for the words you breathe,
I say
pronounce them, announce
their coming on the air,
project outward to the stars
that settle
on winter’s prelude
and follow them out,
moving in a waltz grazioso or
or dolcissimo,
until the sun rises
and the songs of spring return.
An aubergine sound
and a hollow bitter wind,
that portends of a sadness, lately then,
after the reign of summer’s end
and autumnal color,
red and yellow and their kin.
When joy is moved indoors to stand
the test of winter’s blunting hand,
bound with the melodies to hum
within your heart, with flute and drum.
Seeking clear, in midnight skies, between
the snowfall, when angels fly;
and you, among the ones that seek and pray,
wishing upon the stars to stay
awake and listen to the songs you sing
with words of note for every little, living thing.
Then rest your head and fall asleep
in dark and as lovely as woods are deep,
and echos of your song on air,
warm the bitterness to fair.
risen echos call forth
the dawn to come, with dew
from disconsolate night.
and in striking tubular bells
an aubade
in summer or winter played,
the pleasing tones describe
a recapitulation of the day.
each one silent, then sonorous
in glad resonant array;
different
from ones sooner struck,
then died away.
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)
I hear the voices, when you crack the spine
from page to page, the clouds hold out the blue
of skies that start as clear to him as you.
In novels written out and underlined,
Author dreams come spilling forth to grow
stories from the soul to please her whim
from seeds her index finger plants for him
in different climes, contrary row-by-row.
A hero’s man, no less a vagabond
the mistress wholely anxious in her soothe
neither seeking love or much ado;
yet, the words conspire to spur them on.
and love peeks in, then crawls out from its shell
with tales of kings and queens and breaking spells.
heartfelt, kind words,
warm as soup,
is it wrong to want it in a mug
instead of a bowl?
Whether to go left or right instead of up,
down in error of back.
or crab crawl, in lock step
for a beautiful formation
cooked down from the least combination
of ingredients,
ladled out of your mind.
conclude with the oyster crackers from a
cellophane packet that you crinkled
and tossed away.
in that way, you can travel
and warm your hands in the cold
sipping as you need it,
and walking slow,
the people around you
ascend the streets.
The concept
is really simple, where
the addition of them
opens a language that
otherwise stumbles in silence,
As a simple “why ?”
infuses the sunlight and breeze
to rattle the trees in reply.
Yet without sound,
with eyes alone,
that creates a chasm in its invocation.
and, just as quickened,
closes a gap in response
between lovers,
with an embrace,
but no words,
and silence fulfilled.
Taps and Ratamacues 