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the poetry and art of tam

Whispered laughter late at night, Musky essence scent delight. Small hands, sexy lips, Long legs, curvy hips, Dark hair, lovely eyes, Hushed breath, quiet sighs. Sweet nectar, honey dew, Loving touches, kissing you.

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  Old Man Who Smells of Pee
 
I start to cry.
The gross disfigured man
only wanted a box
to move his belongings
on a luggage carrier
through town.
 
Do you want a luna bar
or a new pair of shoes
or a new CD?
I form the words
but they stagnate in my
mind.
 
He flaps away
wearing stupid red socks,
while I, like a ghost,
let him.

—Denise Fox

Poetry by Suzanne Thomson

Fiona I hate British train stations. One good-bye too many, the engine covering its own tracks, waiting in its unarguable immensity, to take me from you. Fiona, you are Scotland, dark with the heady beauty of your country. You embody Glen Affric, the valley of the red deer and capercaillie, your home, You taught me the heather step, how to collect munros, once four in a day of heavy hiking, I followed your bright laughter from the sparkling burn across the threshold of your Highland cottage my vigorous youth callow beside your fiery prime. You fledged me, lover osprey, you fed me sea trout from the loch, pheasant from the glen, you pressed your wild mouth to mine and filled me with the rich, the peaty the dazzling snow-bound mountains, the dark forests, the tumbling hill water splashing its way seaward. I met the sea-mist rolling back and opened my wings to your guidance. Fiona, I hate the road to Inverness But here in my dreaming, the sunlight lifts the scent off the myrtle, lifts the perfume off your smooth breasts, and the lightsome creek still laughs down the mountains of your homeland.

Lady of the Lake Frenetic wing-beats herald two ducks barely skimming the upper branches, frantic to find their comfortable element, for it's obviously not air. My poorly designed wings work overtime to hold me aloft and over what? those clutching branches of self-imposed discipline. Buying into the American culture of restless emptiness, and the frenetic attempts to fill it. The ducks come to rest on water, they always manage somehow. You are my placid lake, my reminder. As I am yours. Your feet skim me, they unzip me and open me to your pressing weight. You buoy me up on your calm breast, you trawl my depths for food indeed. The struggle to wing my way high, the memory of harsh branches is forgotten in the folding of our wings. You call me back to my natural element. Lady of succor, reality-check, Viviane. You are my imagining of heaven, and my hope for the afterlife.

ABOUT THE POET Suzanne Thomson calls herself a Californian by birth, but has lived half her life in Africa, India, and Scotland. She now resides in Tulsa, OK, a full-time playwright, poet, and fiction writer. Her works have appeared in a variety of journals and magazines. For those interested in a wild, Scottish, lesbian tale, Thomson's latest short story, The Demon Lover, was published at eclectica.org.

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