These Dreams

The day is yawning to a close
and many minds will start to doze.
These dreams that drift upon the air
must be guarded with great care

Stranger and Citizen

Limber limbs suspended in time – such grace is revelation.
Acutely aware of all the wonder that surrounds us,
my mind willingly turns inward.
Everything and everyone – stranger and citizen alike – is poetry.
Versets…haikus…sonnets,
epic narratives, only known by a select few,
or possibly by thousands who worship in earnest.

Even with vats of black plashes,
I cannot record them all.
My ink will run dry
and my memory banks shall prove insufficient.
It would prove to be a risible endeavor.

And yet, I ache for the loss,
with no anodyne in sight.

 

all thoughts and traces (repost)

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

untitled/October 2019

though it be stale and laced full of holes,
give us this day our daily bread,
for the shops are all closed and bakers
are home, sleeping quite soundly in
questionless beds

though it be moldy and lacking in taste,
give us this day our daily bread,
for the gut must be basted with something
homemade, before we are blessed with
freewheeling feasts

viii am

Knee-deep in obscurity, a man of indeterminate middle age wearing
a mustard-colored mackintosh stands poised to answer the front door.

He’s politely swiped matchbooks from almost every bar that he’s been to.
Bewildered by orchards of anxiety, he builds bridges of sticks, one chain
at a time, whirling each piece between his thumb and forefinger before
setting it in place.

In a massacre of time and good taste, the man sips on his seventh
cup of instant coffee in two hours. Brimming with unease, jittery
hands make lilting loops in the morning light,

Farewell September
Welcome October

Portrait of an Invisible Man

His jeans once belonged to another man and it
shows in the vacant spaces where flesh should be.

The desire to turn over a new leaf has given way
to staring contests with a peeling radiator.

Debits and credits meander through a sotted and swollen
mind until red blankets each and every boulevard.

The arithmetic of our choices adds up perfectly, so
much so, that we can’t bear to face the ledger.

In a round, nut brown serving plate, a half-eaten baguette
sits stale and useless, hardened to all who enter.

Saint Lucia’s Day

Inside, breathing branches sprout from oak pews.

Fireflies, misplaced in December’s frost, beam in the distance,
beckoning small raving robotic feet towards them.

Apprehensive proud faces, normally high but now low,
guide a row of bobbing robins to a prearranged nest.

A jig, a gallop, and sometimes a lilt, followed and not understood,
around a taciturn pony, small in stature with a vivid coat.  He
cannot hold them forever.

Wide-eyed descendants bereft of blood ties shoulder ancient
symbols: a straw goat laced with red ribbon, rounds of rye stacked
on a blood orange wooden pole, and cotton porridge piled high
in a brass pot.

Weighty and faded gilt stars rise high in the air, reflecting the
prayers of the public who witness their passing with quiet
anticipation.

Wavering flames encased in snowballs, cracked with crystal,
herald the beginning of the end.  Modest though they are, they
too will lead us out of winter shadows.

Massive wooden doors gingerly part to reveal burning saffron
crowned in youth’s ephemeral glow and a rill of fire flows
through the tabernacle.

White wax engages in a one-sided game of tag with the star
swan’s vulnerable neck, hoping to summon it and its brethren
towards the tendrils of Spring’s solace.

Outside, snow falls against scarlet gates.