Tuesday, December 31

The Fourth Phase


THE FOURTH PHASE
Used to track shadows . . .
Used to. Now, warm in the dark.
Embraced by pillow, warped by sedation.
Blinds turned, just so.
Upstairs they sleep as in the
Third phase of death.
Wake me. If fear occurs.
Wake me.

Between slats . . .
Watching . . . interpreting . . .
Plotting the fourth phase
With daunting ingenuity.

Saturday, December 28

The Dead Thrush

THE DEAD THRUSH
Dead, you dwindle,
Caught your wing on a spindle.
You sleep now--
Will you not wake?
Pitiful bird,
To what net were you lured?
You're trapped, now--
Incautious rake!
Sorrow, you're hanging
Among the paintings.
You're stone now--
Oh, what you break!

Friday, December 27

Heart, Collapse

HEART, COLLAPSE
Hearts feather,
Candied coats endure the weather
Of all tasting tongues
Out for licks,
Or kicks,
Or sugar lapses.

Hearts weather
What tests their tethers,
Holding hard to 
Chocolate sweets,
Chunks or bars or other treats,
Or pies, perhaps.

Hearts tether,
Batter into leather,
Sticking to grief
Or the back of teeth,
Overriding what's brief,
Blueprinting new maps.

Hearts leather,
Vessels congeal into feathers.
Overcrowded, they age,
With death align
Their saccharine design.
Then, heart, collapse.

Saturday, December 21

Rumble

RUMBLE
There’s a rumble in my tumble;
When the wind blows, I might crumble.
If upon your step I stumble,
I will try to be most humble.
Why is your mouth all mumbles?
Do you turn me loose to bumble?
Now I’m lost and left to fumble
With this rumble in my tumble.


Wednesday, December 18

Bear Trap

BEAR TRAP
Caught up in your wires, a copper cricket in this web
Each tug on the lines an echo into emptiness
Fabrications become collusions;
No more pretense.
A doe in these deep woods, soft hooves on leather leaves
Approaching the twilit glade where you wait
Silence rich with downy breath;
Cock your crossbow.
Lock-jawed creature, dappled in façade, a voice in a void
Clairvoyance is an annoyance, sensing the iron
Teeth before they meet through
Tender flesh.

Monday, December 16

The Art of Awakening



THE ART OF AWAKENING
Time lapse lashes, rise above the glow—
Movement through the iris.
First morning breath in the sunshine;
Absorb light.
Woke
In the warmth of
Electric blankets.
Must passion be red?
The art of awakening
Is peacock-aqua blue.



Saturday, December 14

Puppet

PUPPET
raise the curtain, pull the strings
hand in glove will make it sing
little handicrafted thing
play on, puppet, play
give it roles, give it wings
dance and clap in rosy rings
light to every face it brings
play on, puppet, play

takes on life of its own
stitched up doll of fabric sewn
sightless eyes, lacking bones
dance on, plaything, dance
with sweet sighs the watchers moan
puppet with their cares has flown
trials now leave them alone
dance on, plaything, dance

fingers shift limbs from inside
no one can from puppet hide
vacant mouth, it smiles wide
growl on, sweetling, growl
again! again! the crowd has cried
deeper into it they slide
feel their hearts and brains collide
growl on, sweetling, growl

puppet wants to play today
puppet wants to find romance
puppet now is on the prowl
puppet leaves nothing to chance

Friday, December 13

Legend

LEGEND
You hope it will-won't be revealed
What earthly laws by shame conceal:
The Legend penned
In caverns sealed:
 
A golden runner, dead-end dream,
Impregnable walls, stifling seams.
You break to bend,
So it would seem.

I’m Legend! cries from deep within
You made me thus, now let me in!
You deeper send
His vampire grin.
 
Imprisoned, lonely in his cell,
He weeps; he plays at casting spells.
A death impends,
This banshee yells.
 
This dwarf, this Hyde, primordial tale
Shrieks for birth to no avail.
What he intends
Can’t be curtailed.
 
