Flakes
Come, child.
Let me brush flakes against your jacket
make you curl inward like a leaf -- insulated.
Dachshund, a study in fidelity
walks along the dusky road, quiet curving.
Light falls in the doorway
and drowsy become your eyes
the sun is tired, soon to dip.
Slip not
Swear to make no promises in summer.
When those clouds change and wisp away
as the words slip out, sentences ******
to the floor, like change from a purse.
Slip not in the change.
Toes in the sand, and rough skin rides off.
Old clauses and old books, much like
calluses chafing in delayed surf.
Fall
down
down
down
Do we die a bit each time we sleep
or saunter spots we daren't when awake?
There's more than one season of sand running through my fingers
and I'm sometimes not so sure what gems I've caught
or lost
upon clutching closed, so
my clenched fist draws solid white.
Snail
There's never any rhyme or reason
whichever may be the season.
Wonder who slid down that crevasse
frozen in pain and alone, preserved.
Grab that hat, tuck away sad songs
and inhale this new hue
a blue you used to dream of, long snail's paces back
of blossoms (and thoughts)
like butter -- rich, full, creamy things.
You
The penny drops.
You didn't hear.
Never do.
You may well throw accolades on me densely
before the world, but in the grip of this dance
tiers come forth and I slip rapidly ten levels, down.
Down the ladder, with heart decidedly heavier than its climb up.
Perhaps, when all the letters fly in the breeze
the kites will turn the right way round
and you taste salt as you lick onto your tongue
a sleeping storm.
Because I thought we could talk about it, and
in the flurry of beehive
Better late for some, if not all.........
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 3:56 PM UTC
Flakes
Come, child.
Let me brush flakes against your jacket
make you curl inward like a leaf -- insulated.
Dachshund, a study in fidelity
walks along the dusky road, quiet curving.
Light falls in the doorway
and drowsy become your eyes
the sun is tired, soon to dip.
Slip not
Swear to make no promises in summer.
When those clouds change and wisp away
as the words slip out, sentences ******
to the floor, like change from a purse.
Slip not in the change.
Toes in the sand, and rough skin rides off.
Old clauses and old books, much like
calluses chafing in delayed surf.
Fall
down
down
down
Do we die a bit each time we sleep
or saunter spots we daren't when awake?
There's more than one season of sand running through my fingers
and I'm sometimes not so sure what gems I've caught
or lost
upon clutching closed, so
my clenched fist draws solid white.
Snail
There's never any rhyme or reason
whichever may be the season.
Wonder who slid down that crevasse
frozen in pain and alone, preserved.
Grab that hat, tuck away sad songs
and inhale this new hue
a blue you used to dream of, long snail's paces back
of blossoms (and thoughts)
like butter -- rich, full, creamy things.
You
The penny drops.
You didn't hear.
Never do.
You may well throw accolades on me densely
before the world, but in the grip of this dance
tiers come forth and I slip rapidly ten levels, down.
Down the ladder, with heart decidedly heavier than its climb up.
Perhaps, when all the letters fly in the breeze
the kites will turn the right way round
and you taste salt as you lick onto your tongue
a sleeping storm.
Because I thought we could talk about it, and
in the flurry of beehive
Better late for some, if not all.........
