The river was rosy at dawn.
I saw a doe, stopped
in the water.
And when the doe walked, modest waves
flowed from behind her. I was
a statue then. And sensed
the doe hesitate. And at dusk, dozing,
the river was amber in the
June mist.
A tailor labors by candlelight,
gold rimmed glasses slipping
down his rosy nose. Outside,
wet snow bleeds from burnt sky.
Threadbare fingers, frail but firm,
feel fat folds of velvet while
discolored eyes glance at the mantle,
resenting those two brass hands,
those tyrannical sentries of old,
that won’t let him sleep.
You enter the room where you child self dreamed.
Your dreams have changed but the room has not
The water-stained ceiling has not forgotten how your
salt-caked eyes stared wildly up at its jowls, dazed by
what the day had dealt you, oh so ready to retreat into
your ever expanding skull.
Those walls, those taciturn aunts and uncles, recall
your mirthful mouth making merry after August
birthday thrills and encounters with middle school
Rudy Valentinos.
The pre-Instagram picture window, alone now as it
was then, reflects on who you were, who you are, and
who you may yet become.
You leave the room where your child self dreamed.
The room has changed but your dreams have not.
Up and up, up the mountain alone,
but not, for the prying sun always
tries to reach me though the stooping
pines.
Up and up, I drag my legs to the summit.
Ancient yet ever-young, our mighty friend
greets me with snow streaked shoulders,
delighted that I have made the pilgrimage.
Green tea ice cream, tasted and savored in
memory’s mouth, cannot be found.
Effort must be its own reward.
Down I start and down I stop.
Frost flowers, crouching within the craggy
folds of the mountain side like hermits
hoping to evade the sun’s judgment, listen
with me to an explanation which I can only
half understand.
Down and down, legs dangerously buoyant,
hopping over rocks that would trip me with indifference.
Faster fellows bounce past me, flying far out of sight.
“Left over right,” is what she said.
“Left over right, or you are dead.”
But, I forgot what I was told
and now my lips are crisp and cold
Holey sweaters, once whole
10-year-old lipstick, once bold
Make no mistake,
what is theirs will be yours.
Fuzz covered coverlet, once clean
Faded pajamas, once teal
Ownership lasts
not much longer than life.
Costume jewelry, once bright
Family photographs, once nigh
Make no mistake,
What is yours will be theirs.
bare branches, once green, sigh
in freshly understood solitude
mordant
silence bubbles
up in our folded throats
and peace, that elusive soap, floats
away
Shh…shh..shh…
Welcome intruders parade across tan plaster.
The night, black as glass bodies, grows colder
with every flap of her hands.
Red silk, turning burgundy in buttered light,
rustles a merry music neath fine white frill
for this enchanting yearly yuletide thrill.
Shh…shh..shh…
This meter’s snappy! What say you?
Its parallels are far and few!
At midnight, dawn, and twilight too,
an odist’s comrade through and through!
In truth its cadence is a bore!
It’s more or less an age-old snore.
Please put away this “two and four”
and just write!
