Fresh from the accouterments
of green,
creatures churn out of control
rinse and repeat
he gave me a smile
one down to his knees
the wind a born again breeze
and the moon was born
spinning silver on his tongue
while crows hum forgotten
biennial messages
a post part-em in drums
hell arrives on a River boat
demands six pence for passage
we'll pay the Ferryman
just to go home to get some sleep
but all dreams smell the same;
lost,
in this rich man's world.

Haze

"I invited shrimp if that's ok.?";
That's what he calls his little brother,
"sure , if you want too"


He's teaching her how to drive today,
The car windows are down and it's
really warm for May.

She is wearing blue jean frayed shorts,
white cotton pull over, peasant style ,
the kind that straps won't stay up on
sandals reveal new manicure in hot pink.

Her hair is pulled up off her neck with a
claw, tendrils a drift.

She's never met her boyfriend's brother,
she expects young, gangling, annoying.

She starts the engine and honks the horn,
the car smells of octane and dust motes
and heavy aftershave. She likes the smell.
The door opens and poetic attitude plops
into the front seat.
Shrimp is smooth, buff and not at all what she
expected.
He slams the door and she starts to drive.

The young men exchange words,
brother barbs
she is driving as if she had always known how.

Onto the highway, the breeze feels good,
it's lazy and hazy in the car, she leans
forward too short in the seat to see well,
she adjusts the wheel.
A strap falls from her shoulder,
with a matching manicured hand
she slides it back up, no tan line.


Shrimp is feeling the heat,
blowing hard through his teeth,
feels the energy drip in the air,
looking at the girl,
his brother's girl.
She's got great shoulder blades,
long neck, he leans back arms thrown over the
seat, chest puffed out like he owns the world,
watching, watching his brother's girl.

He sees the strap drop, the retrieve , her leaning
up, a little more of her back exposed,
she's hot and glistening in the heat,
lovely shoulders,
great angles.


He pulls out his pen, leans over to her, pulls her
strap down again, the breeze wafts of her perfume
around him, the front seat, she, smells like baby powder
and jasmine.


Hand on the wheel , hand to hold up the front of her blouse
she's helpless and he pulls the elastic down in the back.
stretches it to her waist.
Brother sits in the back watching,
doesn't say a word.
Turns his head to the right and stares
at the landscape through the dusty window.

Time has disappeared in the front seat,
the atmosphere has changed and it's
thick and hard to breathe
he
starts writing on her back with his pen,
and in his mind he reads aloud as he writes
across her baby smooth brown skin.

I heard his voice read as he writes
and in his head it said;


*"Haze, rain on my art, pick a color, pull it apart"

Chameleon,
You are the master
of disguise with
all the colors sent
to save our grey world.

You with your
empty hands and
knowing smile,
fighting this battle
for individuality,
with your coat
of many colors.

O' Chameleon
how you do change,
too
~but none like you,
to weather beaten blue
when the rain comes,
only to disappear
as suddenly
and as quietly
as it came,
there but unseen,
stealthily,
as a jungle net
on the screen
of camo brown
and lizard green.

I want to see you
shocking in neon
lights pressed
against the
Northern stars.

A Heart is a Horizon

Do birds stop singing unwanted songs
do we will them silent on weeping branch,
throw a stone, say they're wrong.

What of worlds that spin along
when we fall down,
just don't belong,
do we stop believing in horizons?


What of cerulean seas that cease to lap
to lonesome shores, does time elapse
inside the gap, t'ween loved and lost.


What happens to  goodbyes
should they lose all meaning
when the sun climbs to say hello
and cease to ask all questions why.


If we give up on Life ,
does it go on alone,
without us, when we stop living?
Does it laugh in the face of defeat,
embrace the night and close it's doors?

The dawn will rise without us,
the birds will sing for us,
and when we fall silent
the world will still spin,
as though we begin again,


A heart will be a horizon.

