~~~~~
lightning strikes --
a clear path before the rolling thunder
tears for you:
petals from our ink-heart tree . . .
~~~~~

Crouched by the lakeside I grasp
a small stone, same as all its neighbours:
no jagged cliff-shorn shard of concussive weather
to be sent pounding across the surface,
but a smooth, round pebble, who traces a single arc
then vanishes from sight –
and the growing ring of ripples
the only testament to its passing.

As I wander on,
the waves of my lone effort are fading.
Yet, as each passing stranger
adds their own voice,
every wave harmonizes,
compounds upon its predecessors,
and once still waters accelerate
towards a resonating crescendo.

And my pebble rests below the surface,
unaware of the exultation above,
until wandering currents sweep it up,
back onto the lakeside once more.

I arise from my idle contemplation,
and pour myself in.

When I was young he taught me how to be
A man; I only wish I could recall
Just what he said. Was it in something small
Of cooking, gardening or darts that he
Exposed his wisdom bare for me to see?
Or should I look to how he built his walls
And webs – the lies, attacks, denials and all?
Or the garage in which he turned his key?

Although, why not say **** it to his will:
It’s true he lit the tunnels’ exit where
He left, but now I can’t see through the glare.

But yet, I hold these memories with me still,
For as I trudge defiant on through miles
I bear his doom, and can’t forget his smile.

coke bottle sits 5th step.
Full and sealed. Free.
Traffic eyes all steal down:
“but what if the rest see!”

Whole day pass,
vendor within 15 feet
sells three.

This is the cardiac line.
Your first stop is the
left atrium.
Passengers alight here for warmth and passion.
Please have your tickets ready worn on your sleeve.
We apologise for any delays. This was due to mixed signals.
You are in coach one of four.
Mind the gap between the heart and common sense.

Out of lemon flowers
loosed
on the moonlight, love's
lashed and insatiable
essences,
sodden with fragrance,
the lemon tree's yellow
emerges,
the lemons
move down
from the tree's planetarium

Delicate merchandise!
The harbors are big with it-
bazaars
for the light and the
barbarous gold.
We open
the halves
of a miracle,
and a clotting of acids
brims
into the starry
divisions:
creation's
original juices,
irreducible, changeless,
alive:
so the freshness lives on
in a lemon,
in the sweet-smelling house of the rind,
the proportions, arcane and acerb.

Cutting the lemon
the knife
leaves a little cathedral:
alcoves unguessed by the eye
that open acidulous glass
to the light; topazes
riding the droplets,
altars,
aromatic facades.

So, while the hand
holds the cut of the lemon,
half a world
on a trencher,
the gold of the universe
wells
to your touch:
a cup yellow
with miracles,
a breast and a ******
perfuming the earth;
a flashing made fruitage,
the diminutive fire of a planet.