They walk by brisk
Covered in umbrellas
On high heels with ankles
Of no appeal

They grab the shaft
With both hands
As the wind tries to steal
Their umbrage

With agility
They skip over puddles
As I marvel
At the procession

With destined determination
They ****** on
As spiked high heels
Grapple on cobblestone

Rainy day women
In gray coats and wet umbrellas
Under overcast skies
With no hellos or goodbyes

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Infinity's Mirror by Nat Lipstadt

Two mirrors, set in opposition observe created notional blending,
a reflecting pool of bonding's of unglued, contrary compositions.
Mirror to mirror, his imagery, fuses to Sylvia's images, hers,
faintly recollected, now living face, face to face, with his past insurrections, alters his future visions.

From cold water lake she's drawn, impaled by refracting regrets,
retrieved, drawing her words upon him, an awakening slap to drink,
beloved, tragic magic, infinitely captive.  But this old man's tiddlywinks, land-locked words, blunted instruments, needy for release & salvation, are neither silvered or exacting, just stains on a dulled, tarnished brass spittoon, except for the brunt'd bunting of lines across his roughened terrain'd face, black and white, pen and ink etched illustration of howling agitation.

His words worn down, hardened, red faced, purloined speckled pellets, damp to roll on down her rutted, almost ancient, tear streak paths, disbelieved superstitions, sacrificed for one of her living morsels of words.

Man, here to her, pledges allegiance, audaciously defiling her poetic sanctity, a visage endless repeated, delivers her shiny poem-poised countenance, even though no forgiveness from time can a mirror afford for either, from her words,  confession born, terrible truths beyond, beyond the finite.

                                                
~~~~~~~­~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mirror by Sylvia Plath

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
What ever you see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful---
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

Why did I cull corn just like all the
other chickens
At what point did I betray musical talent
for endless , repetitive nowhere living
To be eighteen again , 'tis a popular tune
sung by many
What caused me to write poetry for the first time
seven months ago , which fork in the avenue carried
me to everlasting love , why do I find great solace in being
alone
What force drives me to trouble my fellow writers
at this late hour with the roads I've chosen

It's not the rain
that makes my eyes wet.
It hasn't rained in forty days.
Nights are long and quiet.
The silence cuts to bone.

It wasn't rain that quenched the fire.
It hasn't rained in forty nights.
The well is dry... so am I.
Nights I sit in silence
while it rains.

r ~ 4/19/14

You’re struck by thoughts that zip like raging electricity
Charged wholesomely by the eye snatching power of curiousity
There’s that hefty knapsack of guilt constricting your back
A tear stained jacket olive green and not so fresh off the rack
Typical attire adorned by an untamed hellcat hellbent on the attack

You’re always eager for flimsy fellows with paper mache names
Too bad they catapult you back into prewritten tales of ill-ridden fame
You seem to entice the astral glare of scorching stars
To unwittingly interrupt Nature’s frolicking soundtrack at all the key bars

You’re Alice’s protégé adeptly meeting learning goals
Far surpassing her mentor at the art of slipping reality and falling down rabbit holes
A spirit shedding her blouse of light and taking a dip in the lake of souls
Writing new mythologies amidst the morbid company of witches and trolls

You’re burned letters and missed calls on the phone
A slowly sinking stone
Filled with grey from every ***** to bone
Wilting words spoken monotone

Who’s there waiting when wickedness grips you by the nose?
It is I, a fluid shadow, the King of Crows
I sniff the air for errors to rectify
Meet them head on with casual discernment and a nebulous sigh
My pitch-black wings swing to all the towering views
They allow me to see the innocent spread too far and too few
You vermin, your hearts are tattered and filthy
Time, once again, to deck the halls with bowels of the guilty
An inky body is smeared with various coats made from innards
I relish the chances to wear these pulpy suits of sinners
It is my name, Corvus, that prompts sickly trembling
In my image, death is the sole figure resembling
With tinges of rote, I descended to the city not-so-sublime
Flitted past sights of iniquity and people of grime
In an alley, I crushed your skull
Chalked up the mesmerizing mess as a sloppy miracle