Poetry

Mirrors

Fri, 31 Jul 2009 08:38:02 -0400

Twisted glass shatters images of past perfection.
Shielding her heart, she turns away.
Making use of sights unseen,
Using exits mysterious, dangerous and empty,
Sharp edges squeeze and slice each memory,
Forcing them into a box so small.
Life pushes against those walls,
Aching for a hole.
Dripping forth with nothing but a sigh,
Take it all back pleads that broken bird.

Another time would be well spent.
Another day rejoiced.
Another set of eyes
Could hide so well her bleeding soul.
Given the world, given anew,
She could stop the sad, slow drain.
But she can only sever the ties holding it all in.

Scratches don’t bring joy.
Patches never permanent,
Slap against her ratted feathers,
Only to bleed once more.
The mirror the wingless bird did see
Has now evaded her.
It ran to a place where reflections bring pride,
Pulsing new strength into the new,
Into another.

Lamenting the loss,
The battered bird slides to the ground, alone.
Alone for the length of the rivers
That drown every flower falling into its stream.
Plunging into the rapids
That froth and swirl,
So terrifying and black,
She cries.
Making her way,
Fighting the tides that suck and pull to the rocks,
She breaks the surface only to see darkness and filth.

Sink commands the sky.
Drop all protest,
Make good on a promise.
The river stays wild, jealous, angry.
Give in plead the trees.
Her beak opens for one breath.
The river relents,
The sky rains pink.
The trees shrivel, dried and brown.
Smooth stones under tiny talons
Allow fresh breath to shuddering lungs.

Teetering on paper faith,
She sees the mirrored box.
Not twisted or sharp,
But shining, immaculate.
It invites the bird inside.
The lid lifts.
A melodic, rising tune emanates from deep within.
She follows the beckoning box she abhorred.
Cautious steps draw nearer,
She quickens her motion,
Not wanting it to escape her again.

She dives headlong into the radiant box.
It slams shut with a deafening crack.
The shatter splinters the glass,
Spidering a web of ragged splits.
Defeated, the imprisoned sighs her last.

But as the soul of a tiny white bird floats skyward,
A golden key hides in the sand,
Inches away from the smashed remains
Of a deceitful mirror.

New York

Fri, 31 Jul 2009 06:36:24 -0400

Bustle is a skirt,
Not the vibrations of life.
Faces meld from hurry
To awe in one broad stroke.
Heels clicking, glasses tipping
And old man’s wear croons
A song of life lived in effervescence.

Dancing streets box-step in time.
Skirting tastes of old and new.
Beauties, filth and perseverance,
All stanzas of a tune
Sung anew at the first drops in cup of coffee.

Encircled, a garden grows.
Lurching onto the green,
Come snows, frosts, flowers,
In floating sprigs of balloons.
Movement takes a breath,
Exhaled and hurtling onward.
The power of this place explodes.

Its spirit spins from within.
Those brave denizens
Hold it tight to their breast,
Peeking in at its glory every now and then,
Sharing it only with awe-stricken allies.

The lights shine unmeasured.
Not a soul dare believe he has it counted.
Atlas couldn’t shoulder this place.
Breaking all rules, sparking new fires,
The proud dance on into the air
Of that mystical, fabled forest.

An End to the Unwinnable War

Mon, 27 Jul 2009 23:34:58 -0400

Black sky shifts.
Smoke drifts through chilled fingers,
Wisping in a hanging space.
Widened eyes trip over a wrinkled horizon.
White whipped waters twist up,
Willing a brush with darkening clouds.
Billowing wisps of lighter water
Ripple and swarm,
Mocking the weighted sea.
She may only rush in and out.

Clouds sink and thicken,
Sucking strength from the tortured body.
Bloating and contracting,
They rip open,
Bleeding what they stole.
Unwillingly, the sea accepts
Constant abuse from above.
Raking up into a fury,
Her waves yank skyward,
Sharp, foaming, fierce.

