autumn's last leaves lingered,
bearing witness whiteness
of first flakes
to fall, whispered
to one another
"warm summer is over -
now’s time to go home"

on winds broke words, gentle echoes -
piano's chords, sweet, freed foregone sins
by its voice lost from across a vast canyon
recast halcyon the tempest -  it paused, a tree rejoiced
pitched leaves, ever bitter, tasted gentler breaths
rested, murmuring their peace which weaved
season's tapestry, as poetry
came home to its nest

hope's breath was spent-
broad shoulders wiped tears in
bruising pools, skin flayed raw
colored more lifeless gray
than black and blue in the mirror
amid clouds of nicotine blankets
their weakness hides beneath;

blood encrusted nostrils,
newly immune to floral smells,
told their ringing ears
which found sounds of acrid words
tolled loud and certain,
making children cry to hear them
like promises made but forgotten,
pillows framed aged eyes,
devil-weary, blurred furrows
in which to sow sorrows

saccharine love bound,
secured, in smoky rings
of siren song’s early death -
for a moment, soul fled flesh,
where even soft heart
felt dark, strangled in
its tangled vessels,
left for dead, to glimpse
an imagined pulse of brilliance
its refuge for the morrow,
as that  anticipation’s
life’s only worthy pain

grand those fortunes
which still pour,
grains of purest sugar
from sores in sacks where it's kept

they never bother the floors -
hillocks at times swept
for country club dues,
or spent on jaguars
the youngsters will drive -

it refills from endless supply,
now out of ransomed dreams
a rabble may dare,
repaid in their knees
and knuckles worn bare

bleeding tremolite lungs of old men
lending respectability to old names,
ensuring children's safe distance
from wizened brown limbs
of people forefathers traded,
broken black bodies hidden
in mounds of white wealth,

heathen souls saved at the altar,
naked but for irons they wore
lives mortgaged for
their good Christian deaths
all for sweetness
of more.

I find that chromium-vanadium steel,
while holding glimmer and shine
through much abuse,
is harder to hone
to that razor-like edge
that truly makes chopping a breeze
(watch the fingers, please),
merely mangling fine fruits
and tomatoes, instead.
(just tilt your head, thus)
It's a tool best left
for whacking at meat,
as its heft and its strength
make short work of bone;
more cleaver than scalpel,
if truth will be said.
I've always preferred
the high-carbon alloys,
though now out of fashion
in today's haute cuisine.
While rusting and blackening with age -
not the type you'd put on display -
the blades stay as keen
as the day they were minted,
and wipe down nicely on sleeves.

I wonder ivy, ever green
embracing faces no longer seen
were better tribute to love immortal
than fragrant blossoms strewn on soil;

too soon they loose their hues, perfumes,
becoming dust like those they'd honor,
when life's the thing we thought was cherished -
then remind us only flesh will perish

but love attaches to the stars
and lives forever in our hearts
so never work to mark my path    
with stones nor earth, for they will pass,

erode of tears and sighs of heaven
that earth should suffer my disruption,
her milk I’d stolen might sequester
locked in darkness forever from her

rather, vest me in some far off light
that twinkles in the dark of night,
thy wistful eyes to visit there
and meet my love’s returning stare

it's a wonderful day
to run away
watch codes echo
in window glass,
flashes in flecks of sunlight
as clouds and trees pass,
the encrypted secrets
only stars will ever know

dust lies still
at the edge of the road
where once we traced our names,
awaiting wind to blow,
erase us,
cover old shoes
we’d left behind