forever edited

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.

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get with the program!

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).

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.

Apricot Moon

That droning throat buried in
his fingers, cracked and tanned as
barren earth, narrates the tenderness
of our times.

Into the wind, from hoping souls,
agile lungs stain this burning night
with the bittersweet shades
of our days.

Somewhere past midnight,
but well before dawn, silence
falls betwixt brandied cheeks,
yet our hearts wail on.