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.
Tag Archives: poem
Over the Bridge
From dense woodland to broad steppes, we trekked
with babes on our backs and hope at
our heels, seeking solace in
an age of profound change,
when we bid farewell
to distant kin
and forged a
friendless
path.
Far From the Blazing Stars
Beneath a buzzing vault of viper skins,
I slither through the belly of a lake,
where my lean lower limbs morph into fins.
By Suijin’s deep grace, I swiftly make
my way past ruthless currents and begin
to transform into an enchanted snake.
It seems my life on land is over now.
I never shall return – to that I vow.
———————-
Suijin is the Shinto god of water in Japan. This was written in Ottava rima form.
Household Songs: XXX
Tongues of the beloved hunger
for delusive miracles
from a holy intersection of mahogany and
lacerated resin.
His presence in the doorway,
like a petticoat
parted by a wanton wind, flutters nigh
sallow feet.
Household Songs: I
A silk blouse torn from
convulsing, sunburnt hands
falls to the floor in a torrent
of dysphoria.
Weep not for the bodies
who float over
floorboards like docile dust balls going to
their graves.
The Road to Home
Jammed securely into this chamber–three
by five–of numberless numbers, dripping
like Inga in August, my flushed ears listen
to the roar of reticence that permeates
our hive of heavy bodies.
Eyes oscillate between clocks and computers
as fingers flutter and shoulders shake beside
document drenched desks.
At five o’clock, smiles spread thinly over our
flagging faces, even though, for us, the road
to home leads nowhere.
:::dinner deliberations:::
steam rises swiftly
from a metal colander
filled with moist soba,
echoing the unspoken
grievances of yesterday
Cinquain/LXX
lush grapes
line the pathways
that we aimlessly traipse
along, beneath sun’s thrashing rays
today
Rituals of August
The King has departed.
Spotted peach blossoms
unfold their fragile wings
in front of sun-melted
faces, kissing the wind
in the darkness as they
journey away towards
the mountainside.
I pray that we shall meet again.
:::the disintegration of memory:::
When my Mary was four years
old, she loved wearing a particular
red dress. It had white and pink
butterflies embroidered on it. She
wore that dress until it fell apart.
Grandma Elliot bought that dress
for her.
When my Mary was four, maybe
three, she loved wearing a particular
red dress. She wore that dress
almost every day. Grandma bought
that dress.
When my Mary was little, she loved
wearing a particular red dress. She
sure did wear that dress a lot!
When my Mary was a girl, she loved
wearing a red dress.
My daughter loved wearing a red dress.
A long time ago, I knew a little girl who
wore a red dress. I can’t remember
her name.
sundry folly 