Brisk coldness infused in silent veins
Wild wind rolling in, merciless and elegant
Piercing through everything, laughing in its wake
Trudging through layers of crunching ice and firm snow
Burning the skin off your tongue for hot chocolate
The trees shed their leaves
To let in the sky

works light
the machine is the same
through the forest
around the rain of ice
january rain

paper in cars
paper in the car
and the time transmits the signal
the lights are on
and the heart does not hold
more words from my

dark blue forest
dark blue forest
chopin sounds
a piano sounds
from oaks from trees
from a falling sunset

of that sunset
bright blue sunset
farther green
further dark green
what will take us away
in a great melody

which will take
us in the last way
in the last bright way
whom everyone was afraid of
everyone was afraid
and were saved escaped

lights work
works light
the machine is the same
through the forest through the moon
transparent
january rain

20.07.18

My nightmares of that evening in January
rerun in my mind like an overplayed television series.
rerun in my mind like a broken record.
rerun in my mind like an intrusive thought.
rerun in my mind like an itch that won't go away.
rerun in my mind
rerun in my mind
rerun

Migrating white butterflies
Like snowflakes in mid-summer
Dancing on heat waves of January skies
Thousands upon thousands,
Can't tell one from another
This must be the celebration to summer.

Like some mystic fable they appear by magic
Their wild scattered bouncy flight
Springs chaos amongst all city logic
For they paint a rural innocent insight
To the mysteries of summer's secrets.

Their cascade is tumbling northwards
Like bubbles blown from a gypsy child
Hidden in these concrete woods
Hearts wild yet breath so mild
They simply pass as lacey summer reflection.

...asking if I'd "--left the kitchen because it was too hot?" as I'd brownies in the oven and dinner warming on the stove.  



(sonnet #MMMMMMCMVIII)


Lo, nary voice flits through this warm pretense
Whose eye is April's in a trice, the pale
Blue heavns white clouds dim with four geese' detail,
And yes, a silent flock of birds which thence
Fly past, light flashing off their wings, a sense
Of deathly naught held like a notice frail
Warm hours are but a tease, as sparrows fail
To merrly answer, whiles I feign what hence?
Thin nonchalance, just as last night in tour
Where I "performed" sae poorly with a crew
Of local poets at the Lit Fest.  Were
Their kindness not Thy mercies, LORD, what through
Our vain hours should we answer?  Is't sae poor
I cherish 'gain these minutes I once knew?

27Jan18