Autumn has taught me
All I know about falling
Trusting the earth's old
Arms to catch me as I
Drop like crystal tears
From the eye of a storm

My skin's yellow-brown
Tint resembles the trees
Dissolving into miles of
Leaf-strewn pavement
A gilded world born
From late summer's ash

Hope is delivered of a
Broken glory, and quiet
Cracks in flawless skies
Are doorways revealing
The private dwelling of
My innermost secret

That I am vulnerable
Facing the world with
Eyes still wet from a
White amniotic sleep
Yearning for the warmth
Of a sheltering womb

Though changing seasons
Have tightened my chest
Into a shell, I've remained
Both old and newly born
A vessel for an ancient age
Of ever expanding want

Still pulsing in the long
Transparent strands of
Rain-like hair on my brow
As my body lunges into the
Downward-spiralling wind
Of an endless season of loss

If Shakespeare were to rise
From the cover of the brick-like tome
Bought in the year I was born
If Shakespeare’s head like a dome
Detached from the sky of the page
A photocopy turned three-dimensional
Though yellow and dulled due to age

Imagine Shakespeare’s paper legs
Walking about my apartment
Sitting where the cat hair piled up
Imagine cat hairs in droves
On Shakespeare’s dark woollen clothes
Which surely must be washed by hand
Though no label this fact will disclose

Wouldn’t he be surprised to find
That so many centuries later
We are all still fleeing the plague
Though as many have noticed by now
We don’t all write plays in our downtime
At best, some humorous remark
To make the rounds on the web

Of this he would surely know nothing
And would likely be shocked by the view
Of a woman of such dubious virtue
Who’d be seen wearing pants like a man
And letting her belly go loose
No corset nor hint of excuse
For the lack of a gown or a gem

All the same, I’d invite him for tea
Place his cup quite intentionally
By the spot where his book proudly lies
And lest my company bore
Slyly start dropping verse after verse
Amid our amiable discourse
To be or not to be, shall I compare thee
Being two he could not quite ignore

And I’d do my best to avoid
The more sensitive points of his life
Being born to illiterate parents
Or worse, the spiteful suggestion
The he, himself, could not read
And no work by one William Shakespeare
Could be penned by the man of such name

Aye, the proof that since Man is Man
Achievement has warred with acclaim

Lately my words are lazy
Like my two languorous
Felines whose sleep
Is simply a subtler
Form of movement.
My words lie dreaming
Of running. Their paws
And whiskers quiver
Perhaps in the midst
Of a chase. They’re
Warm from the sun
On their bellies, turned
Upwards, refusing
To stand in a line of
Neatly aligned metaphors.
Dirt-simple and soft.
My words turned quiet
And mellow, no longer
Hungry storms of ice.
They’ve shaken the
Rain off their coats
And smell of blooms.
Their nails are long
And unused.
Contraptions for a war
Drowned out by the
Overgrown grass.
If birds flock to branches
Twittering, they merely
Roll on their back, turning
A blind eye full of sleep.
An excess of love
Has spoiled them.
Gracefully obese, they feed
Off the platters laid down
At regular intervals
Recalling the hunt as
A bygone era of
Needless toil.

Do the gods follow our storyline like a soap
Over a dinner of microwaved ambrosia and sacrificial lamb
Hera with rolls in her hair, Zeus in slippers,
Debating taxes and kindergarten options
While we shed tears of unrequited passion on the screen
I wonder who does finally pick up the remote
Complaining “Enough with the drama,
Life is tragic enough as it is”

Cherry trees do blossom daily somewhere
Though frost now bites the glory off your bloom
For fairness cannot flower everywhere
And light that moves must in its trail leave gloom

So during Winter must you plough the soil
And turn its heavy heart to catch the seed
Trusting hope to sprout from roots of turmoil
The way that life and death each other breed

In sowing thus you'll reap the opposite
Begetting Summer's joy from pearls of frost
As time does teach to those who learn from it
You cannot find what has not first been lost

It is the hollow space inside your hand
That shapes a world inside a grain of sand

So much ink
You could make
Rivers flow
Out of pages
The world
Dripping blues
Blacks, hues
To match
Every bruise
Ever received

You could drink it
Out of jars
And fountain pens
Tasting the bitterness
Which is
Most pronounced
At room temperature
(I know this because
I once crushed
A Bic pen
With my teeth)

Then you’d ask
For the palate cleanser
And start again
Every meal a treat
From the library
Where they keep
Everything
Forever
You could ****
The marrow of life
Without having to go
Through the bones

So much ink
A man must die
Before running
The source dry
Can you imagine
Expiring before
Silence has entered
The book
You spent your
Whole life
Reading?