Collarbone’s valley.
Shoulder of diffidence.
The swish of those pleats.
Hose with taupe toes.
Ill-fitting pumps.
The lure of suggested innocence,
with the surety of hidden wiles,
for miles and miles and miles.
Category Archives: poetry
Cunning, no less
whiskers are self-aware
we think
they train themselves
and have a care
and so avoid the sink
the sharpest razor
surest hand
might catch them in the pink
but the smarty ones
just bend, don’t stand
and miss the poet’s ink.
bed of lies
Bones.
Things that balloon
or are meaty.
Some swollen.
Sore sinews,
feeble signals.
The living pain.
Where is redress?
Where is forgive?
We hang
in the balance.
Sense you all
You won’t have to tell me
how to touch.
Where to begin.
What emboldens,
or brings wild abandon.
With ease do i see your gilded cage
and its fearsome keeper.
And, we know why rules were made,
don’t we?
Your measured steps tell of fear,
not of love.
I have a fear too,
but of a different kind.
Your ceaseless radiation
is my courage.
Together, we’ll be dangerous.
Rhyme and reason
When waking life is webbed with dream,
and what is real don’t matter,
and conversations only seem
unnecessary chatter,
a poet’s heart’s engendering
a majesty of wonders
and thinks upon its rendering
in brightnesses and thunders.
Its rhythm, rhyme, and metering
are things that are concerning,
but when its meaning’s teetering-
that’s when we think of burning.
So take an oath, a poet’s toast
to write your best of pages-
like lost Lenore and Raven’s ghost,
your story for the ages.
Muffled rumors
and, why did you cry
when you saw that cute little girl
in the TV commercial?
She was laughing and happy,
but you cried.
In these bumbling years of ours,
never would you talk about being a kid.
But someone who knew
told, in a monotone,
about closets
locked from the inside,
and fist-sized holes in the walls.
Strange days indeed
this morning,
someone asked me if i had food.
i was driving,
and no one was with me.
this question,
spoken through ether,
was an answer to a tardy dream
i had
of one in rags
who wanted to speak but couldn’t.
black, as a colour (or the absence thereof),
can express thought or intent surprisingly well.
for such were his eyes,
and they saw me well.
i stopped for relief on a gravelly shoulder,
pushing aside fronds and common bush
to tend to business.
being done, i shoved my way out,
and found that burdocks and sundry
had stuck to my clothing.
a tiny twig had gotten between my neck and collar,
and as i pulled it out i saw it held a pale cocoon.
one in want of a metamorphosis,
but stilled somehow.
its furled denizen mummified.
a life never lived.
a waste.
The slow burn
i am one with hands
hang they like meats today
grab one that’s numb
work it up and down
hold it by the thumb
gelatinous with bones
the slow burning of hope
has reached there at last
but its heat doesn’t warm
at all
In the gloaming
And Lord,
if my spirit returns,
let it be in feather, fur, or fin-
your creations in the wilding,
whose years seem short to us
but are unburdened with evil thoughts,
and care not for the praise of others
They look to live a life
always in the now,
having scant worry for the future
and none of the past’s regrets.
And when the weathers are fair,
they are so free,
and knowing naught of care
they look to Thee.
***
the rapist
I’m seeing someone.
She knows a lot about me,
more than I know myself.
I’m finding out how hard it is
to give honesty, such a lonely word.
It really does wring your tears out.
But there are more where those came from
in these scenes of absolution, validation, and condemnation.
Aremyfeetofftheground 