You wrote him; now he’s yours to bear,
Though nonchalance you’re pained to wear.
Brave heart, defend
This Legend’s dare;
 
Your dark friend lives. Beware! Beware!
 

Wednesday, December 11

Secret Admirers

SECRET ADMIRERS
Sometimes my secret admirers
Are far too secret for me.
Where are the clowns and flatterers?
Admission here is free!
The tent is up, the rope is taut,
The trapeze awaits intrepid hands;
What fancies will fill full this eve?
What trysts have been fore-planned?
Don your makeup; join the masque;
Espouse the revelry!
Harlequin—spin, love, spin!—
And merry we shall be!
 

Tuesday, December 10

The Expectations of Adam

THE EXPECTATIONS OF ADAM
He came from a plane beyond this one
With words writ on his heart,
With patches sewn across his eyes
And solitude his companion dear,
This Adam, cast from someplace pure
To move throughout this land.
 
Expectations made demand,
Took root beneath a callous sun,
And those who saw him were so sure
To play their ever-standard parts.
Simplicity reigned; he had no fear,
For what woe could be realized?
 
This Adam read through no disguise,
Offered every whim a hand.
His creed held hostage what was clear
To everyone who’s anyone.
Faith in fruition was his art;
He’d not been warned there was no cure.
 
Elusive prospects were his lure,
But luster masks disastrous lies.
Constrictions nibbled, picked apart--
Harbingers of dwindling sands.
He fast lost hope, was forced to shun  
What once had given him such cheer.
 
Twisted brows and mocking sneers
Into real disdain matured,
But none of it could be undone.
What never quite materialized
To eternal isolation damned
This one, an end before his start.
 
So from this world he did depart,
His dreams in rot, desires smeared,
Unwilling sacrificial lamb
Forfeited to reassure
Believing expectations wise
Is foolish when the wheel's begun.


Sunday, December 8

Nectar Words



NECTAR WORDS
You made her do it.
Nectar words,
Sugaring layers of corrugated steel
With glass.

She wandered halls
Infinite.
Waited for ambrosial speech,
The phraseology of the gods,
Honey-dewed lips
Formulating the unformulated.
Entertained the notion of discovering
Pleasure in self pity,
Satisfaction in sadness.

She waited.

Waited.

And you made her do it.
Speak now only sweet nectar words,
Sugaring, 
Encasing what writhes beneath.

Saturday, December 7

You, In Your Calm



YOU, IN YOUR CALM
How light fills the bottom of
raindrops settled upon the glass
Of a train bound for the North
of a distant land.
Your eyes are a kaleidoscopic window
I can use as my compass
On the long trip before me—
Please hold tight my hand.
The windows of a city I fear to leave
are honey-combed squares of gold
Against a black backdrop of buildings
too tall to climb.
The wheels of this transport
are iced-over moulds
Of shells that lived once,
that counted the beads of time.
Why is there sorrow in your voice?
The way you frown—
It brings an ache
to my own pale heart.
White fingers trace your sighs,
touch the line of your crown.
Did I pull you with me
to this place where shadows dart?
No, you came of your own volition,
with knowledge of the chance.
How deep my love of you still glows—
You, in your calm.
There are dangers in letting
infatuation dance,
But I feel your name always on my lips—
a sacred psalm.

Wednesday, December 4

Constellations


CONSTELLATIONS
Frosted fog blooms,
Facets effloresce,
Fracture into reflections,
Reveal tiny spots
Perceptible to seeking eyes.
Sparking threads trace
Pictures in the stars,
Destinies cross, zip through space and time.
Ruminations scintillate,
Indigo veins
Ramify, carrying
Blood fired with thoughts of the divine.
Wayward tangles!
Atropos makes kind cuts
To remedy the cruel knots her
Sister weaves,
Connecting dots not meant for constellation.

