I told you,
from a distance,
that I loved you,
and was blackened
with the earned shame
of the illicit.
Noses sniffed.
Fingers pointed.
Hands covered whispering lips.
But you?
You had a look of surprised wonder,
and blushed redly,
uncaring of the devil’s radio.
Author, I call you.
Explorer and visitor.
Architect of chapters
in the tomes of my dream.
Move on, we must.
In boxes and bins,
I carry my proxy love
to the Stow-Away garage.
Outside,
the smirking cat has his wild bones on,
drawing a bead on a tattered squirrel
that curves down a dead-bowed limb.
Night
In the lush bush,
there’s something that laughs.
Treed,
in a frightful dream it lolls,
fetching cheshire smiles.
~Move on~
the blue man says,
and we must.
I must.
But, there is no donkey tail to pin.
I’m blind, as i finger the braille
on this pincushion map.
***
Art work by Theophile Steinlen – Chat au Claire de Lune (from Pinterest)
Kid I was
when Dad got my nose
showed how to take your thumb apart
Oh, and the trick
with the hats and cigarette butts
How to worm a hook
Bought a poetry book
Must’ve seen my look
Told me I must be a man
Face the bullies
Have a plan
Double up that fist
Let ‘em have it!
Yeah
You must be my Witch
In the day, you are as plain
as day
I think you don’t see me
Maybe you think I don’t see you
but I am good at eyes
Always in your greys and tans and flats
Shiny swinging hair
Bottle goggles to discourage the shallow
You glow
from the feathers of my pillow.
Drawn to baby anythings
she is
Seeks to protect
to nurture
But if the thing grows
and gains stubborn volition
then on she must move
to find another small one
to teach
to love
to know the duality of joy
and
take tearful vengeance
on an old giant
A still pond
padded with lilies
dappled with netted sun
Cicada hum
My green rest
Please-
pocket the stone
and let it alone-
I’ll paint you
as someone sepia
and fleeting
by this bower’s dome
***
Image: Pixabay
I fear I would be shy
if you were to speak to me.
I know.
It’s not a good look.
But I’m imprinted with your face.
I know.
Creepy, I imagine you think.
Each mannerism, each quirky movement,
tells a tantalizing story
that I am meant to understand.
I am sure of it.
Yes, I am.
When I woke up
this morning
I laid there for a bit
Idly went to scratch my nose
then nearly had a fit
Someone else’s hand was there,
with skin of ebon brown
I ran my fingers through my hair
It felt like eiderdown
I went to find the looking glass
to see what face was there
Expecting not the veritas
that I was meant to bear.
This darkened face
this different nose
this cauliflower ear
that now replaced
my beigey rose
and filled me up with fear
How could I go out like this
and look over my shoulder
Walk in fear and maybe miss
the chance of growing older?
Associate with the simple
Learn what tickles fancies
Amplify, in bellicose bellow
Whip into a scripted frenzy
Let loose the sheep
who think themselves lions
but are infected with the surety of lies
and the enfeeblement of reason
Then cull the herd
to make them docile
Aremyfeetofftheground 