silver screams

Sagging breasts weep alone in front
of a mirror, under embarrassed
hands, they stand silent, ashamed
of their own existence.

Desiccated ruts run over bluish white
valleys, where silver rivers once flowed
with abandon.   Day after day, memories
of majestic gardens fade.

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:::fly back::: (partial song lyrics)

Little Bird, fly back to bed.
Mama’s got a whisky head.
Close your eyes, then count to three,
dream a little dream for me.

Little Bird, fly back to bed.
Don’t you know the day is dead?
Hold your doll and squeeze her tight,
I’ll find you in the morning light.

“Little Bird, fly back to bed,”
Mama’s voice quite softly said.
But bellies cry for bits of bread;
they won’t sleep until their fed.

all thoughts and traces

Living is the daily removal of dust
from various places
and beloved faces,
tending to years as if
we could hold them within
our ever-shrinking hands.

Fingers fold, hardening into
shepherd’s crooks.

Wiping away time becomes
tedious, more trouble than it’s worth,
in a season when keeping one’s eyes
open can be a tremendous struggle.

various places
beloved faces
leave them alone
all thoughts and traces

shedding skin

Hawk eyes survey a cobbled square, teeming with tamed shadows.
Café noir in manicured hands, harsh rays from a cumbersome sun
fall upon her cobra-skinned boots.  She shields indigo eyelids with
bejeweled twigs, blocking out  far-off orchards with all her might.
Expectant limbs howl out her name; their sickly offspring are her
birthmark.  Invisible to the passing eye, they have marked her for
life.

flickering in futility

Flickering in futility, eye light vanishes at last.
Lubricant long gone from musket’s length,
horror after horror has turned muscular men
into bawling boys.

Carmine comets, too numerous to count, rain
downwards until no consoling bullets remain.

An involuntary babysitter, bereft of his blanket,
tends a makeshift graveyard until buttress’ come.

Blessed Art Thou

A crimson tinted mouth smudges
comrade glasses beneath a buzz of
walking suits.  They talk only amongst
themselves, never to her.

Glittering gown masks avian limbs, a
former gazelle turned silent sidekick.
She is hopeless in her new-found role
and recites alphabetic antiphons, reaping
no harvest beside such diseased plantings,
yet brightly standing still, she will.