Her Favorite Flower Was Thistle


Her favorite flower was thistle, her favorite color was anything faded         and sad songs made her dance.
Neighbors clucked and shrugged their feathers
what kind of child prefers a broken doll
and shook their heads…
Most shadows only follow, but hers she made a friend
and together they sought the thin spaces,
the unlikely places.
There she told the old, old stories every night,
always stopping short of the happily ever after,
because the poisoned apple swoon was her preference.
The most melancholy of poems were the ones she could read and re-read, squeezing the last drops of heartache
into a glass and garnishing with lemon slices.
A girl of sorrow and photo negative eyes
she stood and stared up into the pouring rain while everyone else hurried past,
while her shadow bit at her heels.
Her favorite flower was thistle and her favorite perfume was the incense wafted at funerals.
She sometimes pretended to be the deceased and arranged her stuffed animals as mourners
and chose the music carefully.
The neglected and spinesprung books which others left carelessly on lower shelves
knew her name, knew her familiar cold touch 
and she read the old, old stories every night
and kept their words alive and breathing,
in the soft and silent library
with the shadow playing tag with other shades among the stacks.
Sometimes she would play too
and they let her win.
Her favorite flower was thistle
and her favorite color was anything faded
and she painted herself in those colors
and faded
and now her shadow can clasp her hand 
as they walk together.
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Chimera is TWO YEARS OLD!

russ art thatre0 LOOK! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT??


Chimera Poetry is celebrating TWO WHOLE YEARS of blogging-ness.

champagne-glasses-580x874 StraiTek-2-Year-AnniversaryYAY!

Thank you all for stopping by, for your support and for gifting me with your time – the most precious commodity.

We’ve come a long way gentle readers……Onward!

much love,






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Scar Tissue


Old words,
old wounds.
Words shot in anger,
 in ego,
 in fear,
my heart being an endless target,
while my easily filled eyes tell you when you’ve scored.
Old words,
old wounds.
Rise up like marching furrows,
the scar tissue has made lines
like grimacing smiles,
a map of the ways a person can be split in two,
can be ripped apart,
 and still live.
No magician with his chain bright saw can do so well.


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It’s gold I can feel and see first,
gold of honey and wings and delicate wax.
Feel the time and slowness and evenness of it
walls not content to merely house but curves that hum and cradle and move you along 
here now
here now
My wings
 my stripes 
my head of brass and oil and poppy.
Scents collide and cajole and mingle with the visions in my head
dreams? memories?
all soft, all fragrant
open your mouth and let your tongue weep
let it grow heavy on the sweetness…
I rise into the dawn and hold my self as tightly as I can 
as long as I can
delaying the moment of unfurling so that the pleasure is tenfold and
look now the sun is also gold
and nods to me
in this intimate fellowship
this airy worship of light we share. 
My language is my dance and my sting is not given lightly,
to sting is to die and it must be momentous
it is to mark the one stung as savior.
And the wax receives my husk
my shining emptied capsule
with love and covering ease
and builds me into the wall of memories.
I am gold.


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Chimera Packs Up

Chimera is all packed up and ready for The Great Wild Vacation Rumpus to begin!



I will be roughly here:       pyrenees   

(if you look close, that’s me right there, waving. In the hat.)

Besides other sightseeing, I do plan to do a bit of hiking since the mountains are RIGHTTHERE, it would feel a bit churlish not to.
This is how I see myself…..   the_sound_of_music.jpg.size.xxlarge.letterbox
This is probably more realistic……       funny-girraff
Let’s just hope it doesn’t turn into……      7cb76310cdc29787c6a1b6a5c300cb92
I will miss you all (virtually) and I know you will miss me.
(attention: this is your cue to agree vigorously and write longing loving devoted readership emails. Low on angst, higher on the loyalty and missing you horribly factor. Thank you. The check is in the mail…..)
When I come back I hope to have:
A. Lots of new material and
Until then be well.
 chimera / jaye
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At first you were only breezing across my surfaces

leaving a short film

a subtle tap on the shoulder memory.

I brushed you off each evening

and then I noticed you were burrowing

like a fish hook in my skin

and my heart should have sped up in fright but instead it beat out a languid N’awlins jazz lick. 

And then I noticed you were spreading and coating me like coconut lotion

the plastic bottle pliant from the sun

and the heat I was storing was 


The songs that I carried in my head were sung for an audience of one

and if the notes I was trying to hold were crackled and sharp as vinegar

you still listened and maybe that smoothed the edges,

sweetened the backnotes

because in the end

I only sang for you.

You were in the all of me and in the crooks and crannies 

filling out and rounding the corners and then 

the lights changed and the songs changed and one chair got taken away…

You burst out of me like star dust escaping a doomed sun.

I felt you go,

and tried to catch and keep some of it,

tried to hold the magic.

It sparkled in my hands for a moment

and then it was just 


leaving only grit

 and becoming just the stuff you sweep up.

I can’t remember the lyrics anymore and the heat is almost spent

but I think I will just sit here and wait

for the music 

and the magic 

to reappear.

For that brush, that breeze, that tap on the shoulder.

Or for the dust to find 

and reclaim me.



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A Good Girl


I am a good girl.
I see my dentist twice a year and always look both ways before crossing the street,
and always use a napkin
and say please and thank you
and everyone says how good,
you are so good.
A very good girl they pat me on the head with words and nodding chins…
Sometimes I smile prettily and whirl away on my bicycle
or pop bubbles in  the air.
Sometimes I get bored of being good.
Sometimes I stand motionless in the backyard with the nice toys
and watch the moon all golden
until it starts to drip and I know that it is poison
it is drugs
and drugs are bad, bad, very bad for you
but I want to lick the droplets hanging from the branches 
in the trees all shadowbound
and glaring
like prisoners in wooden cages a long time ago.
There are eyes in the branches at night and they look at me
all strangey-scary
until I look back at them even scarier
and they close,
and I think they leave because I beat them at their own game…
And when I sing outside,
“three six nine the goose drank wine…”
“step on a crack and break your mothers back. Break her, break them all….”
I know they listen. 
So I sing them other songs
in other languages
and words from 
I am a good girl and when someone tells me a secret I keep it to myself
and sometimes if they are good too
I tell them mine
or show them….
and then the eyes in the trees watch carefully
until the showing is over
and the secret is safe once again,
for a while…
I am a good girl and the voices that tell me things
can’t stop talking to me
they even brave the sunlight sometimes
and I ask them for stories
 about the real bogeyman
and they say he isn’t a man at all
they say
(but you mustn’t tell)
that he is really, in the deepest deep down,
 a very good girl.
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