He wants everything
to be new, for
life is now,
in the moment.

Talk of yesterday
irritates his mental state.
He seems to have no
memories, sour or sweet.

He pays attention,
observant, fixed and
focused on charm bracelet,
the sky, or her feet.

Notes, mementoes
seldom covered his table
for life is now,
living is the present.

No talk of tomorrow
nor discourse of history
for he might miss
the softness of her breath.

Who cares for yesterday
or sins that he had played,
excitement seems supreme,
he might make the same mistake today.

Recalling past life and loves
seems folly:
Notice the wind, the rain,
her walk, or her sway.

He wants every moment
to be new
so he may fall in love today
again, with her.

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

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.

A scent of lavender colors the room
as her metal clipped heels
announce her arrival
One thought rolls over and over
in his mind
like a bird pecking on suet
They had reached a tipping point
in their relationship
He knows how to spell commitment
and rejects the mere smell of it

Her arm curls out
reaches around him
as she presses her greeting against him
a greeting that carries
a pressure to decide

As she smiles her hello
her eyes search
every crease in his face
looking for a sign
that he wants them to be real
real enough to step
together on the same path

What she finds  
is a vagueness
pooling in his eyes
a resolute tightness
covering his jutting jaw
a signal that he is sliding
around and away
from a vow, a promise
of a future together

Silent, vigilant
Small fish glide through the water
Aware others prey

Knee joints pop
With sounds of aging
As his haunches settle
Into the resilience of hemp.
He is seeking a soft silence,
Reverence for universal truths
And a communion with the
Silence of the moment.

Thoughts bounce through his mind
Like static on a distant radio station.
Memories of past silences come  
Like a prairie wind.  

Soft silence settles around him
While his mind tries to forget
What harshness silence has nourished
During his lifetime.

Like the oak leaf hydrangea bud in May,
like the squirrels infest backyard  bird feeders ,
and like the train whistle echoes in the hollow
rolling through white pines and serviceberry branches,
her trust, in the shape of soft smiles and morning kisses,
permeates his every breath .

Some afternoons are sublime
beyond scripting
splendid blue colors the sky
and my lover's lips
taste like dripping honey

Some nights I hear the mantle
clock tick and music sounds
sweeter than it has since
those nights in New Orleans

Some mornings are like those artists paint
of sunshine shimmering on the water
my darling's presence seems
like a celebration without
the need of a parade

Some days are unique
love is easily earned
I can sit near my beloved
and watch love grow

Some mornings
smiles seem wider
your lover's hands
seems softer and hold you longer

Some afternoons are sublime,
beyond scripting
with skies
of unending blue

Some nights  
clocks tick louder
move slower
like life will go on and on

Some moments
are charged with electricity,
love flows down the circuits.
one becomes weak in the knees

Sometimes you get
close to others
and know enough
to sit and watch love grow

Any eye casted toward
the corner of the yard
noticed how this spot,
wild and overgrown
was  like
foliage of the forest.

To her the spot was
evidence of rebellion
for it was real,
not patterned
or contrived like their days
had grown

The rugged corner drew her
to childhood memories,
smells, and signs
of the unspoiled countryside
of a time before she
became tame and docile

How could he destroy
this one rebel plot?
How could he bulldoze
the one rough-hewn patch
like he had purged
all  unpretentious blood
from her heart?

The orange fire of morning sky
blazes through birthing branches
green with sprigs of spring.  

Wrens announce their intentions
to live this day as a breeze from the west
kicks buds of oak-leaf  hydrangeas toward the sky.

A grey bank of clouds fights to claim territory.
Soft pit pats, pit pat across patios, sidewalks and roof-top shingles
forewarn the burst arriving against the earth.  

Rain, beloved by some
disfavored by others,
becomes relentless.

Bolts, sharp and direct,
provoke clouds to participate
in the deluge.

Rain, beloved by some
disfavored by others,
shifts gears to softness.

Rain, beloved by some
disfavored by others,
owns the day.

Today she listens to her body --
complexity churning beneath her skin
traces of passion bounding in her veins
as surging waves along the seashore

She guides her hands creating something
of this moment -- leaves indelible marks
to delight a student of nature

Her *******
are soft on the outside
roaring within

Today her body
grow older
moves slower
She watches
her bones rise
slowly
to meet the day

No bouncing flesh
comes with her
to face this day's
challenges
She plays
the experience card
to stay alive
one more day

Nature's contributions cascade along the steep trail.

Numerous white patches and yellow splotches

set on a blanket of green

amid immense coverings

so blue that it seems parts of the sky have fallen.  

Pinks protrude like boulders in a creek

while reds try to hide around rocks and crevasses.

Faded petals,

past announcements of spring

now reside alongside signs of birth,

buds seeking an identity.

Arrays of mature blossoms parade full and ripe

along a path of short lives and slow deaths.

Fallen relics, grey and mossy

display across the emerald carpet,

a memory of another time.

There must be a next step --
all middle steps appear broken

Spit out like a used razor blade
sitting with *** cheeks
barely on stone steps
face burning beneath the acne
swelling across the cheek,
It must have been her pimples
why else would anyone reject her?

