Three grains of paradise
remain in an abandoned
vessel, longing to be
summoned home. Golden
brown edges caress
colorless fragments as eyes
await the epilogue.
Three grains of paradise
up in the air;
Father, Mother, Brother
Violent squalls water cotton
carnations. Her tongue shall
not taste Inari’s holy harvest
even though hunger has come
to call.
On an unrelenting winter’s day,
three grains of paradise
covered in clay…
hot streaming tears of Job ground as fine as
stardust cloud a discolored cup, constructing
a dusky cosmos fashioned from the anguish
of almonds
before the sun, thy broken body
shall be healed
In a frigid room
In a place I could not change
Out of carelessness
I snapped its handsome head off
to feel a passion for life.
The longest noodle in the world
on polished fork was now just twirled.
This piece of pasta is so vast
that after lunch, it’s time to fast!
———————
Today’s writing post is intentionally light fare.
Our Lady lights the way
as
shift is done, but before
the fun, four flagging
feet round the
corner and
stop under a streetlamp
for a smoke of
salvation.
Is that her apple
in my pocket?
Face to chin under a
shorn Pegasus,
heels scrape down
on cold curb in front of
the obsidian twin who
prowls nearby.
Fingertips graze
tough red skin
Damp bodies huddled
in doorways and
ecstasy hold down
the
night with hot
sloppy kisses; without
them this street would
vanish – but this is
only
conjecture.
Sweetness rolls over
parched lips.
What crime shall
come
to this place
when souls of
the city can
barely stand?
————–
This is the fourth installment in a series of five poems inspired by the photography of Constantine Brassaï.
make like the morning
and fly to the west,
till your fine wide wings
detect their own nest
That blanket that spins in the drum
bears secrets that only my lips
are longing for. As the washer hums
and grunts, the lavender strips
of cloth underneath my fingers sigh
when the brush strikes them with fury.
He chose to sidestep these empty eyes.
Now I stand, blanketed in worry.
———–
edited after initial posting
Flowing through the
thickest water to get
back home.
stone by stone
head by head
The conductor says
that
I’ve been left behind.
At least I saw her smile.
Do you know what the
slap of stale breath
against cotton at 4:18
in the morning sounds
like?
12 hours of parceled sighs
packed and planned in
a head
so full of nothing that
it would make you scream
to the sky for the offense
of it all.
Sleep was never the answer.
I write because my mouth cannot
express what’s in my soul
and so these songs that I have wrought
have somehow made me whole.
stop the time
look up at the dappled sky;
feel the breeze on your cheeks
distant traffic flows as
nearby larks gossip about the coronation
under these blushing cherry blossoms, we have vanished
