stacked into order,
their capacity
to be filled is lost,
save the outermost,
only runcible one.
whether it be for
ladling a beef stew;
stirring, clockwise to
start cream vortices;
filled to deliver
measured amounts of
spice. yet stored, nestled
into another,
into wooden pall
cold and wanting, they
are pulled one-by-one
as familiar,
some cleaned and replaced,
some never used once,
but designed to form.
I turned the page,
and there was writing
on both sides.
symbols showing
the birth and death of an idea
comprised of words that twisted and faded
into obscurity.
I remember the texture
of the paper on my fingers, though,
rough fiber and noisy,
and the way the ink
nicked and disappeared
like snowflakes in autumn.
Consecrated between my finger and thumb,
without a varnish that might
have held words together,
it is the feel of the paper
that transferred longing.
One hundred
twenty eight beats
per minute,
beginning like rain
settling on a tenement roof
from a passing storm.
The noise rides a swell
to overtake the edge of
docile music
and crescendos-
then wittily settles in between
the pacing of a brisk walk.
After forty breaths that
fumble hand-over-hand to
scale keys to a resonant finish,
such sounds decay, in imitation
of distant leaves rustling
in the last gasp
of a gale.
Strolling in darkness in silent concern
with life undercutting all want and return
Walking the shoreline with feet in the waves
Abigail, Tara, and Lindsay fill staves
with sirens and offers too good to decline.
The sounds of their names, uncommon and fine.
Abigail offers a mortgage loan, low
percentage not even the word to invoke
digging in sand, finding the clams
that pull in the dingey, watery sham.
Tara sends out regards from the world
of spirits. A reading, she offers unfurled.
A fortune, as tides, beckoning your feet
to wander a little to far in the deep.
Lindsay is lonely and looking for love,
her harmony highest with you. -speaking of-
her likes are like yours, walking on beaches,
moonlight and dancing, her calling beseeches.
Yet, as the sun rises, the tide washes over
the siren-like cries of the ocean grow colder.
Abigail, Tara, and Lindsay all say:
hurry, please act on their offers today.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Some spam entries that jumped into a bucket and came out as poetry, (apologies to ee cummings)
Taps and Ratamacues 