Candle Magick
A Poem by Corset


My Latina Coworker
sat across from my desk;
heartbroken that her lover
wanted to try again with his wife;
pulled out a brown paper sack
and asked me if I believed
in hummingbird candle magick,
and then proceeded to tell me
how to cast a love spell.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I told her I believed
in the power
of mind to shape her
universe.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Two days later she's snap
chatting her married lover
again, has been unblocked
and has now switched
to candles of *******.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My dog has diarrhea
and is blowing holes
through the walls of her
crate,
I must have lit the
wrong kind or color
of candles.

© 2015 Corset

Only if tomorrow comes
will I be with thee,
For if tomorrow never comes
our love will never be.
Unlike the changing winds
of time the memories live
entwined,
and if
the morrow never comes
your heart will still
be mine.

Your eyes are waterwheels
like high seas in the wind
Dante umbrella
love's happy suicide
kiss me at noon tide,
feast on lips of starving waif
face turned up to greet the sun
your breast -a brave moor
of breeze sworn content
each salty sweet spray
a crag at dawn
whispering o'er forlorn waves,
breathe in this- still of morn
cheek pressed to blue ribbon sky
dream of me and wonder why.

God can be so cruel sometimes
when morrows reach so far away
and your sail - a dot of horizon
and the space between
a watery grave,
these eyes are water wheels
splashing...

Sundown in Onyx


Warning This Poem is rated Mature and may contain material unsuitable for readers under 18.

Ask if we are far along enough
now
for a close up,
when my eyes are closed
it's my heart that answers
in body movements.

So does it really matter
from whence the wind comes
who tags along with strings
and violins as long as it brings
him to me
gently.


and  gently he would come,
opens me as
soft as petals,
prying inside, branded,
as hot as a red iron
with his blushing in me.

brushing of cheeks,
in plaits of winter twine
and in my mind ,
I could not stop this soul
song from happening.


takes me into it's web of desire, and
cradles me there wet and unfolding
as a flower that
blooms in the dark dew
of June nights and gold leaves.

grasp my lower jaw and force
apart my lips, open my mouth ,
and check for teeth ,
examining the inner walls
filled with the width of the world
in subconscious whispers
slowly exploring the fit within reach.


love this body that calls for a raven
shameless and craven,
thoughts of him
black as onyx at my neck
oval as half of eternity,
there is no space
between my heart
and where this sun goes
down.

Blue Snow

Can I help it
if I gather the down
of white feathers
into my arms,
catching the ones
still floating in the air
with a wrinkle in my nose
when the pillow fights
rain  them
over my head
like blue snow
on a grey
January day.

Daydreamer
Turn your head a notch
and we'll see that perfect
dot beside your nose.

Tell me,
even though
sanity may jettison
and stroll down
the lane as naked
as a jay bird.

you remember,
that I had on too many clothes
or not enough and neither one
at the appropriate time,
still,
I can't soften
the discard-
the tint of rose
from my cheeks or the
titan grip on my jugular.

Remind me still ,
with patience,
like every other
seven year old
wearing a zirconium,
Tiaras, pink taffeta
and soft as night ballet
slippers,
that it's o.k.
to sit on my spotted pony
dreaming,
that all princes
will have a heart of gold.

That promises mean
something
even to spectra
and daydreamers...

we stopped laughing
when
the song ended
with the world spinning

and I fell down
calling your name
on the back
street of my worst
nightmare coming true.

Remind me gently,
That best friends can't say
I love you
and still be best friends,
well, I already knew,
it just might be that
all the time my eyes
were wide open
they just
wouldn't stop listening
to the skipping thud of
my pulse.

Taming of the Shrew


I would do anything for you,
trembling avowed,
summer swept
sweet lipped,
sugar dipped
surrender
I become:
a Victorian sonnet  sailing;
the river banks of Seine
when you are near,
thirsty love ,
bistro champagne
oils,
parasols and bubbling dreams,
tickle all my senses
shimmering of moonlight
kisses breathe into me
the lights of shooting fire
flowers, and my
errant tongue
is stilled.

