Courage, like early morning walks, is a
habit which should be practiced often if
it is to become a song that the soul can
sing in its sleep.
Process precedes perfection; every step is
a standard. Hibernation in summer’s spout
oppresses the spirit if an inner torch still
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
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.
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.
Twin La-Z-Boys, separated by 19 years, volley the
disputed property between threadbare arms for hours.
Disclosure of the writer’s identity fixed nothing in this
age of dismissals and definitions redefined; the querulous
costume that is worn fits all too well and the furious
gurgles that escape his misty lips are an
acute reminder that our nation is still
dependent on a multitude of fools.
Decay of the visible is difficult enough but the
assassination of the unseen is a far greater crime.
Amazing transformations are taking place every day and
already, we have lost precious and valuable slivers of
energy that could have been used in an
alternate life. The disintegration of our histories is a
puzzle that we may never be able to solve.
Symbolic objects pass through weathered hands, forever
edited for meaning by time’s ever-changing whims.
Advertisements plastered on your front door (again). An
animal—possibly a cat or a female child—howls from outside; your
bonus for residing in a drab and dilapidated district.
Conifer trees lined up in rows like luckless soldiers wait for collection. Which
gene programmed you for this existence? In the
inglenook a solitary Christmas card is taped to the wall…a
shot of humanity from an old high school friend.
Spaghetti for dinner (again).
bypass blood thread,
lest Priam’s posy meet
such bellicose blade that would spread
Zooming over armies of ants
with snacks on their backs,
touches of lunch lurch within
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
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.
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.