Monday, July 14, 2014


- for lulu

On the day you were born,
Ell Pond must have brimmed
to tickle all the toes
of elm and fir, their limbs
dripping with dew and finch chatter.

Must have tickled you too.

I want to hear you giggle
like the summer day, you and Ernie
dived for haddock, already hooked once
and tossed out by fisherman
because they loved your laugh.

Like the chowder, necessary nurture -
like the sea to float a family
shore to shore -  see, even life boat.
I imagine it could run with
the tide, maybe even run amok.

Love how it splashes everything.

How it touches us with a light
twinkling like Mars and Jupiter,
chasing the moon.  Let's suppose
there’s no need to dive for fish again,
when the gift is in the giggle.

Saturday, July 12, 2014

Feeding Fiona

(As if Fuin Mac Cumhal and the Salmon of Knowledge had a heroine instead.)

Why bury your wild heart?
Honor that rakish salvation 
from soap and Jane Austin.

It’s neither silk purse nor 
sow's ear. Why bother with 
the quest for a perfect way?

Tunnel the worm holes into 
ninth dimension tomorrow. 
These notions for life, for duty -

so quickly they fill with 
dust like puddles in August.
If you neglect the beveled 

lips of agate, framing you 
beside feral kin, proud light 
bends obliquely from miracle.

When you giggle madly as 
a pod of girls in skirts blue
and billowing - veils swing open.

Hold this passage like April
holds spring. The earth aches
for each seed and feathered 

song; desires grubby fingers 
to probe the iron laced fissures,
they map our fault line. Follow

the dark thread home; 
nose to wind. Chase every 
sanguine urge. Crave 

the Golden Salmon roasting
on hot coals. The best morsels 
wait for your hungry tongue.

Feed Fiona and croon 
to your wild heart.
Don’t bury her again.

-- rosalynn cimino

Friday, July 4, 2014


Helen holds hands with thunderheads.
It helps when she's weak in the knees,
lightning running down abductors,
running down bones.
Even temple guards succumb to
such days, soft as pillows -
scarlet velveteen on silk sheets. 

Pink cyclamen bells the air,
and Helen cut her traces.

Bridget dreams the summer wind. 
Its susurrate moan rises in waves,
swells with tides of sandalwood
to chariot the night. 
She spins rhapsody around its howl, 

dawns a golden jet stream 
on spangled festoons of cirrus.

Weak knees fly off with yellow wind, 
before Bridget stills the night.
Sicily wets her lips with limoncello,
quells the rabble of heartache,
the clatter of waiting. 
She rings goblets like temple bells,
makes a sound map for lost days.
Her boat of pink sand brims in
blood oranges and cyclamen.

Lightning festoons the rabble,

Sicily finds Helen’s hand.