First Freedoms

Zooming over armies of ants
with snacks on their backs,
touches of lunch lurch within
bursting bellies.

Freedoms found in the leisurely
revolutions of childhood’s first
and favorite escape are dreamt
of even after smooth cheeks have
turned with time.

Strawberry sugar stragglers fall
freely onto burnt bug bitten legs.
Chains of children with hamburger
hands grasp wildly for outstretched
French fry fingers, dripping limbs
without faces act as summertime
saviors.

Vivid veins flash fiercely against sooty
sky.  Rich rumbles from above make
mothers mouths move impish Its and
Not Its on to protecting porches as
scents of soil rise from rose rings.

she could not say

An august owl, silent as sycamore, perched
on lofty marble throne just might, if not napping,
catch creatures of carelessness with its divine
hatchlings.  Protected by tripart shields, they
detect everything which moves under moonshine.

But, Maude saw nothing behind the light–bright
sun out of synch–on that secret sleeping
road.  Whether man or monster came her way,
she could not say.

our armored borough

Deep in our burning bowl,
colorless carp writhe along
river veins, concealed under
hydrangea tears.  In the
coming days, good citizens,
carved from ivory and
emerald, will be driven beneath
browning branches and into cool
corners with strawberry-butterscotch
stars swimming in their eyes.  Those
who endure shall frolic in
chrysanthemum’s shadow.

The Tranquil Tiger

Rippling crystal becomes bistered and soiled,
staining learned thumbs with mud from this noble
land.  Immature garnet tresses lay slumped beside
woven palm leaf, gasping for air with the fire of our
founder on their faces.  They will never know the
power of their ancestors, those heaven sent messengers
with twisted fingers, blighted by warts, but which smell
of tropical winds.  One quick slice and a tiger’s hide
is exposed.  Stripped of black bands, the beast is tamed,
becoming a willing servant to body’s desires.

out with you and with you, in

Raise up red irises, swimming in smoke.
An impartial dove shall rescue us from
this garden where only citron grows.

The wishbone within couldn’t possibly offer
shelter, not now…not ever.  Up and up
towards a seemingly sympathetic plateau,
endless ascents weary an already fragile mind.

The second descent (no catch for hooked
hands), just like the first, grants no asylum.
We trudge on in raven’s ruff, searching for
fabled sweet bay that blooms in the
wake of defeat…may we slumber in its
blushing arms.

Burned Out (April, are you here?)

Yolk, not broken, awaits tomorrow’s
skin.  Young basil, wilted from evening
heat, never passes through your lips.
The hour, slow as September 5th, casts
a solitary shadow upon impregnable
white paint. Tongue tastes, but belly
does not. Curtains have been drawn,
for while there are no secrets, there is
no soul.