poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

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Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Her Pirate History

Lobster-red lipstick/ the face she makes is either sexy red grimace or heartburn red/ red silk on the underside of crimson velvet/ red blood in the mouth of cringing Byron/ fingerless red gloves/ eggs Rhode-Island red/ brown and white ponies with sharp red morning roses woven into their braids/ red stones round their ankles in decorative circles/ she exhales red petals into the blush of day/ when she opens her mouth to sing cardinals echo in their red velvet capes/ they match reds but their voices bear no similarity/ when she sees red she can breathe red/ she will touch red with her red tongue/ golden threads twist red/ the red of a match head/ red head/ red wreck/ red meat/ red of birth and death/ red of plastic and red of cars/ redolent fingers dipped in red ink/ red stains from red drinks/ red ribbons pulled between red-painted toes/ red bites from red snakes/ new warmth from red hued bourbon/ red of failure/ red of success/ red feathers and red hairs/ red cheeks in cold air/ ruined red/ party red/ end red/ army red/ redwood/ red beans/ Redbeard/ sunset red/ red dripping on the floor/ Russian red/ red trees bleeding red apples/ red letters making red words/ red curls catch red light/ talk red talk till the ripe red sun rises/ every instrument has a red tone/ every prison a red cell/ she is red for him/ he is red for her/ she calls red in her sleep and it reddens her dreams/ search the register for true red/ pick through every red twist and manifestation of redness/ nervous in red hives/ red shoes and hats and hairpins/ red insects full of red blood/ red brick houses full of heat/ out the corners of her eyes the red walls change their brightness to moves in the music that only her red ears can catch/ the red of rain/ the red wish to live/ red vine licorice candy/ the exposed red nostrils of a sick horse/ a red rear kick/ red step/ red-blindness/ a quiet red bell/ red moon shining on red sand beaches/ red fox/ red ants/ red picnics/ red barns with red animals inside them/ the red to remember/ the red loss/ chemical red/ red ties/ red blossoms/ red paper/ cinnamon red hot candy/ red flecks floating in golden irises/ red problems with red cures/ fickle red family/ red doors open to red theaters where they read red plays/ red suits/ red tickets/ red uniforms/ red breasts, hopping around the green lawn on the first day of spring/ red hot chili peppers/ reasonable red/ useful red/ the minister of red/ red chance/ a sultry scoop of red powder/ red velvet cake/ red clay/ red wine/ scraped red knees from falling off the red bike/ a red wish for july sky-fire/ a red fish for a red table/ cut dead by red relations/ red carpet for red slippers to tread red steps/ she’s so red/ reading red leather-bound books/ red holly berries on slick black Christmas branches/ the red whistle of the red train/ even if she was very, very, red she could not stay/ red rims of eyes/ red veterans in red graveyards/ abundance was red and lack of abundance was also red/ red leaves fell from red maple trees/ at the end of the red road is the red queen and the fire-fairies/ everything will be paid for in red; children, countries/ everything bleeds the same red light.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

American Drama

Flag. Boy Scout. Mountain Climber. Play.
He wakes up and knows it is all a play

or a movie, because the audience is so silent and so still he can't see them
but the cameras are everywhere. Each person he passes on the street

has a pair of high-res camera eyes. Flag-waving
he wears the costume of a Boy Scout. That's why bearded men stare at his face.

In the play he is a mountain climber. That's why.
He acts all the way to the top of the mountain

that's when he first knows he's alone. The girl
at the counter is giving phone directions

grey building; sign out front; the north side of 3rd street.Here
comes an ambulance wide like an open mouth

bleeding sound south, towards the college. It is so easy
to pretend this is a movie about college, or a play about America.

Monday, September 12, 2011


Sleep the twilight of the nipple,
in the twilight of the arm, sleep
until dawn takes shape around suffering
and day takes shape around joy.

Noon hangs true, halfway through
loving you, the world goes blue,
in the twilight of the berry,
in the twilight of the branch.

Thursday, September 1, 2011

Song of the Concertina Lemon

A beaker of bleach
bangs the bell of the ship, she is

blind but for this color yellow,
because she walks in beauty with the night, her daytime eyes are dim.

So I paint myself in sunshine, for her/ every morning
buttercream beyond legend/ the blondes of combustion

in the history of poetic nitroglycerine/ the day-true
story locked up in the sunflower sun.

My bright whalemoon
hung true halfway in the twilight

and halfway in the night.
I would die and be a lemon tree/ all fruit in her sight and she

would tell me through my roots
all the water-secrets. Yes, dear

she would whisper gold-truth into hard old ears.
When she died, the stars shut their eyes,

and all the world dreamed in black.
That day I left home for the whale road.

Blue Tuesday