Somewhere
behind the poses
lie the real dreams
of the Roses,
they're drinking wine
but thinking gin
and how they
torched that place
with sin.
A taste of pure
before the cut
left her feeling
anything but...
Somewhere
behind the poses
lie the real dreams
of the Roses,
they're thinking wine
but drinking gin
and how they
torch that place
with sin.

Infrared light
black light secrets
blue battered sun
yellow
outrage,
tricksters in paradise
loading up
the gun
wild fire
caged in Ice
made it twice
as fun
beer bellied
acrobats
bouncing off the wall
blaring on
the run
caught the bus
to
Cambridge,
Eyebrows filling
the space
of another persons
world,
underlining
their names,
curious
questions
bright with colors,
the honey fist
of Isis biting a coin
for authenticity
pull me from the abyss,
endless sleep
these Maritime martyrs
at the expense of a soul
does she really know,
to what depths
we dive to save
time in squares,
trenches,
backwater streets
in tired boxes,
men throw shoes
at singing alley cats,
tears and thoughts
litter the sheets.

Life's game
pretty lean
trying to hold
against the dark night
born writer,
lover, friend,
breast fed hunger
palms love
as if the last
birthing push
burst into spring
would bring the flowers
back,
last gale clinging to winter
preferring pain to
Passover
or fear of future.
What we need is the
courage of spring
and every breath
between,
a dream in labor.

He came to me in a dream
with friendly teeth and
conversation; casual,
Conversation at his side
an entity in itself,
as his echoed thought;
Neither of which
was familiar.

The Dinosuar,
wearing his smile
I was happy to see
it made me happy
to see him,
not at all afraid
to ask
T-Rex with his
red breast,

"what do you see,
how shines my aura"

it is clean, it is pretty?
see how it sparkles,
surely it dances?

"nay, he says "I would
more describe it as Avesta'
A library of sacred text."

yes, chimes his shadow,
sir conversation,
I would describe it
as Avesta too"

Disappointment mixed
with confusion, an
ancient religion.

I would have much preferred
sprinkles and Rainbows,
maybe some
glitter.

In this house is a trousseau of deception
walking into Clarksdale
where we are perpendicular lines
of perception
at a crossroad of 61 & 49.


She pretends to be a guitar
played by his aching tooth
where she dressed all in scarlet
put candies in her cooch.

She is a ledge of peeks and coos
Pigeons of Pharmacia
scroll peoples lives from Venice beach
come to be souls just out of reach.

..and a voice shouts out from heaven
it's not to late to turn back
just a little faith my girl
is all that you really lack.

she wanted someone to save him
well, that's just not my job
those are words for redeemers
where I simply refuse to mob.

But I hope to see you there my friend
should you find yourself able
feast on the words of lambs
Eucharists at his table.

Come, we'll hold
his hand together
no longer singing
words of one,
run, scatter
hide
as innocent
babes
of Babylon.

An erudite belief is
that one soul can be
tortured quite more
effectively;
whether one of
virtue or demerit;
with eminent hope
than threat of
imminent pain
or death.

We love too ambitious
we love incumbents
night sweat elections
heart ache selections
maybe we think too highly
of ourselves
or maybe not highly
enough,
maybe
too highly of others.
I watched you sleeping
tender gaze,
your eyes a shadow
on my soul.

Cast off the vote
cast off the light.

6:45 a.m.
The **** crows
the clouds carry a skull and crossbones
across the fretful sky.

See how he looks at her,
a bird caged in a song
longs,
before the open window.

How his heart breaks
for the sky
and it's wide set eyes,
is it the conch
that whispers
to the coast
of aching night?

Flight.

Animal House

Sweeping dust
storm,
Gazelles leap.

Careening reach,
dizzy heights
Shy Giraffes
necking in
undergrowth.

