Marrow and Memoirs

You don’t know who you are until
everyone leaves you.

Staring for hours at a wall of sand,
deciding what is light and what is
shadow, brings everything into focus
and who you were before you donned
the masks that have made your life,
emerges between the hours of restiveness
and reason.

Hunger will shape one’s days in ways
that can humble even the most jaded
and faded of homo sapiens; eyes that
fumbled only for tomorrow begin to
hunt thirstily for that which will sustain
marrow and memoirs for ages to come.

You don’t know who you are until
everyone leaves you.

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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.

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.

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.

Honey Girl

Eyes not yet open,
hidden in warm honey,
stare into comforting darkness,
searching for safety.

Will you look upon me,
or shall my face be your
eternal, distant,
advocate?

Eyes not yet open,
hidden in a flourishing orchard,
refuse to see the
dangers that await them.

Shall I look upon you,
or will your face be my
lone, unknowable, lantern
in life’s teeming tide?