Nicole Tasker Woods

Broken oceans built on breaking waves 
A rigid caress on frothy sand 
Weaving through teasing toes 
Twenty times to feel it writhe 
An intense stroke reaches immaculate taste 
To know everything; In turn, to work for nothing. 
So utterly comfortable that you want nothing 
No more than what you have 
You can’t look at it. You can’t touch it. 
It’s floating like heavy heartbeats 
More complete with this perfection at my fingertips 
Than when walking alone on that frothy shore 
Reading into simple glances…memories past seem so trivial, 
Equivalent to silly insignificances making my world go round 
Like touching a tattoo: Not feeling the colors embedded in skin 
Even when removed, there it still remains 
No ink, but tiny scars to run fingertips across 
These fleeting imperfections 
Faint impression of reality years ago 
Remain souvenirs that never disappear.

Rhythmic words 
Flow through my head 
Even when I’m sleeping 
Then when I wake 
My body shakes 
My ears hear words come creeping. 

Haunting all I’ve ever known, 
Rushing like a skipping stone. 
Tearing me apart inside, 
Scurrying they sneak and hide. 

I rush to write, 
Delay the fleeting thought, 
Of rhythmic words 
I once forgot.

For money: 
for champagne diamonds 
and pink&white acrylics. 
For stilettos and suede 
and hair sprayed updos. 
For confidence in new-found beauty. 
For the perseverance to plan 
and never cancel. 

For transformation: 
for a chance to taste the bizarre 
and savor the uncanny. 
For disgust of a lemming life 
and envy of Self. 
For all worker-bees of this world 
and the select few who strike against the Queen– 
For my right to royalty. 

For frugality: 
for dollar menus 
and seeking out every cut-able corner. 
For the right to encourage wishful thinking 
and a pinky-promise at eleven:eleven. 
For saving up myself and spending it on others 
in unwanted conversation. 
For the privilege to set standards 
and the gall to stand by them: 
For saving face.

What do you know about this man? 
Who was someone’s son in Pascack Valley; 
A girl’s first love in Annapolis… 
Then her husband at St. Dominic’s; 
Who was a father first in Los Angeles 
Then a father again in Jacksonville? 

What do say about this man? 
Who traveled from state to state over many years; 
To succeed in an industry 
That would make him a legend 
And transform his name into something untouchable? 

What do you think about this man? 
With “CRW” stitched on each cuff 
Of neatly pressed dress shirts 
Made imperfection-free each night by the man, 
Who worked tirelessly underneath the stars, 
To thrive and rise above 
Those in corner offices with a view. 

Do you wonder about unwavering certainty? 
That which is found in this dedicated man who is 
Proudly taking this journey and making his mark 
On a lifetime made of personal and professional firsts. 

You may have your own opinions 
And you may believe many things; 
But it is not what you think of him 
Or what you have heard about him… 
But that you are privileged to know him. 

To truly know Clark Woods 
Is to know the father, son, husband and friend. 
And if you get the occasion 
To have an audience with him, 
You will appreciate his approving grin— 
Cunningly stuck halfway 
Between a laugh and a sinister smile… 
Revealing everything about himself 
And then again, nothing at all.

A hearty violation of a million
tiny hairs—soft strings in distress
over the plastic teeth of a volatile comb:
raking, exploring and scrutinizing
each cowlick and unadorned lock.
Brisk, piercing sheers snip and clip away
the last 6 months of hard work
to strengthen preservation,
maintain a life without description…
In a matter of hours, it all becomes
the epitome of stunted growth.

In shock and soaking wet,
each wisp stands surprised.
Once mistakenly viewed as strong,
it is now defined by its ever present body
and inability to lie vacant hiding face.
As if energized by the violation,
it revels in not being pulled back
or hung low by its own weight.
Each inch of the scalp fills equally
with anticipation and confusion,
creating stimulation within;
bringing a thrill of restlessness
to the mind, activating the brain…
When the tension is released,
a distinctive persona comes into full bloom
with the union of body, soul and hair.

There was a point 
in my life 
when I burned 
every CD yellow. 
Before this golden revelation 
seized me by the knees, 
you were a friend of a friend 
and you kissed 
my kneecaps 
in the darkness of April. 
It was then that I knew 
those stars 
weren’t blinking at me, 
but shining for you, 
which helps me see 
when running 
in the dark. 