Creeping tide
menageries
mystic sloths
limb and oath.

Sea mist
breaking wave
Sun prancing
Dolphins
embraceable
moonbeams.

Lizards
shedding skins.
Trine children,
Pan animals.

Golden gleaming
processions
growling purrs
Carnivores
give
Herbivores
last rites
confessions.

We are
the animal house
the  hourglass
menageries.

bleating hearts
imminent deaths,
fleeting breaths,
unimaginable
love.

Gypsy Rose Lee

Strip tease
shedding leaves
shivering,
quivering
vagabond
knees,
cold
January
sun
tossed
off her
clouds.

The evening sipped
Its golden bright,
as the sun spilled
it's yellow stomach
spoke in streams
of babbled havoc.
Slinging a silvery palm
along the slender hip
of wanton youth in
wishful grip.

O' to be young,
to be young
without the cares
of the infirm full,
of knar's and knot
like the desires of an
old oak tree.

To touch,
the velvet rose light
of the beauty
in her skin,
lovingly caressed
of wistful eye
and
age of bristle.

The trees began to bend
sussurus with sound
September was so close
I could smell her breath.
A gold medalist
twirling Oak leaves
in her hands,
gathered
in bunches and
scattered them
skyward
with a gust
of wind.

Remember me
he spins
remember me
in
September,
'neath school books
and apricot Essays,
with necklaces
strung of
purple clover.

I watched the paper
soak up the ink
as it blotched
breast strokes
across the page...
suddenly,
street bound
jazz hounds
legs,
pinioned
to pavement,
hand signals
of  July scroll by,
a memory strolls
in reverse as a
name  scrawled contra
across  wheat covered
hills...returned to me
chaotic,
lovely.

A single day
took it's light
from the crayon
colored buildings
laughter ran out
from a beautiful city
where the seagulls  
brushed it's wings
against my cheek
like lovers once
embraced
arm in arm,
long before
infancy.

A memory plucked
from the eye of
golden Roses
littering the street
in irradiant petals
like pieces
of shattered
poetry
in the blood
of a waxing
poet.

I've dropped this Cubica today,
as often as I've dropped my heart
when I pick up the two pieces of
a broken pen, ***** them back together,
it still works
filling my lungs with vaporous poison
knowing it will eventually **** me,
I pit it against my lips and **** on it
like a straw till it blows sunshine
out of my *ss,
just what he would call a magnifying glass,
of  perspective poetry,
inhalant on course
defying destiny.
Hopefully,
seventy playgirl virgins
will soothe
that remorse,
at the very least a sepharad
of simpatico
with silly  smoking mortals
still whispering of genius.

Women should never
be allowed to shop
at the corner store,
where hot dogs, eggs, coffee
gas and scratch offs can be
bought all at the same time.

Inevitably, on a day she is
called to work for an hour
and a half shift, which means
it will take her twice as long
to get ready to work as it
will for her to be there.

This messes up the entire day
that she had planned for poetry
and pretending she does not need
or want a man to pump the gas and
inflate tires.

So she will go to the gas station
completely distraught that the
last 25 dollars before pay day and
her only day off till next week
will be completely ruined by
someone with a dental appointment.

That instead of eggs, hot dogs and coffee
that few dollars will be spent instead on
gas and scratch off's on the outside chance
that that last twenty five will mean she
will one day retire independent.

Hoping that there will not be any sparks
to blow her up as she spills gas all over
the station concrete, while she is furiously
scratching off the silver overlay of her
future.

Or maybe, sometimes we need a little "fuel"
occasionally. to keep us fighting, dreaming
and scratching for happiness, friendship or
for those things and people we need to
believe in.

It follows my movements
behind a seashell,
every few steps
it drops the cup
over it's shoulder
prolifically it shifts
positions, so do I,
as slight of hand.

