Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
soap and water
          dishes
          laundry
          or shower

brick from mortar
boys against girls

urban velvet smog
city vapors clog

this train -- there is a line
        beginners
        quitters

this parking lot -- there is a line
        shoppers
        influencers

open bar pharmacy, bottled water

                  no pity
                  no guarantees

dragon chasers
chin music
        
          lapsed short term memory loss

opening mail for grandmother
                the obituaries
                that ****** fly

a discussion among men
about a woman's voice
           come sit and listen

one last cigarette couple
walking home through the park
               driving alone in the dark
                             on the heels of
                             a reflection
                             of Christ
                             or an hourglass
                             in remission

them or not them
       just arrived
       just married
too many stairs
not enough elevators
worry about it later

them, definitely them
sharing beds
      under the leotard
      under the candlelight

a helping hand
finely manicured fingers
one stationary
        then two in missionary

word upon words need aspirin
            orchestrate
            headache
                            pillow is the threshold
                            tomorrow...soap and water
Dostoyevsky lies above Chekhov
The yellowed pages of Marquez
Stands aside in sad mood
With hundred years of solitude
From the bearded Tolstoy
Peeps out an innocent boy
For a small piece of land
Just enough to rest in peace
It's all a wildly strange mix
Where Tintin rules over Asterix
Hawking confuses the soul
With time's history and blackhole
On a pedestal Shakespeare loses might
His musty volumes half eaten by termite
Tagore not yet ready to lose his vigour
Shines upon eyes with portly figure
There's astronomy, history, magic and science
Rubbing shoulders with morality and conscience
Neatly stacked one upon the other
Mostly crumbling by time's weather
Ill preserved and not anymore read
Muddled words lost in the head.

But I only admire the tidying woman
Who labours hard does the best she can
Arrange them to restore their old glories
If by chance someone reopens the stories.
wild blueberries sprout in houses I’ve never been -
dusty rose candles illuminate oak boards like cherry blossom spring -
childhood dogs nest into your side -
with a sister you’ve never met sleeping across -
so close your hands could touch.

dried babies breath spray the corners of collaged vases -
newspaper scraps of 1992 -
lives lived like perfect texts -
stories imbued in every tree ring from the wedding cake stand, the lace, the cotton, the wool and cashmere and canopies and love of orchids, living unapologetically, ferns clouding the periphery of the yard where earth worms and potato bugs and lilac and lily of the valley call native ground.  

it’s easier to write of them,
wanting nothing than to be had,
having nothing but to want,
wanting everything yet nothing at all.

the sunlight tilts, rabbits play at dusk.  follow the tunnel of ferns -
the scent of green lushness opens forest floor.  
crows gather, cicadas hum.  stars come out one by one by one.  rather - eyes adjust -
we tilt, sway under ceramic bowl sky -
the earth eclipses the sun
living in totality or utter absence

we are not alone :
life is - indeed - the exception.
Dark night, dumb fright, furry foxes howl
Shy moon, hides soon, barn owls sharply call
In thickets, chirp crickets, mew nervous cats
Above meadows, paint shadows, low flying bats.

From soiled bones, rise the moans, of souls buried deep
Clothed white, in low skylight, you hear a spectre weep
The cottage light, now out of sight, the dark is denser still
You want to run, to safe someone, but frozen is freewill.

A few furlong, but seems so long, now turning back
Your heavy feet, can't do the feat, finding the right track
You can't run, you'll be outdone, and it's not a myth
When you move too far, break the bar, winds stop their breath.

The hood of dark, makes its mark, you're nomore seen
It's too late, to change the fate, not let the fear win
You forget fright, dive into night, it's turned a good game
A foxlike howl, a hooting owl, you're happily one of them.
When the sky was blue on a windless day
the net would stretch they itched to play
the racquets rose and fell in grace
smash and volley in quickened pace.

The three boys ran the hardest race
there was a girl they must impress
among them was the beauty queen
that stole the heart burned the skin.

The wintry noon passed pretty soon
on the blue birthed a crescent moon
a clap from the girl was reward enough
those times of life were fairytale stuff.

On the court in that playful bliss
each boy dreamed the girl was his
by the racing clock went past the days
the field fell empty they parted ways.
I'm listening to the house ,
the popping of the joists ,
the groans from years of delapidation . The arguing
with local foundations .

Age has its benefits in the forms of doors as they no longer stay moored to the walls but swing in indecision like the fools who stand in perpetual obsolesence .

Where then do my thoughts propel my rudderless oblivion ?
My angst , the thumb in many dikes , leaves me as powerless before the mass of my desperation .

How dare the Ghosts of daylight leave me marooned in the shadow of shadows .

I am confused and challenged by the hidden agendas and secret subpoenas of an alien race of thought .

And were I capable of burying the haunting images , would they not
sprout from my seeds of discontent and flourish
yet greater than before ?

. . . evidently so .
Next page