Though my bones are broken,
I will stand erect for you
while you’re in this room.
Would a nicer house help us?
One with rooms further away,
but with furniture placed more warmly?
Each day,
the headlines grow more stale,
and I despair of a gentler world.
***
Art: Litzlberg am Attersee, 1915, by Gustav Klimt
Mister whiskers, curled up in dream. You, in the faded recliner, the motors of your snore like a cheetah’s purr. The TV on mute in blue aquarium light. Outside the window, a borealis of feathering snow. And I, in a sated sigh, put my feet up too. We go gently into that goodnight.
“I have a hunger” –
Those words,
spoken in a formal manner,
were as stillborn, as heavy as a stone
cradled in an apron.
And, what does one do with this thing you’ve said-
you, who were always the comic,
furthest from the dead.
Taken aback,
in slow shock I cup your hand-
not leading you to bed,
but into nightfall’s garden.
We sup on the strange swirl of universe.
He dreams of things with tattered wings, open mouths, and lolling tongues. Heaven’s impostors, fallen from grace. Thirsting but never slaking, they lie impaled in the pines, their chill voices forbidding all who may think to touch.
Art by Zdzisław Beksiński, untitled.
She watches, bemused, then walks away as I keep up the stirring of the hot pot of milk and cocoa.
I covet that clunk of spoon, milk-muted, because of a recurring dream in which each of my teeth is tapped with a tuning fork. Like a drip on the hot burner, I make myself into a very small world.
The sun was in beams
through the travelling trees,
like a ruby- a lasering strobe,
as I did a drive
in convertible breeze,
well abreast of the darkening road.
And “Houses of cloud”
(did I say, out aloud?)
in the lamps of the settling sun,
for I pictured a fortress- a bastion endowed
with the flags from the battles it won.
In a panoply breeze over netherworld seas,
its colours flew proudly and brave,
and its adamant towers with secretive keys
rose in battlements out of the wave.
And none could assail it, and naught but a ghost
could appear in its echoing halls,
or master in battle that heavenly host
by its buttress of resolute walls.
Art: Imjur.com
A broken lace.
A secret place.
A baby face.
A bell.
A ponytail.
A woodland trail.
A sunlit vale.
A spell.
***
Photo: Pinterest
You must’ve been a big man in the schoolyard.
Yes- that is what I think when I watch you with others.
Did you lie in wait for that puny kid who wouldn’t fight back-
who perhaps thought that this was how their life was supposed to be;
who made up stories as to why they came home cut or bruised,
or thought that maybe they really were Ugly, Stupid, Fat?
And I wonder, now, what friends you have,
suspecting that they are of the dime-a-dozen gang,
and how many gatherings you go to and push- push with your loudness.
But you see-
some of us who were moulded in quietness and shame
have kept diaries, physical or spiritual,
speaking at first to some imagined angel who would cry for us,
then draw a sword of flame.
And you see-
some of us have found each other. Yes.
And some of us are Writers.
Something you will never be.
And we have blossomed with a quiet courage,
not of vengeance, but of strength.
So, have a care-
lest you become the one who stands away,
wishing that recess would end.
***
Image: Aleutie/Thinkstock
This skin
gets more and more thin,
and can’t stop what wants to get in.
What’s seen in crowding eyes.
What’s under, in disguise.
This night life sees the knives;
sees the fortunes of our lives.
Still it feels the warmth of smiles;
a lover’s selfless sweet denials.
***
When I begin to speak
a learned language
to a veiled world,
please know that I have always loved you-
my hand-holder,
my chaperone.
Aremyfeetofftheground 