love is shade movable as shadow;
it is scintillant brightness;
it cannot be defined as if it were
a color described to someone blind
as orange…azure…emerald… a
dainty pink…a blood deep red
its thinking etches or erases like
lace edged sea foam on a beach
it is invisible as gravity…sensed
like space between tick…tock
no spell is implicit in its sounding
for its spelling is not sacrosanct…
it may as well be evol…olev…velo
enough…for we think of it as warm
or chill or thrill or pain or ecstasy…as
literal as pinch…sustaining as if breath
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.
when clouds store my sun away
behind high restlessness…and chill
sweeps vexation through my green intent
of tender blading hills and fields,
I turn to settling of accounts remaining
here upon the desking of my days
for I owe myself more now than anytime…
I brush away the bees…plate honeycomb
upon the wedding Sevres…break sweet gold
to my mouth with a family sterling spoon
new polished…bloom Chinese silver needle
tea-leaves bundled ‘round a pink carnation
special occasion…guarded by a golden dragon
coiled imperial on the red of its rusting tin
I shall bask upon my porch and breathe brewed
fragrance with astringent ozone of approaching storm
for I am wrapped in complex luxury of a precious time
her loves…now
are become docked shapes
of boats she once sailed upon
to bright new destinies…now
map faded… worn by creasing
in her recollection…she slips
to berths where rope line
thought does tie and knot its
fastening to ports with landings
where she breathes memory of pipe
aroma sweet with leaf tobacco and
supple tan of ample leather chairs and
deep startle thrilling laughter and
lightning quickness change of mood and
reverberating touch
now… they tug her moorings
with remembrance…and
much as foghorns locate place
for sailing…they define her sheltering
Proem... 
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