Monica Orange

August 12, 2011

When I wrote this series of poems about Monica, I don’t think I was writing about  a particular woman. It was the contrast between the word Monica and the different colours as if I was talking about a series of different women. Sometimes the anger in these poems is directed toward a particular woman but more often I think I was trying out different poses, different reactions to situations I might find myself. I have to say  that I have been treated well by women. Maybe that’s why I’ve never written a country song.


Monica Orange

I am not the outlaw

bound to her

by the law

sitting in the wicker chair

by a gravel lake

drinking a glass of …. silver tears.

I am not the hero

who slays her fears

and who everyone applauds

for services rendered.

I am not the priest

who releases the gypsy soul

locked up

inside her skin.

I am on the ledge

of her fingers


I am the laughter


in her veins.

I am rising up through her


a balloon

bouncing off her afternoon kisses.

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