The crusty sop 
of downtrodden foliage 
feeds my hasty tennies 
as I trudge 
through wet-wastelands. 
The five corners 
of a trillion rusty leaves 
yellow in the lampposts 
elegantly inhaling 
sulfur breaths. 
A cheap glow 
hesitates in the air 
then dissolves in the cold 
playing all around me. 

I don’t love the 
second friends once removed. 
Didn’t appreciate the 
multiple 
goodbye mornings. 
But I fancy those eight 
hours in April 
when you saw straight 
through me 
and I didn’t even shiver.

Soaking in sensual wisps of steam 
Twisting from apple cinnamon 
Melting strings of honey 
With every rise of intense spices 
Satisfying the fingertips 
Fulfilling each embrace 
Lifting trace with heavy haze 
Senses shudder in a rosemary maze 

Pulling forth to rise above 
Sweeter endurance in one last taste 
Tresses of confusion subside 
Curling no more above the balmy chalice 
Sinking lower in soothing thyme 
Stealing beyond pursed lips 
Cooling further yet melting skin 
Cleansing the essence of being within

Life is what you believe, 
Not what you hope it to be. 
In the end, it’s just a bunch of memories- 
Your thoughts and your dreams. 
Bring forth your hidden wishes 
The time is now to seize your dream. 
Announce your loneliness in life 
And rip it at the seams. 
Tear apart your world 
Be picky with each part– 
Let friendship melt your pains, 
Let kisses mend your heart. 
There is beauty in butterflies 
And a baby’s smile. 
Elegance in hope 
That’s been around for a while. 
Simplicity in wishes 
Whispers and whipped cream. 
Beauty in love, 
Life and dreams.

Searching for 
Your special star? 
Your imprint in sand, 
Will take you far. 

Poems 
I would rather write 
My passion is 
A daily delight 
Swimming 
Gliding 
Floating by 
Clouds do pass 
Write do I 
Composer 
Singer 
Of the pen 
Keys of bet 
Clammy when … 
Bold and full of juicy speech 
Let me live let me preach 
Holy sermons in each letter 
Panting pens 
Are drooling wetter 
Leaking to the tips of nails 
I do not know what will prevail 
Questions of the cartridge size 
Does not matter let it fly 
No mistakes 
Erasers are band 
Please release 
Whiteout in hand 
Nothing will be 
In your future 
If fancy do 
Your Band-Aids suture 
I lose not faith 
In my walk of works 
Of what my hand my write 
And how my mind may turk. 

Searching for 
Your special star? 
Your imprint in sand, 
Will take you far.

I am a wandering demipuppet 
I wonder what I hear 
I hear a pounding sea 
I see what I wish to 
I want to get out of here, because 
I am a wandering demipuppet 

I pretend that I believe 
I believe in what I touch 
I touch, for I need to feel 
I feel why I worry 
I worry that it will make me cry 
I cry when I worry, because 
I am a wandering demipuppet 

I understand what they say 
I say not what I mean 
I dream of what I hope for 
I hope for all my dreams, because 
I am a wandering demipuppet

A Flower 
I do not fancy being a flower, 
Living for the hour 
When the sunlight meets my face. 
Reaching even higher, 
Under telephone wires 
Where I slowly end my race. 
Nuzzled in cold weather, 
Swaying like a feather– 
Plucked from this good earth. 
In Lovers’ eyes, it’s sharing 
Some unfortunate flower, tearing 
My pedals without worth. 
Cunningly I decay, 
Slowly breaking away 
Dwindling to the pitch below; 
Scattered everywhere, 
So quickly, I couldn’t care 
That I lived not long ago.

Scars hidden beneath the slick shag carpeting 
That sways when she runs 
Like midnight prairie grasses waving in the wind. 
Two front feet with scuffed white toes 
Complement the frayed silk stripe trickling 
From chin to tummy. 
Too cunning to smile and mean well, 
Her evil eye makes most unsteady. 
She’ll invite herself to your seat, 
And you can stay there if you like but 
She will win every fight for her spot. 
She’ll initiate a stare-down, 
Intently looking for your blink, 
But her Velociraptor eyes will break your concentration: 
She’s reading your mind, 
She knows what you’re thinking. 
Her charming chocolate windows 
Are bullet-proof to your every effort… 
Her eyes will never open up to let you in to hear her secrets, 
Her stories from the street.