Bro  ken  Po     ems
a re of  ten  dif   fi cult
to  co   mpr e h en  d


B    ut ..... .... .. .
So ar e
b  ro  k  enh  e  ar  ts
bro ke np r o  mi se s
            a n d
b r ok   end   re am s

You didn't get a valentine
Nor a supermarket rose,
We never sipped that vintage wine
Or read romantic prose.

You left before I told you,
I threw away my chance
To have you and to hold you:
I’m ******* at romance.

Black skirts and black blouses,
Black slacks and black jackets.
One hundred black bruised hearts.

Black faces and phrases;
“I’m sorry for your loss”s and “If I can do anything…”s.
I’m burning up and down,
Dying to run from this place like a tiger escaping his stripes.

Anger spills over,
Punches are thrown like whipped cream pies into a clowns face,
Fists fly, crows on great gusts of pain,
Noses bleed and suddenly

                      I am home.

Sliding on the ***** of death
up to see her,
knowing she would be ashamedly proud.
Watching for effervescent soda bubbles,
thinking this a terrible,
terrible April fool’s trick
only to be greeted by her ashen smile
inside a tiny                  
              wooden
                    box.

There was a boy named Jack
who wanted to be an artist
but his parents wouldn't hear it
past their deluded visions of grandeur
doctors, lawyers, businessmen
it was in the cards for Jack
had been since he was born
and the cards don't change

Jack made it through each bleary day
mixing paints from eggshells he found
outside the window in the hill
only he knew about
and when a smile flickered on
his face, it wasn't staying long
at least until once he's alone and he
can be himself, as if
it was in the cards for Jack
had been since he was born
and the cards don't change

and while he grew he came to see
Jack as is would never free his
life-long dreams from in this cage
so Jack soon lost his hope to anger
within the pleasant walls because
it was in the cards for Jack
had been since he was born
and the cards don't change

then the day Jack found a gun
lying on his pillow with a note
from an angel to let him know
he's holding up the party
and six minutes later the
walls were painted red with
Jack's new-found freedom in
joyous ******* slashed
diagonally across the
flower print
it was in the cards for Jack
had been since he was born
and the cards don't change

I watched spiders make their webs
Four to five paces apart
North to south along the ficus hedge
Anchored nearest to the green wall
Each two knuckles wide
Street lamp orange undersides
Yellow tiny joints
Each moved quickly
Set to finish its trap before the night settled full

I discovered them while walking
Seeking familiar toxin
And found them
Masters of their craft

The first I saw caught that caught my sight
The furious movement of rear limbs
Catching the stream of silk
Guiding it on its way
Jagged plucking stemming a straight line
Then laying over a guiding wire
And moving on
From four o’clock to eight it went
Then back along the clock’s face
Its red underside patient but swiftly going and pulling along
Leading a tiny line of molten muted silver
Five to eight and back again
Pendulumous and measured geometry
Dancing back and forth

Then I saw the second
South I crept with knees bent low
Shrank a hand’s breadth
Swift and wonderstruck
And it too worked a masterful weave
So similar but when I looked back
I saw the difference
More than size of form between them
Slight as was their difference
Unique minutiae of brown fuzzy backs and brown fuzzy heads
Varying personalities and style
Artisans of the same renaissance

And soon I saw a third
South still and still different
Higher up to catch the light
Still giving light to its neighbor
Who lets the light reach her neighbor

A fourth’s stilled anchor
Taught and shining in the light
Beneath the indigo sky
Highest of them all
Largest of them all

If in the beginning of their dance
Drawing cracked windows in the sky
Nets or webs or sails
I might have seen them
Forming a rainbow arc
A fragment of such a thing
But I did not
My wonder and my mind
The first catch of the night

My smile filled with contempt
Compliments your dry eyes as they try to swallow me
Standing in front of this house we burned down years ago
The black cloud hangs silently over as a sign or a hint

Each winter stronger than the one before it
Each winter that comes close to wiping us out
Each winter that leaves us with frostbite in our limbs
Each winter that seems to last forever, it may last forever

Our friends, family walking by and staring in utter shock at the charred frame of our house
We stand in front, smiling
What's wrong?
Nothing, why do you ask?

We're dying
We won't survive another winter
And if we do I won't be able to stand the week-long spring
It's just too sad