If the secret of love
is buried in his armpit,
and it is, maniacally.
Tho' not the kind
you buy at the movies,
of optimist derringers,
smoking guns.
Still,
flight begins when
the sun goes down
it shifts euphemistic trees
like shadow puppets
into walls of passion,
makes bulimia dreams
of doughnut holes,
something sweet
craving bakery counters
and bagels take up
the lonesome place
still ringing in our ears,
my ears,
placards hanging lobes
of the emotionally distressed,
handicapped dangle
I can't move my tongue
...again.
But, they still hear love
whisper their name
just before
the dawn becomes.
Sunny rising sonic
boom that scatters the birds
all  into synchronized
sign language.
We strain,
to hear them sing anthems
over the roof tops,
it makes us happy to hear
every time,
just one more time.

I am as young as the hillside
old as a neonate
I am the miles and trials
between our distant smiles,
We will celebrate forever
we were made to believe
the gift of today is not
tomorrow; it is now.
This treasured  gift
is not a destination;
it is a journey
in seconds,
between this one and next.
We are the breathing
monument
of one life's span
in secondhand
experiences
lived within
a blink
of the
eye.

As thoughts come on this day
in the quiet of my blind
comes a lonesome whistle
in the distance  of my mind.

Days became years,
when we walked like children
past single bomb shelter
knee tucked isles,
chests in the fiery furnace
thunder in the winter room.

We are still innocent,
No whistle,
no siren to mark today,
we will never forget and
in silence a mind wanders.

Among cheering crowds
are snapping pendants,
JFK littered sidewalks and
brown buildings on Elm street
that watch with haunting eyes.

White kid gloves carefully turn
pages at a book depository
while she reaches for bits and
pieces of his mind
A- line dresses mural *******
the anguish of morning pearls.

Stripes and Stars sing denial
the world is debutante numb
rain sounds on the sill
like woodpeckers on tin,
she cries out and over again,
all the king's courses,
all the king's gin can not put
an egg back together again.

They are still innocent,
No whistle,
no siren to mark the day,
and we shall never forget
the days became years...
when we walked with the
silence of innocence.

O' Jerusalem tree,
were we as perfect
we would have no voice,
nor raise a phantom limb
to strike at the desolate heart
of  such
wild beauty.

No, we must
cairn usage words,
like yellow gold combs
to hold your wanton hair.

So we might mark our place
among this desolate face,
to weep with grace
in this land of stone,
should there be no thirst
for veracious words
nor the sound
of human
timber.

My Masterpiece
If I had the hands
of a Master Sculptor
I would mold the lines
of your face to my mind,
where for all time
I could visit and admire
what I behold
when I looked at you.

Should these painters fingers
find the deft
Of ability to paint in naked hues
a destiny
in twilight afterglows long denied,
I’d paint two,
one for me and you.

If I were a maestro of music
I would play
One Solitary note
that awoke a worthy world
to a breakable breathless heart,
shattered
but still collectible.

If I were an adequate poet
I would share  in pictograph
of parnassian light
your certain savoir-faire
so all could read
you as I do,
so untamed and exquisitely rare,
claimed by many
but never
will you ever...
be truly owned.

He was so busy painting the sun,
all in yellows and blues
that he forgot that the green
dripped from his brush
and fell upon the round
and blades where fashioned
swaying upon a ground...
and saw
that it was good.

Gift of eternal feather
sun seared into light
inside my veins
born to soar,
climbs so high
My butter milk sky,
jump, fold, dive
the amazing try,
fold of origami,
sunday best pressed,
white washed walls
The sea cliff of god.
the ripe fruition
oh sweet fig,  
salt of promised land,
peace wept branch,
an armistice stands,
the sightless sings,
for the broken wings,
moon filled mellow songs.
dizzying peak,
scrambled scaled
for fear of heights,
fantastic belief.

oh surely,
when one
is  falling,
the only way
to splash
gracefully,
is to plummet.