Monday, December 2

Curiosity

CURIOSITY
pretty little thing
he is
wrap him inside a bell jar
display him on the console
amongst the geodes and glass skulls
attracting attention
curiosity of his cabineted world
mossy bi-orb
supporting life with life.
lovely golden thing
he is
set him on a pedestal
a sideshow stylite perched on a pillar
contemplating velvet folds
while whispers multiply
in the sweltering silence
accompanied by the night creatures
always watching.
impossible thing 
he is
a collectible amongst forgetables
feathered heartbeats
tread on little toes
cross the grass expanse
wet with midnight dew
trip over themselves to be first
in a line that laces into delicate lights
right angles in the wrong places.

Sunday, December 1

Harold

HAROLD
Trot-a-long, trot-a-long.
They beat Harold,
So this is his song.

Sat in the fields, a quiet lad,
But they gave him Hell
When they were mad.

Eyes fell off, and hair fell out,
Cause scarecrows aren't tough,
Ain't no doubt.

Stuffing unstuffed till just a rag
Hung on the stick,
A sagging flag.

Then a dim and dreary day,
They weren't at work;
He came to play. 

Dragged through fields of spiking plants,
Wanted to see them--
Make them dance.

Got revenge; got his win.
Left of those fools
A pair of skins.


Thursday, November 28

Snowbright



SNOWBRIGHT
snowbright
starsight
falling specks of  lovely light
winterlore
glitzgalore
pretty little crystal flight
you / me
uncertainty
in enchanting chilly night

Saturday, November 23

Something Wicked

SOMETHING WICKED
He stole into the moonlit night
Beheld a fright
Blanched horses' flanks
He turned the crank

And round the dark stampede began
The wooden clan
Like glit'ring gems
Below brass stems

Churning, groaning, dead yet living
Unforgiving
Colors blurring
Carillon whirring

Carousel of something wicked
Took his ticket
Glossy nostrils
 Snorted peril

Bright bulbs fizzled, faces mirrored
Shrieking terror
Stallion hooves stomped
Clacking teeth chomped

Then--no more--the music stilled
The foaming horses ate their fill


Wednesday, November 20

Saint Kevin

SAINT KEVIN

Long ago, in Glendalough, 
Saint Kevin spent his days.
He lived alone in a house of stone, 
his hands aloft in praise.
One misted morning without a warning 
a blackbird fluttered down,
And in Kevin’s palm, steady and calm, 
she laid an egg speckled brown.
Gentle Kevin, so near to Heaven, 
could not bear to loose the egg,
So he did his best to become its nest 
and move neither arm nor leg.
When the egg did crack and a bird in black 
emerged and took to air,
Dear Kevin the saint, without a complaint, 
returned to his life of prayer.


Saturday, November 16

Question Nothing


QUESTION NOTHING
Question nothing of your fate
When gilded stars stream witches’ blood,
When magpies prick behind the ferns,
When bitter loves are tombed in mud.

Acquiesce in gratitude
If moistened eyes meet glaciers’ paths,
If wings are gifted for a jaunt,
If sleeping beasts are roused for laughs.

Hunt for silence in yourself
Where oceans crash with cores of fire,
Where urchins feed on shafts of sun,
Where oysters with their pearls conspire.

Emulate a prism's show
For flood waters will rise and fall,
For devils cannot stomp too long,
For glory’s found in knowing all.
 


Friday, November 15

Voyage



VOYAGE
A summer voyage
Bears the desert dust of
Uber-bright days.
Beneath the half-closed lids of
Sun-hazed eyes,
Cornflower blues merge with the aureate
Mirages wafting above
Gray reality.
Sweltering, but sweet.
Still the pictures that come so fast,
Pouring from the mocking stars—
Flooding the veins of a miscalculated
Desire for
The impossible.
Warm blocks of time,
Pulsating rhythms,
Alcohol-induced daydreams,
Melting ice, and
Strangers—so beautiful—
Drifting through the lit streets
Of a ravenous mind
That can only remember memories as 
          mirth—
Only recall the golds and smiles of a
          season long gone—
Only hope to grasp such
A globe of embellished recollection
With fingers
All . . . too . . . real.