Pulling into the blue,
Taking aim at elusive clouds,
They never meet.
Laughing clumps of gypsy air
Spit on the sea,
As she strains harder
To win the unwinnable war.

Every minute of every day,
She reaches for the sky,
To slay fleeting clouds.
But she cannot see
The spots of air come and go.
One she,
Only the sea,
Is forever.

Tripping Pirouettes Into Tomorrow

Mon, 27 Jul 2009 17:30:20 -0400

Ribbonned ankles rest haphazardly on the stickiest of coffee tables.
Pink satin ballet slippers trace shiny trails of grease along the table
Covered in pizza boxes and mismatched dirty socks.
The tight braided bun sits atop a perfectly round head,
With a face blessed with porcelain, soft features and a small pink mouth.
The TV rasps of unknown celebrities and their vacations to rehab.
The AC wall until sputters cool air in coughs,
Trying to out blot out the screams of sirens and honking cabs from below.
Gleaming taffeta encircles a tiny waist,
The white of it stark against the dingy green couch cushion.

Lithe hands whirl around a beer bottle,
Whipping the cap off in the most graceful of gestures.
Swigging straight from the bottle,
The ballerina swings a satin slippered foot into the side of a pizza box,
Flinging it and its day old contents to the floor.
She lets out a murderous belch,
Scratches her head
And changes the channel.
Tomorrow will be better, she thinks.
Yeah, tomorrow.
Her satin laces are unravelling.

Salty Sleepless Night

Mon, 27 Jul 2009 13:13:58 -0400

The trees have turned green and orange faces
Away from the sick blackness frothing in the sea.
Sucking sounds gurgle in and out of a strangled body.
There is no moon.
Red flakes of rust splinter and slice
As years of hanging on expire.
The gurgle builds to a roar.
Burning, a burning roar.
Never ceasing,
Only strengthening in its wail.
Not an ear to hear it.
the soaking, rasping choked cries do not echo.
They die a speedy thankless death.
No ceremony.
No tears.
Alone and roaring,
The blackness bleeds out
Wave after wave after wave, after...

Him

Sun, 26 Jul 2009 12:12:10 -0400

Lithe feet brush over rusted metal
Flaking red underneath.
Each run ascended ever faster.
Rumbles, deep rumbles.

Clicking eyes scan over the roof
She spots him.
Her feet fly faster,
Skipping and scraping.
His legs crossed lightly at the ankle,
Tender eyes fixed on the horizon.
Waiting only for moments for a signal,
His fingers flick, calling her up.
Eyes steady,
Her feet hesitate.
Rumbles, deep rumbles.

The cold, ever-dampening air sticks.
Shards of white splinter the sky,
Cracking the sunset ito reds.
Shudders rock small shoulders
And disappear.
His hat pushed back on his wrinkled brow,
He smiles over her.
Child eyes recover.
Winds tear hair.
Chilling volumes of atmosphere
Rip in all directions.
Rumbles, deep rumbles.

Corn stalks scream and bend in submission.
Dust rises to meet the onslaught.
Raking over the raped landscape
Comes the storm, creeping.
The two sit by.
His hat lowers.
His eyes narrow.
He smiles.
Water smacks the degraded crop in scorn.
Marching onward,
Up and over.
Eager glances of when,
But wait she will.
As the water slices the rows,
He stirs.
He stands.
She follows.
Feet fly to the metal,
Descending faster, and first,
Her red cheeks puffing in and out.
Feet meet earth.
Rain lights her face.
Gracious hands stretch to that man.
Rumbles, deep rumbles.

Bird of Paradise

Thu, 23 Jul 2009 13:06:21 -0400

Shocking the blue tinged sand
She glides into the sea.
Naked and alone,
Her skin breathes in the chill of it all.
Thin, graceful fingers tap the surface
Giving birth to tiny rings of white
Expanding out and out
Until those ripples rise
Building a great swell of ocean,
Smashing the shores of some foreign land.
A place stacked in centuries of ancient stone
Carved into the faces of strong mountains,
Come the dolls and the demons of worship.
Majestic and terrifying,
The wave from beyond approaches,
Sucking each meaningless dent in the sea into its massive curl.
As the wave erases thousands of years,
The heavenly beauty, glorious and free
Smiles down at her bare breasts
And taps the waters again.

