Rose eyelids are warm with salt of the sorrow that seeps through my skin.
Burning, tender and fierce, is somehow felt when no other sensation is known.
Where does the blanket end?
Where do I begin?
The day is dark though the light be laughing,
laughing at me for bowing to despair.
If there is hope, I know not where.
Tag Archives: poem
Twilight in the Tulips
The sun decamps as we march here.
You lend your heart, I lend my ear.
Rich tangerine and scarlet dames
command the field with docile flames.
As we are humbled by their grace,
lush lilac looms on heaven’s face.
The moon reports as we halt here.
I lend my heart, you lend your ear.
The ladies’ gowns have been concealed
and diamonds bright have been revealed.
Your mouth unfurls; I see a smile.
Let’s linger now, for just a while.
Ocean Ode
The weight of those black keys in this palm-sized bingata
pouch never amounted to very much, yet they opened
worlds more abundant than Witwatersrand.
Gazing at such delicate flowers, dyed in orchid and amethyst,
our all-too-short afternoons waltz upon my mind; I smile at the
memory of the blithe and innocent spirit that you so lovingly
shared with me.
An empty floral pouch, coconut and pear lip balm (only used once),
Band-Aids (only used twice), antibacterial hand wipes, and alcohol
prep pads – fragments of a broken bond, bespoken by no one.
Stranger and Citizen
Limber limbs suspended in time – such grace is revelation.
Acutely aware of all the wonder that surrounds us,
my mind willingly turns inward.
Everything and everyone – stranger and citizen alike – is poetry.
Versets…haikus…sonnets,
epic narratives, only known by a select few,
or possibly by thousands who worship in earnest.
Even with vats of black plashes,
I cannot record them all.
My ink will run dry
and my memory banks shall prove insufficient.
It would prove to be a risible endeavor.
And yet, I ache for the loss,
with no anodyne in sight.
all thoughts and traces (repost)
Living is the daily removal of dust
from various places
and beloved faces,
tending to years as if
we could hold them within
our ever-shrinking hands.
Fingers fold, hardening into
shepherd’s crooks.
Wiping away time becomes
tedious, more trouble than it’s worth,
in a season when keeping one’s eyes
open can be a tremendous struggle.
various places
beloved faces
leave them alone
all thoughts and traces
untitled/October 2019
though it be stale and laced full of holes,
give us this day our daily bread,
for the shops are all closed and bakers
are home, sleeping quite soundly in
questionless beds
viii am
Knee-deep in obscurity, a man of indeterminate middle age wearing
a mustard-colored mackintosh stands poised to answer the front door.
He’s politely swiped matchbooks from almost every bar that he’s been to.
Bewildered by orchards of anxiety, he builds bridges of sticks, one chain
at a time, whirling each piece between his thumb and forefinger before
setting it in place.
In a massacre of time and good taste, the man sips on his seventh
cup of instant coffee in two hours. Brimming with unease, jittery
hands make lilting loops in the morning light,
Farewell September
Welcome October
Portrait of an Invisible Man
His jeans once belonged to another man and it
shows in the vacant spaces where flesh should be.
The desire to turn over a new leaf has given way
to staring contests with a peeling radiator.
Debits and credits meander through a sotted and swollen
mind until red blankets each and every boulevard.
The arithmetic of our choices adds up perfectly, so
much so, that we can’t bear to face the ledger.
In a round, nut brown serving plate, a half-eaten baguette
sits stale and useless, hardened to all who enter.
Saint Lucia’s Day
Inside, breathing branches sprout from oak pews.
Fireflies, misplaced in December’s frost, beam in the distance,
beckoning small raving robotic feet towards them.
Apprehensive proud faces, normally high but now low,
guide a row of bobbing robins to a prearranged nest.
A jig, a gallop, and sometimes a lilt, followed and not understood,
around a taciturn pony, small in stature with a vivid coat. He
cannot hold them forever.
Wide-eyed descendants bereft of blood ties shoulder ancient
symbols: a straw goat laced with red ribbon, rounds of rye stacked
on a blood orange wooden pole, and cotton porridge piled high
in a brass pot.
Weighty and faded gilt stars rise high in the air, reflecting the
prayers of the public who witness their passing with quiet
anticipation.
Wavering flames encased in snowballs, cracked with crystal,
herald the beginning of the end. Modest though they are, they
too will lead us out of winter shadows.
Massive wooden doors gingerly part to reveal burning saffron
crowned in youth’s ephemeral glow and a rill of fire flows
through the tabernacle.
White wax engages in a one-sided game of tag with the star
swan’s vulnerable neck, hoping to summon it and its brethren
towards the tendrils of Spring’s solace.
Outside, snow falls against scarlet gates.
The Doe (after Arthur Sze)
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.
sundry folly 