Tag Archives: writing

Roundabout

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If all wishes were granted
the world’d come unglued-
some mountains would topple,
most governments too.

Would granting fulfillment
kill thirst on the vine?
No fruit of the spirit.
No waiting in line.

The songs about lovesickness
would drop minor chords,
and poets would dally
with limericks and torts.

To grant all the wishes
might invoke riots
where folks with day-yearnings
might want for the night.

Humankind’s never happiest
and not satisfied
unless something to strive for
is there to divide.

Yet, curious the issue
that lingers about –
this striving and conquering
leaves others out.

Their wishes pummeled,
Yes – they have them too.
If their wishes die
then the world’d come unglued.

scavenge

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with little sense
of wont and desire, less
like the flowers
that arose in February’s earnestness
and more in the dim
apathy of March mornings –
poetry lurks.

It seeks neither the fervor
of moments beneath the lilac
tree, nor the sweet aftertaste
of blackberries from yesterday’s
market.

It sneaks between the
goodwill trees, evergreen,
and brings back carcasses and twigs.

Scars, long ignored,
are indelible now. They will not be
mocked to insignificance,
but rather written down
after foraging the bleak and raw,
perfecting each and every flaw.

Supposed

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Not proven,

more-so in being,
taking its place within a theorem
of tact and diplomacy.

A region in space
that local weather might clear away
to see, but not believe-
though purpose is reason enough.

It can be filled with sun or cats –
Or emptied of lust and water.

In time, supposing-lovers meet.
There is something curved about the form,
with gentle perceptions
arc and whorled but not touching.
Gaps are infused with
first blush – in dawning fashion.
A silhouette slowly fills to capacity,
their conclusions unite
with no sound-

only an apparition
of what could be true
and the assumption of profession.

 

Touch

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Likened to an oval space
where I’m pressing to the wall
and move ’round its circumference
with caution and recall.

I sense it as a darkened play
just beyond my reach,
and substance in the shadows
are thin and disbelieved.

Her touch, in words, assuages fear-
a hold to ban the ill,
the empty holes and voids,
the impressions- touches fill.

Grip me with affection’s tongue
fast with lake and sun,
embrace me with your tumult
that leads us – come undone.

Such is this, caress’ way
in aftermath beyond,
a soothing wisp, a kiss she shares
and looming dark is gone.

corners

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I see them aloft-
your dreams,
high above your head-
something in pastels
shaded with deep red
and bold charcoal lines.

And the way
you look at these-
upward
with widened eyes-
draws me into your bliss,

warm and nestled
sitting in the corners
of your smile.

footprints

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Yesterday, I cut back the burning bush
on the hill beside my house.

It never spoke to me.
Not once.

It had grown higher
than I stand, unchecked
for now thirteen years,
and never commanded me
to remove my shoes.

It is recommended
that the wings be trimmed in late winter,
before new growth begins.
The fly-away branches-gone now. Just
fragments discarded on some sad morning
and a rooted scrag in place
awaiting rebirth.

I see no divine providence
or transcription of holiness
in this. Hope will follow
in the spring.

Now, a deepening chill ebbs
-in vain.
Winter is not yet over,
and I tarry in the garden
alone.

Immersion

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It seems like a metamorphosis
of sorts.
There is evolution of the language
in the shade of pines,
assuaged by a sun companion,
the complexities of the song
from her secret heart-
a pastorale,
that lures and covers me.

I become sacrificial
and my tongue,
a voice in the chorus,
melds with the music.
A heightened song
of concurrence-
wrapped in vines of honeysuckle,
floating in basins of still water.
Ringing true, long after
the last word is uttered
in near, deep silence.

blink

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In the green, a want
is growing – still and hopeful-
rapt. And knowing that the spell
is brief,
a pin-point moment -lust-
a thief glances – no-
it clutches
hold and deepens,
dilates what was touched
and seasoned.
Lines and edges, flecks and flux
core and flesh, entwined amok.
And somehow, moments in the end
a cured and coupled image
penned, a brush too lightly
to offend,
and focused there,
she starts again.

walk

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The public order
of the ocean,
a blur of mist and foam.
The captive sounds
of marching throngs
so felt this far
from home.

A crushing flood
of tides and breakers,
twelve bars into song
assuage the mystic
caravan singing,
everybody
let’s get stoned.

Shrieking, cry the gulls
above the din
of skin and groans.
I toss a shell.
It’s gonna rain.
I feel it
in my bones.