I travel on the sidewalk Slow.
Farewell to skipping stairs.
The certainties I used to know
now catch me unawares.
I never had the youngbloods’ grin
or confidence to spare.
At times, I took it on the chin,
and found it hard to bear.
At night, of late, instead of sleep,
I dawdle in the shower
and pray the Lord my soul to keep
until its finest hour.
gimme that potato salad
with the mustard sauce and the bacon
those fried mushrooms with the smell rising
mind my big nose
pressed flatly against foggy glass
approve my flirtatious hands
as they make fake feetprints
for amusement, in lieu of art, on grey glass
in threenight, i will be at this same tall door
and, when i draw my nails down its frozen frame,
white cakes of frost will bunch up,
and i can eat them and smile
just like a kid
Sober Second Thought’s
buckled down, still,
on his moldering throne.
Wand waving,
face saving,
keeping the faith.
Watching, with detachment,
nervous amusement,
and what’s close to despair,
as things begin to twitch
and soulless eyes
begin their backward roll.
Wingbeats drum my thin window
The moth is frantic for the feeble light
Powder prints on the glass
shown out as mica glitter
And i am reminded of bird hits
and premature burials
These things, innocent and pure,
do not have duplicity.
Only nature.
My desklamp, a false guide.
My window, invisible.
These i must remedy.
Soul-spoken spirit,
unbound, in flight.
Pineal eye gets a look.
Events celestial.
Of a hair’s breadth am I,
in this filament.
Then,
a promise warms me
like an innocent’s blush.
And now
this mote
understands.
As we sat
in stuffy waiting,
you came by,
lady with the cane.
Regal in your latter years.
And I had a flash dream, unreasoning.
You in white apron and slippers,
sounding your steps on creaky pine.
Your support- a bannister with loose pickets.
And you did not rely on it, did you?
It doesn’t matter now.
What you say.
What you do.
If you cry,
gnash teeth,
rend clothing,
wear ashes.
There are no more new leaves
to be turned over.
A change of heart grows of its own,
and not quickly.
See,
only a few will have seats
in the parliament of planets.
Slate grey bird
high high up
sails slowly and grandly
skimming the underbellies of grumbling cloudbanks
Pteranodon of today
we think he summons the outliers of fabulous flocks-
chortling geese bound for southern climes-
the Flying “V”‘s of fall.
The ones that speak softly,
blushing their diffidence
without fakery.
Waiting out the loudness.
First, sometimes last, to leave.
Speak when spoken to,
unless principles, passions arise.
Uninteresting, dismissible, no fun.
We won’t remember you,
and may not invite you back.
Will you tell me, Father,
what the sky looked like
when the Angels fell?
When one of power
sowed the great discord.
The First Lie.
Kin against kin.
Weapons in Elysium.
Did the black flock
blot the Sun
and foul the Earth?
And did She banish them
forever to the Nether?
Aremyfeetofftheground 