Skirt so yellow and bright

Eyes blue and wide,

with lips pursed right.

“Where is your joy,” she sighs?

Cotton shows years of wear

still flows yellow,  and bright.

Her lean body craves to share

him hard and yielding tonight.

After she threw the bridal wreath

their joy spilled like carpenter’s glue.

No longer did they sample from beneath

yellow skirt and sweater taut and blue.

Her scent is a flower named dangerous,

so he struggles, pulls away; all the while

wanting his graying head to rest

upon her breast and relish the joy in her smile.

There is sincerity in her eyes
as she says she reads my poetry
out loud
to herself
to practice
speaking without
cracking her voice

I wonder if
the flush spreading
into my face,
pinking my cheeks
is from
pride, embarrassment
or a mixture of
these two emotions
fighting for recognition

Take time
to wrap your arm
around a child
warm against your chest
teach him to train his eyes
on falling leaves

Take time
to point your finger
toward squirrels dancing
across branches to their
nest-home perched
atop the tulip poplar
towering over the back yard

Take time
to trace a
two year old hand
outline each finger
leave living imprints
beyond mere paper
into the next
generation

We know what peace is
And we know how to do war
Now, let us do peace

Corner curtains close to encircle
souls bearing poems
scratched on manila pads or
formed on computers
to await a reading

amid clangs of ceramic cups
stainless steel utensils
and cream pitchers.
  
Carlo’s throat cracks while
he recalls running his fingers
over dry scaly skin
tolerating the heat rising in his body
as he befriends  
snakes coexisting in his camp

Mokasiya narrates adventures 

along rock mesas
formed and shaded
red, orange and tan
and how grasses turn brittle and dry
nearly dissapearing
amid enormous grasshopper swarms  .
.
A young woman sings and plays poetic
lyrics of struggles
lamenting that she should have
given in to the hot rage in her throat
to shoot and **** the *****
who corrupted her father’s marriage

Corner curtains open
as words and phrases
remain to die
among the chairs
mixing with the sawdust
on the hardwood flooring
unlikely to become
reborn, reread or recorded

Part of her is scarred

and she wraps that spot

with scarves, high collars

or extra mascara.

Remnant traces

ring her shoulder.

Embittered echoes
careen 
around her brain.

His self-inflicted torture

spills over onto her

as his crazed lashes
strike her 
bone deep.


Musty smells

from those moments

linger among
her nostril mucus.

She carries on

unable to attain

her forgiveness.