I will not assume,
will not assimilate,
will not conquer
nor be sad or desolate,
instead,
I will bloom unto myself
a bud of awakening,
for only myself,
I will play soft music
with tinkling bells
in the midst of fields
jazz filled flowers
if you would come,
come gently...
like the light
of a dawning rose,
if you should stay
sit here beside me,
call me friend
and visit often.

Friends are works of art
lovers are masterpieces
Hope is the paint brush.

I've traveled to Manhattan
walked the steps of
the Metropolitan,
Perused the desecrated
ruins of Mastaba
Tomb of Perneb
walked like the egyptian
stared into the face
of Van Gogh and wept
with the desire to
touch his strokes
as it were his hair.

Faces of a cherished
lovers are like that,
a landscape of wonder,
Hair swaying in
evergreen.

Mountains contour
in shapes of his face
the sun and moon
turn in eyes that
wake in dreams.

His mouth,
soft supple water
of a serene lake.
His mouth,
sweetly wet and deep,
sky that pulsates
and overflows into
murmurs succumbing
to the miracle
of wind song
in surrender.

Caretaker
of my soul
love is our body
as one,
would you
be my God,
and my words,
blameless not
blasphemous,
God
would live
within us.
worship,
would find my knees
bent
into all the beautiful
places
found in you,
the only way
I wish to
hold you.

Impossible.
love is.
Like trying to move
a water sprinkler
without getting wet.

Thirsty blades,
like legs dancing
clouds overhead
off in the distance
a wallflower
is drifting away
with the pink
of a sailor's sunset.

Coolest of shades
waiting for cloud and clap
to rain in some courage.

It's always about the sky
skies and trains:
me and Rimbaud,
like underwear
and *****
is Bukowski;
they just seem to
go together,
seem to
understand
each other in such a way
that they really don't,
but they keep bucking
like a wild bronco
resisting the ride
that would
take them further
than the end of the
circular track.

Yesterday was beautiful
in the yellow way
that the sun
tasted like lemonade.
In the way
I used to sit at the table
when I was seven and wrap
aluminum foil around bits
of cardboard fashioned into
the alphabet and strung
on a string that said
'welcome home'
like the time
you showed me
how to use lemon juice
to write invisible
love letters, and then rub
a match behind the paper
to reveal the words.
It's a wonder
we didn't catch
the house on fire.
yes,
it felt like that
yesterday,
it felt like
running through the woods
with someone after you
but that someone
isn't
scary,
that someone is
looking for you
and you
are holding your breath
while they count
to 100
still listening
to you, still singing
John Denver's
"country roads"
echoing
all around in the back
of my mind.
Yesterday was like that,
it felt free with no
rules.
Part of me hopes it feels
like that again
today,
the other part is
squeezing the lemons.

Look deep
within yourself
remember
all times,
open your eyes,
hear angels calling
remember all the times,
you heard
"I love you"
take a moment to feel ,
the embrace warm
in memory.
Do not love
in increments,
love wide,
love tall,
honor the right
to be loved.
smile.
build dreams
around that smile.

be
alone,
confused
afraid
legs like water
heart beating so fast
breathe shallow
breathe deep,
whatever form of love
you have
at any given time
there is one thing
that will get you through
always
explore  the path,
whether the path
is friendship,
or love,
once alive
it is eternal
in you

The phone rings
     In yesterday's conversations
teeth words, gritting back
it's patience
busting up thick
          all over the center
A stone hinge
   rock and roll butterfly
how thickly it pours my veins
        when his eyes are closed
fade out
   the third eye is crying,
            Divine soul,
don't follow.
.
.
.
.
Fall.

Pray that love
will be a kind master
blue green and
light of corners,
chastised child
inwardly declaring
independence,
wailing
like lost banshees,
wanton wills,
product of environment,
be one with
apprehension
comprehension
well worth being
God will punish
indiscriminately.

...and as of all
seasons past
must make of us,
no longer a child
but revised,
no longer abandoned
in the grip
and slip of survival.

