Saturday, May 07, 2011

An Arabesque Of Iris

Chris Olander

—Chris Olander, Nevada City

When the Angels’ harp
   strings sing true
     age improves
the instrument’s tone!

So many years laboring
   marriage familiarity’s
     mundane necessities:
   quick step dancing
to keep it together------

When we embrace
   and I slip my hands down
     inside her tight fit Levis---
   squeeze firm buttocks—
Snap—strum her panty strings—

heaven’s harmonic quickens—
   her Victoria Secret Angel fingertips pluck
     the muscles: Ahhhhhh—Ohhhhhh—
Ouuuuuu—Yeeaaaa—pure tone!


If I could hold you
   melt through your skin
     muscle---bone---to your mrrow
become one with your soul
   would I know you any more
     than what I know of myself
this instant
   our eyes mix-----

—Chris Olander


—Chris Olander

Laughter—women flutter out of
drapes opening our obsidian crystal:
portal to our garden’s nocturne delights---
maple leaves lift their breasts—the breeze
veiled in full moon glow—skirts whispering
overture our dark pond—rippling stars
into our window’s reflection—silver Iris
in a vase: five-inch, lavender, fluted column
neck curves elegant classic laced lip.

The flowering centers two candles, lapis lazuli
set in silver—hourglass jewels enshrine two
archetype flames—still—in mahogany table
glow—globular, the Iris’ incandescence swells---
the petals’ crown triad, arcing, ovals—ruffling
silver—indigo filigrees gold fleece illuminating
breath rippling the corolla’s generations:
musk desire muscle drum shimmies—pineal
crown flowering angel hair’s iridescent flesh.

Oh—She—is bathing now, above us
in her golden bubbled rainbows---
architecture nearing perfection
her pink parts soak perfume---
Hot water lapping at her breasts.
She rises with moon light in steam
thighs triangle her apex glow
glistening curls in her woman’s charm.
Erect! She towel-wraps nipples.

Toes patter her footfalls, her ankles
crescendo our light gallery nuance—
gather erotic glow—fuel her flesh true
over the carpet renaissance—an arabesque—
reminiscing angles enlighten her thighs’ image---
lapis lazuli threshold portals our flame
Iris centers—light chalice—Man/Woman
embracing zygotic dance—brief breath!
Full moon fumes veils---flames flick—lick
classic fluted column, Fleur-de-lis—wild.

Moon light ripens what our lips speak.
The body’s elixir exudes mercurial—
blue veins silvering nude triad
tunnel red wisdom—Alchemy!
The elemental divine conception—
triple stitched throat fleece golds
in deeper tone, resonant, the fiber
hummms—embracing egg cream.

Oh, an Iris to be sure---just an Iris.
Discovered below the young pine
rising from nude, beige, sloped clay-----
Oh, mystical origin where ever
blue-white tone silvers in moon light---
Summer’s gold swelter fades it!


Chris Olander, Poet/Teacher with California Poets in the Schools (CPITS) since 1984, blends performance techniques with spoken word to create an action art poetry: musical image phrasing to dramatize relative experiences—a poetry arising from oral and bard traditions: a sound poet exploring meanings and ideas in rhythm patterns. For more about Chris, go to; you can also see/hear him read at or

Join us at The Book Collector this coming Wednesday, May 11, for the release of Chris Olander's first chapbook, Iris, from Rattlesnake Press. That's 1008 24th St., Sacramento, 7:30pm. Free!

And join us in the Kitchen tomorrow for more Mom poems than you can... well... imagine...!

Meanwhile, D.R. Wagner writes: I'm still having a conversation on Cornwall with Taylor Graham. Her Carn-Brea poet pushed me back to the old monument there and recalled the landscape.

—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

It was Basset who took the miners
Down to Plymouth to stop the fleet
And started them coming back in death to
Smuggler’s Cave and the cup and saucer,
Making those ungodly songs.

“We even stuffed the entrance up
W’rocks so children would not come,
There but still they did. They thrived
On mystery and told stories that
The castle was being pulled back down
Into the earth and melting into
Endless shafts beneath the Carin Lane.”

And now the landscape’s wilted,
Bears a cross of fire at Easter
By the Tor and listens to these
Selfsame moanings and the breaking
Of the rock, the darkest music ever heard.


—D.R. Wagner

The days of dream.

Those tiny rooms we can gaze
Into but are forever unable to reach
As much as a finger length into
To see if it is real or not.

A gull running along the shoreline
Dragging a wing staring at the sea.
There is no sound on earth breaking
Like these waves. The evening eats,
Dines on everything and smiles
Back at us, content that
We are there, helpless yet
Full of understanding.

I’m sorry. I am unable to speak
To you like this any longer.
It is nothing personal. It is a
Fault of suddenly noticing that
Curtains surrounded every room

And then there is that cat meowing
Just out of sight, in the dark
Sounding like it wants to get in,
If just for a minute.


Today's LittleNip: 

He who lies with muse in bed
rather be with sorrow wed!

—Chris Olander



Chris Olander