teresa fleischer poetry - Wares...

Bargaining is toilsome drudgery

Bargaining is toilsome drudgery

a maze of perplexed wailing,

like limping through weeds in a saltwater pond,

sobbing through sorrow

with sodden temper.

Copyright © 2012 Teresa Fleischer.  All Rights Received.

Sitting around

Sitting around aging the tapestry

for more use has it than I,

I’m not suited for staple décor of any kind calculated.

From fashion I tire and pleasantries are bruising.


I’m to panel the fundamental,

to haul the framework.

Copyright © 2012 Teresa Fleischer.  All Rights Received.

Angry baker

Angry baker and the mischief-maker,

the cat with the rat…

how they all sat down to feast with famine,

to drink with the desert where cactus were only two.


Fine was the dine with water as wine

until the plates shined like tin

and the goblets slang with echo.

Who knew the raw cabbage,

the sour brew

were all gone,

before one candle lit

let light on the young maiden’s wit.

Copyright © 2012 Teresa Fleischer.  All Rights Received.

No thing that passes

No thing that passes before me

is like the thing that passes through me.

Copyright © 2012 Teresa Fleischer.  All Rights Received.

What far away dream skirts my heart

I am a country coloured in shades of September.


What far away dream skirts my heart

with endless tides,

what carries me in colgate of sentences

spoken unrehearsed

with punctuation extreme

exposed in seams of well sown stitch,

what barren pattern fields itself in torn skirt

across the landscape of me.

May the mountains stand still

for only as long as your heart lay upon my soul

scraping for the chase of my foreskin.


there is no mound, there is no stroke,

there is no hand that can reach me


there is but one single element to puncture

this wound I bare naked to you


know me by name, know me by blind rule

for I am not spoken to parallel,

I am soaked by the memory

of my skin bleeding onto your skin naked.

Copyright © 2012 Teresa Fleischer.  All Rights Received.

Thirteen times

Thirteen times and twelve dresses run to ruin

in the midnight sun…

one was fair enough to stay wrinkle free

but in the rain you could still not wash away the stain.


Once dry, ready to be pressed…

she did not care,

she turned it around

and put the pretty mess behind her.


Who would feel the ruin as they caressed her,

as they feverishly fondled for her hunger…

no eye could see her discolor.


What mess this dress,

what spoil this soil.

Copyright © 2012 Teresa Fleischer.  All Rights Received.

I do not know how to

I do not know how to write in sentences.

I peddle in infrequencies

because all I have are fractions

fractions of sentiments,

fractions proportioned,

well thought out novels in quick parades,

to make me get the urge

the rush of you

in my veins, like shooting euphoria

only to know your absence,

only to long for your heart’s tender watered down kisses,

soothing yet cruel.


Skip the rhetoric for I am mature and dated.

Sounds move me the way the wind carries a wake

yet you only speak to me in rehearsed compositions

and my heart is sent to wayward places.


Longing is not forgiving, desire is not reward

they are eager parallels to wanting solitude, so as to justify being romantic.

Love is existent, not promoted, and not erect for bidding

nor for pouring out in erotic panorama.

It wares me well and I am well worn by it.

Yet not because of the threads torn by these branches, these vines,

but because it knows how to spell me in millennium

without an edge of prejudice, without a count for the brown on my knees.

It is there because it is sterling, not canvas.

Copyright © 2012 Teresa Fleischer.  All Rights Received.

The moss between my feet

The moss between my feet is wet

and it is not from the rain in the sky

it’s from the deep of the earth

and I am digging to get the mud on my hands, under my nails…

I know the taste in my mouth, I know the dark on my face

it spills from my nose when I breathe.


I am awake under the endless sky, and the stars are smiling

while I am chasing the moon with my eyes.

Nowhere is everywhere here and it is endless,

this infinite washes me like an ocean,

bruising me careless

and I have no thing to color me,

to taint my breath

from what is the flavor

drowning my mouth.

Copyright © 2012 Teresa Fleischer.  All Rights Received.

Nine little leaves

Nine little leaves blowing in the breeze,

off of a birch tree they had fallen

onto the bed of a pillowy wind,

feeling like a feather floating

eight times plus one,

and the same they were all

by weight and call…


but there in the light, in the landscape of the sky

they colored blue

they colored greene,

they colored red and brown, but yellow only one.


how count them all?

eight times, plus one?

but none the same at all.

Copyright © 2012 Teresa Fleischer.  All Rights Received.

I can scatter this gale

I can scatter this gale

yet it gains me nonetheless.


I am at war with crumb language.

I elbow this dribble from my wound

but it trails me like fine talk I cannot wipe away from my skin.


I am where words cannot be written,

I haven’t the letters to spell these notions

that have hung themselves upon my frame.


These days are not quiet,

they are like the numbers one hundred

and when I’ve finished the count

there is one times more.

Large, far too large to spell,

to riddle,

to prod,

to probe

onto paper I’ve made old

with simply the thought of a letter poured upon it.

Copyright © 2012 Teresa Fleischer.  All Rights Received.


Matter is fact for the fair

and cheaper to stock.

Faith is undefined

and impossible to contain.

Copyright © 2012 Teresa Fleischer.  All Rights Received.

I am the sum of many

I am the sum of many counted

the volume of all things measured,

yet I hold no number in degree or mass.

I am ever-present, all consuming.


I am in plain,

in view.

I am where corners meet to gather shadows,

where the oceans cast blankets 

of eternal sleep to grounds charted.       

I am the gust of wind at your back,

urging you along.


I am still,

I am silence screaming at you.

I am waiting to be heard.

Copyright © 2012 Teresa Fleischer.  All Rights Received.

I am not observation

I am not observation, I am not character sprawled,

I loot, I am crude.

I have spikes of steel that tender you into submission,

that lull  you into the lullaby of lust

that service you with cardinal love

with unsuspected consequence.

What will you sing for me now.

Pebbles? Rocks? Stones?


I can hear them bruising my soul,

I can feel them dancing drunk with wine from your lips,

because you know not to cease your pith

because you spirit me only in shadows of your mystic cry.


Because I can hear every passage

without the splash,

without the movement of your lips.

You are kissing my insides with venom of fever,

with carnivorous urge, with murderous tongue

only to disguise from yourself

the bitterness of suspicion,

that you are bleeding

and I am solace to it.

Copyright © 2012 Teresa Fleischer.  All Rights Received.

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