Prepare
for the play;
come what may,
of tomorrow;
be it sweet with love
or sad in sorrow.

Riddled filled
holes and
rusty dust
remains green
along the sand.

Sing, but only
for the song,
what it once meant
to have a strong voice
gone,
how it was larger
than life itself
stronger than death.

Opinions
meant everything once...
lost among the waves
of  littered rooftops.

proud to call
you friends,
shroud,
to write you
psalms.

It blew to soothe
the savage wind.
So I grew tall
withstood
the watery grave
splashed upon
the break of
cliff sides,
landslide,
tsunami,
I was...
the piercing wail
in summer sheen,
what you felt
meant everything.

I had
destroyed
with love.

Wake tide!
become lost,
be afraid,
speak thy  name
unto the breeze
let it come to ease
your burdened brow.
For I,
will always ,
know
you.

Realize, power
that you hold
folded as a love letter,
to be light sent
ardor
tongue tripped
along the wet
seal,
air mailed,
perfumed.

No paper cuts
to splice along
seams of soft lips.

We had only dreams
hoarded by
crazed postal workers,
who delivered
the daily diamond
incoming
outgoing
bill collectors
and
perfect posts
stamped overdue.

Mail bones litter
lost tossed ground
with the junk mail,
things we
don't want to hear.

Maybe
someone will pick
me up
thinking
"what a pretty envelope"
take me home
and use me
as love letters
to someone dear.

Fill me,
with hopeful words;
like I love you.

I would like that.

Crow-bars as big
as an Oak,
or the head
of Egyptian alien
architects build desert
triads,
ten thousand buff
onyx oxen men
to remove the kite
height splinter
from a kitten's foot.

Somehow I'll hold
my tongue-
tied like cherry stems
cross-like
the national anthem
spools of yarn
big enough
to fill a football stadium
in colors of senescent
knit sweats
alternates with purrs
and claws.

How can one apologize
by way of ESP?
Or plead with ghost
dripped vows  
stay up all night to write
while you were up
scratching the post.

I am remiss for not
admitting in all
the languages
of the world

I clearly
do not speak
in Morris code
or maybe cats
just can't read.
I thought I had,
let me try again.

I was wrong.

friends never say
goodbye
but lovers
so often do.

That solid rock
on which pearly
mountains grew
seemed ageless.

Like shifting tots
on playgrounds
more than anything
thrilled to finally fill
the bitter silence
speak to me again
with church bell
hush.

Applaud with clapping
wings of butterflies, but
where have all the fireflies
gone?

Little lanterns barging in
like riots begging
the whiskey night,
like riverbanks in
Kentucky.

Better than the blue
plain cornflower hill
that thanked Heaven
for it's tender wet kiss.

It's raining,
it's raining again
sings the dawn.

The road to
has been long.
Worn each day
charmed upon wrist,
shiny trinkets of
silver,
jingling
forget-me-not.

The sound of smiles
were sometimes
counted upon like days
taken for granted
we should always be
lips turned up
in the darker corners.

The way sunlight strobes
through glinting trees
at 70 miles an hour
on our way home
to somewhere,
we have to be
for fresh coffee.

Never dreamed
we would ever be,
roadside
our tongues tied
words strung like
feathered frowns
of long dead Indians
battered by the way side.
Morrison-esk tears on blue
voice of a stranger's hat-
Imagine that
a cursed heart
that slays the dawn
waves angered on
stands still waiting
roadside Samaritans
will live without eyes,
laughter of friends,
stumbling worlds
will be less everything
colorful,
when you are gone.

The desert of Rimbaud:
Billet-doux seared skin,
sand strewn dry- eyed
stuck in sister dis-ease
blind birth absent mirth
a third eye sung
strung long song
riddle whittled clean
shame and accused
deep purple hued
****** bruised blessed be
love bid farewell
hell's shining veil
white balloons soon
like mirrored beryl sky
merry birth,
so no goodbye.