Reunited

Wed, 22 Jul 2009 05:20:10 -0400

Ships sailing alone trace lines of cloud-like froth
Over the chopped sea.
The man at the helm focuses a glare on the horizon,
His brow furrowed.
Decades deep, long lines in the making
Track his charmed expression.

Stopping for nothing but port,
He pulls at an icy glass,
Perspiration sliding down its fogged surface
And down his leathered face.

The ship stalls.
He doesn’t curse
As the smoke billows from the engine room.
No panic, no movement rocks his body.
I watch his body slide to the teak deck,
Sucking deeply at toxic fumes.

The smile that lights his lips I cannot see,
His body has slipped from my view.
But I felt the dying wish of a tired man.
‘Bring me home,
Bring me back to her,
My only love.’

Dusty Things

Tue, 21 Jul 2009 03:11:01 -0400

Plastic flowers only collect dust.
Unlit candlesticks rest, lazy, dejected.
Fraying throw pillows in a pile yearn for a lean.
Stuff ages as we do, unjustly.
Taking it all in your arms,
Limbs grow weak.
Stuff stifles the sounds of joy.
Aching to evade the next whistle of boredom,
Ah, another jazz beat will take it all
Someplace where a soul may cherish it.
Reaching for another recognizable melody
Leaves an echoing empty concert hall
Waiting for a smashing noise
To fill the dead air with meaning.

Silence inevitably inhabits all spaces.
Without the vacant prayer of a savior
Coming on gilded wings to restore lost possessions.

Gathering piece by piece,
A gravy boat, a crispy clump of roses
And half a pair of champagne flutes.
Picture frames eek a gleam
From under a thick coating of dust.
Faded faces gaze in frozen passion
Shrieking into the room,
Stuffed to the ceiling.
The sound of silent cries
Bounces off the papered walls,
Echoing on.
A date decades ago,
Scrollingly printed on a card,
Testifies to the lies exchanged.

All remaining thoughts stay
Tightly sealed in candy jars
And stuffed into the pockets of an old tuxedo jacket.

Sounds of mocking rise
From out of the sugar bowl.
Laughing those two souls into a place terrifying and cold.
And all the forgotten things await a death,
Much like the yellowed grinning faces.

A Long March Through Tragedy

Wed, 15 Jul 2009 19:38:54 -0400

Shattered glass
Dulled diamonds
Black waters
Blood-stained sleeves
Stale bread
Flat champagne
Dying animals
And twisted metal

C L O S E Y O U R E Y E S

Burned skin
Ratted hair
Scabbing knees
Ripped nails
Haunting hummings
Wretched thoughts
Filthy feet
And rotting teeth

C L O S E Y O U R E Y E S
OPEN

Screaming mouths
Last words
Final breath

C L O S E.

My View

Mon, 8 Sep 2008 17:54:11 -0400

That log sure looks like swordfish
And I’m almost positive that’s the end of a purple mop hanging inches from the water.
Filthy rusted beer bottle?
Is that an alligator on the shoreline, or just a rotten fallen palm?
In the ripples, the great pyramids float, I think.
A massive land crab stares at me like I’m nuts.
Or maybe it’s that pile of muck ogling. Hmm.
A wooden lizard shares my view of the river
Or is he looking at me too?
That sea turtles coconut is floating upstream ignoring everyone.
The devil himself stares back at me from his place inside the concrete wall,
Or is it Groucho Marx?
Maybe it’s just the eyebrows.
Oh wait, the sun has shifted and I can see now that it’s the Virgin Mother, how nice.
I bet if I pull that wishbone tree over there, I’ll get the bigger half.
What do you think about that, alligator?