Over glowing glass,
broken feet beckon shyly,
fearful of impassioned paths.
Wisteria hair
stumbles against broad shoulders,
steeped in the heat of her flame.
Tag Archives: writing
Household Songs: The Brief and Unremarkable Life of Joseph Clarence Strauss/XII
Hands–puckered, pale, and patched–
slowly grow stiff
in the geometric sea that once kept
them warm.
All branches are struck by
time’s uncontrollable thunder.
Incomplete trees line landscapes, clinging fiercely to
shifting earth.
Cinquain/LXXXVI
scandals,
from mouth to ear,
waft slyly by candles,
whilst tipsy minions strain to hear
cheap smears
Broken Bars
Empty as David’s seat, a befouled mouth shrieks
at high Sturgeon Moon, gasping for air–what
little can be had–within an offensive red sea,
which swirls malevolently throughout multitudes
of calloused feet, taunting us with decades of
dying heads.
Wrenched from ancient jaws with unremitting
brutality, sovereignty–smoother than pink root
and whiter than snow–gallops away from smoldering
earth around thick, sinuous necks.
Faithful soldiers, once unyielding in their loyalty, vanish
into a sylvan embrace, forever silent in their surrender.
untitled
Go tell it on the mountain, dear,
before the sun departs,
for fearful songs shall soon appear
within our quaking hearts.
Cinquain/LXXXIV
tanks creep
through silent street,
for we have gone to sleep,
and cannot wake up to defeat
the fleet
to the meadowlark (that I would like to be)
Rain’s lyrical cadence haunts him (Whitman and Eliot too) – but,
it doesn’t dare deposit its wrathful hands on me.
At present, grass is drying (as I lie sighing) beneath a lemon-hued
gorge, overflowing with endless jubilant, unconcealed song.
Clover eyes (blind forever) tumble down over my swarthy skin.
Index finger knuckles brush them away. Tears remain.
If I stay silently through the night (may it last forever), will you
harbor me within your celestial enemy voice?
untitled
explore this planet if you can
to understand your fellow man,
for hearts are stitched from common thread
and mix their dust when they are dead
phobia theory
Moon fingers laugh with remarkable lucidity
but weep when the rains of April come.
Wrap me in spheres of calcium, flowing fast.
I will not cling to thin vibrating barriers.
Memories implode through convoluted pathways
(forget me not, but ring around the rosy) – what
folly, what fun – yet, if I may, must I repeat
myself (girdled in shame) as you demand?
Household Songs: The Brief and Unremarkable Life of Joseph Clarence Strauss/XI
Her magisterial gaze ensures that
two inattentive eyes
remain in the dark, polluted streets of
Lantern Yard.
Winged lambs, daubed in bronze,
flit past plasmic
lace organelles, waging a shameless battle for
restless minds.
sundry folly 