Within and in between
a dusty red brick chimney,
and a tired aging oak,
do advance the clouds of
brilliant ember,
cascading over one another, eager
to wash the field of azure
while a gentle roll of
thunder
bids goodnight from afar.
How we wish that the
weary hourglass
would squeeze each grain,
so that raindrops
-- having just settled among
emerald blades -- would
glisten for a lifetime,
while the world remain bathed
in a candle-lit hue.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 6:06 PM UTC
If ivory keys could speak,
they would certainly say,
"I have loved but
have not lost,"
and in a tune recite
the strictures of affection in a
broken world lacking in colored,
auburn hair,
sky blue eyes,
a sought-after commodity for which
I have wrung myself
bone-dry of self respect,
for dignity (much like cliches)
is for the birds
apparently.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 5:55 PM UTC
The game only ends
when the pawn looks back,
and sees his Queen
is white as well.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 5:50 PM UTC
Would you stand where the sea
meets the night sky;
among the sands of waning
centuries,
and face an onyx curtain while
oblivion laps at your soles?
Where is but the moon to tell
where the cresting waves break free
of a dimly speckled sky?
Look you sleepless soul,
and see the smallest flicker on the
hidden horizon;
perhaps the kindly Fisherman
has set alight his lantern, but
can you trust your imagination?
Swim.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 5:50 PM UTC
Will you smile when we meet?
Will you carry me
far away,
from the melancholy strings,
the wistful tears?
What secrets your embrace could tell,
in silence I would imagine.
You know me,
and though I'm loathe
to appear so foolish,
curiosity hath bought your face
before my eyes
on every day and
sleepless night,
while I ponder what it means
to stand on the edge of the plane
of all that is,
while the breeze of an angel's breath
rocks me forward,
past return,
with only a fleeting glance over my shoulder,
to remember and comfort,
in an instant too short to ask
whether the void is oblivion.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 5:42 PM UTC
For how many wilted white roses
and frayed silver ribbons,
might one purchase a modest affection?
How many tears,
fallen from the soiled nib
of a pen held like
a dying cigarette,
warrant an instant's embrace
in a stale, sun starved night?
The wind cares not for where it blows
but lightning avoids the
hopeless romantic,
sitting in a warm candle glow
beside a broken music box,
writing on a page as white
as ****** snow.
Tiny notes fall like drops
of spoiled honey,
while a deft hand waltzes
alone,
weaving a tapestry to
conceal the crack in the wall.
He's counting wilted white roses
and frayed silver ribbons,
before the locked doors of a store
long forgotten.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 5:26 PM UTC
I remember big wheels
and church bells.
We climbed on top of tube slides
and measured who was bravest,
while the sun dipped lower
and lower,
and the three little yards,
our everything,
were bathed in that curious
orange hue of the waning
daylight hours.
We took up arms
of long wooden swords,
and broke the mirror's hold.
We were peasants,
we were kings,
we were warriors,
we were farmers,
we were off the cuff
with a story book ending
that never quite came
before dinner time.
That's why I stopped
and watched her leave her tiny pink shoes
on a root,
while she climbed up and up,
finding a comfy crook
in the boughs to sit
and read a picture book.
I walked down to our old jungle gym,
and I saw that I stood
a head taller
than where we were scared
to jump.
The little rock wall
was missing a few pegs,
and the green tube slide
was a sun-bleached white.
The wind tousled the grass
and I caught that fresh
summer scent.
I closed my eyes.
I heard church bells.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
Ink fades and paper yellows
under a dusty sun beam
peeking through the crack
upstairs.
Oh you beautiful hidden,
you forgotten sweet,
whose paint chips as
it were the holy meal again.
Where would we look
so long after passed
the hand of your creation?
Will we remember?
Where among the tangled vines
and lengthened shadows,
forgotten and lost in the sands
of an hourglass long due
to be turned,
might there be a whisper,
of what was?
Will He find you
with a grin
as He locks up,
one final time,
when the stars lie down
to sleep?
All paint chips,
and all ink fades with tears,
with laughter.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 9:35 AM UTC
To think the bouquet slipped
beneath the current,
committed to a stream
fast forgetting
as their faint aroma dies softly
in hopeful blossoms,
rather than within the lungs of
their beautiful intended.
I watched them slip between
yellow boughs stooped low,
hopeful to glean but one
splendid petal
among glistening river stones
upon which danced a splash of crimson
farewell beneath ember shaded clouds.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 9:32 AM UTC
I remember the black spot
over the stove,
before dad painted over top,
and made the world normal again.
I remember the smoke detector,
how it sounded like a broken toy
left on, until the batteries
would eventually run out.
"I wanna see!"
How tiny those boots,
fit for an Alaska winter,
must now seem,
but hardly at all when I was carried next door,
still in my pajamas,
to watch the big truck
with its bells and lights.
It was dusty when they left.
A thin, white blanket of snow,
to ***** out a grease fire,
lightly frosted the tiny
toy ice cream cart.
"Don't touch that!"
"Can I help you paint?"
Perhaps I could cover up
my very first nightmare,
where the big red fire engine
shot me with a jet of water
past my mom and dad,
through a snow white trellis,
and into a tiny bed
with Winnie the Pooh sheets,
screaming at two in the morning.
It's funny to be gun-shy
of every school fire alarm,
because the Army safety officer
was caught without his fire extinguisher.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 9:37 AM UTC