There
are
an assortment of sizes
colors and shapes of
colored glass that sit
on the table and catch
the morning sun.
my silhouette
blocks the glint
in the big red bottle
as an eclipse-
unfettered by orbital
motion.
The lights illuminated,
then passed her
on the serpentine highway,
as she kneeled in prayer;
people in their
own cars looking
at the road
and ignoring the eglantine
bush in bloom.
The poet, from his slant,
saw her lament
-the context in thorns-
and captured her tears,
knowing
she would never
read his words.
its ordered stacking
melts and dies,
recapitulates
then coalesces-
to epitomize
a reformation in this wise-
to begin again, displaced another’s
demise.
On Wednesday,
the piped-in music
is the dulcet tones of
a soprano saxophone, a theme
some clientele believe balances
smooth with the hot and sour soup
and the first plate of butter shrimp
with white rice, fried pepper squid, and
the hibachi chicken, stratifying the ambience
of a buffet; but the second plate,
picked and chosen
among the sesame chicken, and the
general tso’s,
and the chicken with broccoli
all taste
like a thin song
of tempura chicken (sans the
sweet and sour sauce) on the
front serving table.
On weekends, they serve dim sum
and there are family style meals
served in the banquet room. The music
from the erhu and the lute
is the the sum of the whole,
a way to return
the lever to its grounded point
while remaining on the fulcrum.
between the plane trees
by the lake
I would place a park bench
so that I could watch
the water gesture
and volley,
shaded from the sun
quiet interrupted
by a cardinal, or
the leaves that surmount
distant sounds of
traffic,
reminding me of
continuum
states
that overlap
between the plane trees
************
between the plane trees
that overlap
states
continuum
reminding me of
traffic
distant sounds of
the leaves that surmount
by a cardinal, or
quiet interrupted
shaded from the sun
and volley,
the water gesture
so that I could watch
I would place a park bench
by the lake
between the plane trees.
the grass grows tallest
near the edge of the thicket
and offers a caesura
from summer’s pulsation
to the meek and ferocious, alike.
A haven for the seemingly disparate
field mice and feral cats,
hiding in the whiskey grass;
neither thinking to sound or move,
until darkness arrives, and
they resume their convictions
of living in the dimmet.
rain falls,
hardly delightful –
in a moment that creation
dictates,
then washes into a gutter
as its sound waves sizzle
on impact.
like crying,
its tears collide with others,
browbeating the night
into acceptance
because it is what it needs
and not a want.
Meanwhile, strained eyes skim
a blanketed sky
seeking solace
hidden by billow
and murk,
for an orb that,
even paled or papered,
truly
needs to be seen.
A feather on the side of the road,
I see, with its charcoal coloring,
glistening with grey.
Once useful,
in a water-proofing, streamlining way,
now laying shed, cast-off.
A feather on the side of the road,
almost a foot in length,
not doubt better for wings
making a goose move faster
between the meadow to the right
and the pond
on the left, but now
they stay mostly to the left
until their molting is done,
with the feather on the side of the road.
It could provide a nice quill pen
with its slender stem, but not many
write that way anymore, what with messy
iron-gall, using parchment and ink wells.
All slow to dry and
stains the fingers black, a darker color than
the feather on the side of the road.
Something once in black and white terms,
now a landscape item on the berm,
its function – purpose
discarded,
now grey,
glistering charcoal
like this feather on the side of the road.
may gasp,
as the skin is breached
-throwing succinct directives to the air
telling you where next to move your fingers,
how to handle with a gentle -ness,
exposing more flesh
as the
rough exterior
is pulled away in a continuous motion.
do not crush
this will force the pulp down
to the ground, wasted.
when ready, its sweet odors and juices
may now be tasted
and consumed.
I am an intruder,
though the path before me
encourages that. pressed gravel
that crunches in the silence
disturbed by my stride.
further in, and I
hear the breeze
impersonate the
the moving brush,
and doves interrogate
the sound, but once still,
it cannot
be captured.
I am an interloper,
the light dims to the floor
where ancient secrets
fallen have decayed
with the years;
forgotten, though the trees in
their circumferences, remember
to punctuate the darkness
as I creep in, uninvited.
Taps and Ratamacues 