ancient in me is a Viking nature
its chords are in the sinews of my hand
a brief tendency to claw I tender touch
a raw inheritance…a boon to thought
for days when breeze is from the north
I am drawn to roughness and to vagrancy
I know the urgency of sail with sea wind
bass keel push…moaning of the hull
then it is I exit through low windows
choose rain pooled muddy trails
gnaw on wintergreen and sorrel
climb mulberry…cram fulsome to
my mouth its sour sweet stain
come to the feast…
and drink clear water
seeped through stone
from cliffside springs
onto your tongue…
taste eras there…sip
country pheasant broth
strained enough to hint
of flight within its essence…
bite through the flesh
of warm-ed figs
to taste the green first
sprung through earthy loam
upon a rocky hill…
gnaw wild deer ribs
fire pit turned, spine cracked
to portions of hot muscle…
we throw the bones to darkness
in the corners of the room
and know…
it’s a mead hall time of year for me
with cravings for smoked shadows
salt crystalled cod and clove mulled wine
crisp partridge and roast deer
the heart strong wild of bear…
for I must taste strong flavors
touch sweat from sharp stone walls
smooth splinters roughed in pine
drip tallow on my palm
watch dust motes drift in shafts of light
hear sighs of sea-born rain
gnaw shreds of happiness
from bones of memory.
and…
I shall feed you flowers…
not as Oberon…tactician
strategist of magical intent;
I’ll find no tinctured potion
of Love-in-idleness to wake
you to a baseless passion
I need no Puck to gather
marigolds… petals I would
scatter on a dark green bed
of watercress to be garnish
peppery…for your wakening
of desire
I shall gather orange nasturtium
in the morning when chill night
has dew filled its tiny cups with
drops of sweet clear nectar I
shall offer to the wakening
of your sleep parched lips
and I shall place carnation petals
on your tongue for cinnamon and
nutmeg…and one violet for cleansing
to prepare you for my kisses
prophecy slipped through
open windows…born on a
west-wind fragrance of pale
ocean to agitate her white
curtains…disarray letters
on her desk…speak to her
in the scrape of gold red
autumn leaves dropped so
carelessly upon her porch,
in sunlit torch-ed flutter
imaged on her ceiling wall
a scrying need changed
currents in her blood…
changed direction of a
subtle weather vane within
her brain to mediate faint
polarities of thought
a water thirst rose underneath
her tongue… a drowsy scarf…
a need to compass steps across
a room…she pinched her palm
for focus…for holding of a golden
thought against fading brevity
of the pregnant light
some nights then…
the three year girl twins
would freeze in place
for countdown
ten…nine…eight….
then…naked time!
to rowdy monkeyness…
throw play clothes on the floor
bounce trampoline the couch
whoop laughter in the hall
slow tumble carpet steps
tag “germs!”…foot tickle
hair pull…sneaky pinch
rain shower tears…all better
ice cream dribble on their toes
to bubble bath…pajamas…bed
sometimes now…
they’re in their eighties…
one will call the other
of an evening…before bed
…shout…naked time!
then hang up listening to
the other’s merriment
Bonnie Marshall
Painting by Leah Chapin
tales told by crones catch us
tales told by crones catch us
in thorns of awe full disbelief
and tangle us in rawness at
beguiling edges of credulity
as when they tell us Mandragora
screams its loosening from earth…
kills the first to hear its shriek and
carries in its brew a potent sleep
like death enough to bury Cleopatra
in deep hallucinating dreams…unclasp
her wanting until Anthony’s return
as when Circe warned Odysseus
to place bee’s wax warmed… still
honey sweet against the eardrums
of his loyal oarsmen…lash himself
with ropes fast to the mast, so as
crazed with lust…not to dash
their bodies into wine-dark sea
toward distant Sirens singing
prophesies
as when we scoff at fortune tellers,
psychics, casters charting horoscopes
and refrain from seeing meaning in
crows angling through the sky….and
just at midnight…in darkness outside
our bedroom window… owl hoots
that we muffle with our pillows
Bonnie Marshall
Painting by Unknown Artist
tick tock smolder woman
(for Aggie)
old woman floats the
putting of an order in
the day…tick tock… no
aspirin for two hours…
while toxic juice leaks
from defrosting chicken
and cat sleeps in-different
upon floored Bargello
pillows…stitch in time…when
Eddie was in high school…
hear his music tin-tinnitus
dry rot the wallboards in
her ears to muffle pumping
metronome…tick tock…flutter
somewhere in her ribs on
tree limb bones wrapped
cotton bark to tingle fire
of roots in woolen socks on
old… tick tock…smolder woman
Bonnie Marshall
Painting by Pablo Picasso
Crones Tell Me Wonders
Crones tell me wonders
of times they were near death
womb warm…light beckoning…
and then harsh second birth
with sharp pain flashes
back to a gray unfolding.
Crones tell me of their dreams
for they dwell often there.
Then… like returned travelers…
they recount amazements
of places they have been.
“I dreamed laughing babies
invited me to dance.”
Her voice trailed thin laughter.
“What do you think of that…”
She wasn’t questioning…
just gazing past me…reflective,
mind back into that world.
“How lovely it would be…”
Reflection then…was mine.
Proem... 
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