bloat - till my brown eyes bulge - till the last crumb – the last word - till doom.


1 by 1:

You and I alone - together - is it love? Is it sex? - is it nerves or do you need me at all? I cry through dry eyes

- kiss my chapped lips - quickly before the mailman finds our bones.

From the Pier

From the Pier.

Seagulls dart about the remains of lovers,
the parts only a bird can sense.

Seagulls bicker over warm prints left
in sand, where bodies pushed boundaries
in the pale light of dawn
where soft sweat salted the skin, the mouth
the hands, eager to assume, to consume.

Beaks tear at phantom food
clack outrage at forgotten sounds
wings spread open with importance
heads reaching for the sun
mad birds of aftermath

scavenge the tears of one
and the spit of another

And i watch footprints separate
away.

by nadine sellers 2008