I watch a maddening display of fear.
Small anxious eyes peer out from sallow shades
while trembling at the thought of future change.
We are the children of eternal change
despite a long companionship with fear;
yet, hues of hearts come in uncounted shades.
If we should be reduced to bitter shades
the feats of ancestors, my dear, would change.
Shake off the ruthless mantle of your fear!
Rich shades of fear—stitched into
skin—must change.
Ten hearts are hanging,
like an endless interrogation,
bound by passive restraints
under desiccated burgundy
tongues–lukewarm lovers–who
have forgotten ancient names.
Throughout the village, voices rise.
The faithful,
seared into moist pine, eternally,
live with us now.
Forbidden sighs gently graze my mouth.
Into this heart they come.
I was doltish, I was dumb,
I burned the dermis off my thumb.
—–
It really isn’t a wise idea to jump over candle sticks, now is it?
This was written before I decided to turn the Strauss poems into a series. It is now the sixth poem in the collection.
****
A chubby, bronzed thumb plucks
needless tears from
a flushed face, discarding them quickly onto
the ground.
Commanded to supper, he gallops
past muted white
bells as April’s fleeting sweetness runs down
his chin.
One more night in the burning box.
One more day in the sullied streets.
Grey battered erasers–once a perfect
pink–pressed upon for endless years,
dangle against bony shoulders.
Another afternoon.
Silent stones recline in expectant tombs.
Even if they had tongues, they would not
speak. Their surrender is complete.
One more day in the sullied streets.
One more night in the burning box.
mistakes
and false fancies
betray the feisty fakes
who have been attempting to seize
our keys
K—for Katherine—he scrawls.
Beneath a bluebird,
three fat orange slices soak up tender
afternoon light.
Yet, those waxy, mirthful mouths
do not console
the haggard cherub who bawls softly inside
the nursery.
“Quit playing in trees,” she said.
How could she possibly know
that these arms are my refuge
and that this broken coat is my
home?
This birthday is a time to think
of moments now gone by,
while sipping on a vinous drink
until your glass is dry.
Inside my ear there dwelt a mouse
who lived within a ham hock house.
He liked to sport a three-piece suit
and toot upon a Gouda flute,
but when he jammed all through the night,
we fell against one nasty fight,
and thus he split in a sedan
stitched from a quilted frying pan.
sundry folly 