yearly
bitter combat
has just about nearly
deprived that despicable Rat
of fat
Tag Archives: poem
prospects
Down come the marigolds
upon my bare head.
Perhaps it is time to sleep.
An inquisitive ladybug creeps
over my left thumb, itching
for a late lunch.
We are both famished.
My shell has cracked wide
open yet I remain inside,
awaiting the revelation.
And so the afternoon continues.
make like the morning
make like the morning
and fly to the west,
till your fine wide wings
detect their own nest
Union Jack
Cinquain/XLVIII
minute
by minute we
resolve not to commit
to change which would let us truly
be free
Wash Day
That blanket that spins in the drum
bears secrets that only my lips
are longing for. As the washer hums
and grunts, the lavender strips
of cloth underneath my fingers sigh
when the brush strikes them with fury.
He chose to sidestep these empty eyes.
Now I stand, blanketed in worry.
———–
edited after initial posting
Left Behind
Flowing through the
thickest water to get
back home.
stone by stone
head by head
The conductor says
that
I’ve been left behind.
At least I saw her smile.
Do you know what the
slap of stale breath
against cotton at 4:18
in the morning sounds
like?
12 hours of parceled sighs
packed and planned in
a head
so full of nothing that
it would make you scream
to the sky for the offense
of it all.
Sleep was never the answer.
untitled
stop the time
look up at the dappled sky;
feel the breeze on your cheeks
distant traffic flows as
nearby larks gossip about the coronation
under these blushing cherry blossoms, we have vanished
Cinquain/XLVI
prune juice
laced with liquor
laid my neck in this noose;
why does that cold-hearted Kicker
snicker?
——
The “Kicker” is meant to be the individual who kicks the bucket out from under a person’s feet in a hanging.
…a journey deferred…
I spy your gospel lurking by the strand
as silver slides against a velvet purse.
Are answers docking nigh this fallow land?
Before us lies a large imposing hearse.
Instead of rolling onto distant slopes,
it starts towards me, sobbing wordless verse.
It pulls upon my skin with battered ropes
but somehow fingers fend off fruitless fear,
allowing breath to flood back with my hopes.
The heated gates behind us slam and sneer.
Then, silence falls atop cold faces still
distraught by echoes howling far and near.
When springtide comes to this uncomely hill
my heart will welcome Charon’s transparent will.
sundry folly 