Thursday, November 14

Labyrinth

LABYRINTH
Labyrinth, hide this heart,
Down corridors pocked with doors.
Though tunnels may turn and corners collide,
The safety it seeks is yours.
Labyrinth, lose this thought,
Up stairways that never end.
Though ballrooms crumble and cellars burn,
The solace you give is its friend.
Labyrinth, smother this dream,
With walls that press all parts.
Though ceilings soar high and marble floors crack,
The freedom it hates will depart.
Labyrinth, make empty this hope,
Let minotaurs tear it to shreds.
It wanders so frightened and cries for its end;
It won’t be at peace ‘till it’s dead.

Monday, November 11

Moth

MOTH
Child, fluttering against the dark,
Moth wings dusted, gilt with a translucence
Manifest only to the heart,
Become what you promise to be.

Boy, moments past are ever-present,
Always who we are, an infinite endurance
Flitting above what is permanent,
Become what you promise to be.

Darling, the webs you build, they flower,
No small thing hopes for avoidance,
And gods, our dreams, devour,
Become what you promise to be.

Love, ensnared in winter’s box,
Winged thing, you move in elegance,
Turning keys in time’s false locks,
Become what you promise to be.

Sunday, November 10

Enchantment



ENCHANTMENT
Understand the way grass blades embrace the wind:
That’s how I’m waiting to feel . . .
The wind, frightening in its potential,
Is, to the grass, the only thing real.

Belief in the silence of the purest shaft of sunlight:
That’s all I’m asking to hold . . .
Whispering from the skies, glowing on the leaves,
The sunbeam’s life purpose is told.

Mimic how drops of water collect light in the darkness:
That’s what I need to do . . .
Despite their short durations, the droplets
Know how to make one beauty two.

Gain admittance past the quiet boundaries of your nature:
That’s where I wish to go . . .
Our blood is bound by what we sense;
Enchantment makes it so.



Saturday, November 9

The End



THE END
The crystal box of hours,
Minutes, years parsimoniously parcels out
Their end, not their beginning.

She jetés on legs of glass,
Each step a tick-tick-tick closer
To her end, not her beginning.

He grows in hot skin breaths,
Reigns a kingdom of intimate dreams
About his end, not his beginning.

They—locked in lifeless lassitude—
Forever suspended in tremulous space,
Not meant for this world, this rule-bound place,
They begin at the end.

Friday, November 8

The Corpse's Composition

THE CORPSE'S COMPOSITION
A corpse composes its decomposition,
Caressing the lusts that were its competition.
Awareness—it goes, but yearnings keep living,
The binds that confined them at last more forgiving.
Hungers don’t die; no, they burn after rot
Has consumed all the parts temporality forgot,
And a fantasy never fulfilled pulsates on,
A pumping gut now that the real thing is gone.
In darkest holes where the white worm holds its feast,
A million bone puppets are posthumous priests.
Locked into their coffins of sumptuous decay,
Mandibles chatter of what held them prey.
Though cognizance vanished, and souls found their cure,
Passions turned animate stir and endure.
Ten, twenty, two hundred, a thousand writhe deep
In the catacombs where all the true secret
s keep.

Monday, November 4

Glamour


GLAMOUR
They—poppies
Eliciting opium stares
From the eyes of men in
Distant halls.
Delicate flowers,
Sing yourselves to sleep.
Glamour contorts the
Visions entertained
By those enamored
With its perforated promises.

Saturday, November 2

Daydream's Wheel



DAYDREAM'S WHEEL
Lying, back to the soft earth,
The wild brush reaching into the blue above,
Heather and thistle and lemongrass
Down drift in the air,
Grounding us--all that we know is real.

I find you, for what it's worth,
Less fictional than love,
A collection of short stories that last,
And for you, as for this place, I care.
There are so many lucid layers to peel.

Bare feet, laughter, a smile's birth,
Counting the colors of the wildflowers that hover
In time as it moves from present to past.
Perfection is a sentiment, perhaps unfair.
We are placed in this gentle ideal

With only the sunlight's unfolding girth
To dapple our skin through the foxglove.
This moment, fragile as glass,
Enchanting as it is rare,
Spins endless, a cog in this daydream's wheel.