Tell me am I love
or am I suffering
Am I stepping into the black
or into purity
So purity is white
and white is purity
Am I noticed for love
or projecting my suffering
hoping to be on stage
for all to see
Love is pure
Suffering is pure
Love is marred
as are flecks
pitting the whole
of suffering

Sullen is seldom
Used to describe the day

Today stillness sets heavy
Amid morning’s dew

Shadows cast by
Morning’s sun seem
Uncommonly gloomy

How long will
Debate fill my brain?

Is the day glum
Or is there a surly
Infection upon my soul?

Storm winds from the west
Send us scurrying down the plank
Steps into the dank basement
Sounds become deafening as the
Skies darken

Whatever is happening
Is only visible through a four-paned
Window no larger than a newspaper

At age seven this is all new
Thunder, lightening, storms
Have come and gone
Usually starting in the west
Among growing and billowing clouds
This time the darkness is heavy
Winds blow straight yet swirl simultaneously

A look of fear unlike any he has seen before
Covers his mother’s face

His father, a man of few words and a placid personality
Forces new wrinkles upon his worried forehead

The hay barn slides across the yard
Walking as though each wall has legs
Slowly collapsing, it crumbles into the granary
Once it lands the storm begins to abate
They will survive
Slowly, step by step his father, then his mother
And finally he ascend to view what damage
Has occurred.  One view and he knows the answer
The devastation is real and substantial

She sweltered in the heat
she called love
to find out the brightness
was empty warmth
hot and unfulfilling

Sweat free love
like the North Star
goes unnoticed unless
one looks toward the sky
in the right way

Once one finds it
follow what path
is drawn for you
Trek on to
sweat free love

You run through the left turn
U-turn to make a right
On 85 to home
Fighting constant deluge
Until first time in days
Sunshine mixes ahead
Mountains display beauty
Green on green and yellow
Undulating valleys
peaks pressed by rolling fog
Sifting white above creeks
Flushing nature's cleansing
If only rain carries sins
to the depths of south seas
leaving sweet redemption
sifted along the banks

At her wit’s end
there is no destination
other than the road
leading back
to her beginning

Stepping into
her maddening pace
she feels wrapped
with thick, quicksand soup
covering her shoulders

She’s sinking deep,
drifting into severance,
life’s most resounding pain
cut off down here
drenched in warm liquid
molasses —  
her newest home

Like swimming in molasses
trying to ascend
hoping to begin
to get where I want to be

Swimming in molasses,
can’t get there from here
as a robot in first gear
trying to go with the flow

Swimming in molasses
waiting for the gooey
mass to warm
for me to find my way

Swimming in molasses,
Grandma’s Gold Standard all natural kind
dark, black-brown viscid glue
that holds and restricts

I’m swimming in molasses
deliberate, lethargic,
lagging, leaden, swirling toward
the promise that awaits me

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

Bored to death with eyes cast upward
she drifts by his sprawling legs
like fog rolling in from the sea

Newspapers clutter the breakfast nook
his ink-stained fingers clutch ceramic
birthday cup — last year’s surprise

Today the cup, the tea, his only distractions
The sweep of her garment
grazes his back unnoticed.

She’ll pour the final cup of breakfast tea
and settle into her longings,
empty as her teapot.

Hesitant to step close to empathy,
he is unwilling to face fear's barren landscape
veiled with affective danger.  

Struggling, tempted to jump into affectations
lurking within the knowledge
that life is now.

What justifies talk of one's soul,
or eternity, or lament
when the moment is here,
rich and full around us.

If one dwells long enough
fragility advances.  Is fading towards
expiration a blessing?  Or, is preference
a lightning bolt ride to the hereafter
without the faculty to write a goodbye?

Reflect death's terror, it's trepidation
and stay with the present  final moment to be won.

Find the small of her back
Feel for the round, the ridge
Notice smooth never varies
Find the texture
Along the shoulder
Overwhelmed and
engrossed
As you explore
warmth, texture
the moment of
a hug that says
good morning

Although the landscape is level
clouds begin to bellow
in the distance

Mere wisps at first
gradually more pronounce
gray, then coal-black

Interrupted with flashes
strikes, bold and brilliant
disappearing, reappearing
each with a thunderous entry
and silently sleeking away

Where would it display
its fury and
what would be
left behind

Was it birthed of one’s own volition
Was it intended or uncontrolled
Nevertheless, left behind
is a blistered path
waiting to be healed
to spring forth
albeit slowly as a
recovering forest
after a wildfire

What do you do all day

said the spider to the fly

Fly one said, I play

Fly two said, "Mostly I fly"

What do you do all day

said the lady to the guy

Guy one said "I pray?

Guy two said, "I while the day away"

Perhaps they expect a pool
offerings of rare coffee
from Ethiopia

Instead of
a view of hydrangea
plus pale ale in mugs

Conversation entails
irrelevant niceties
of trivial events

Smiles exchanged
chairs rearranged
subtlety reigns

Another chance
to touch humanity
willfully aborted

Few recall when the earth was scraped back
Over four score ago
To show the extensive gravel waiting to be abused

Horse pulled wagons consumed bites of earth,
One shovel-full at a time
To spit and ***** their contents
So no mud holes will grow  
Along trails black with mid-west loam

These roads carried us to and from places
To get what we did not need
For we knew how to be sustainable
Long before it became a popular movement
Long before progress discovered the quantity
Beneath the outer bones of the field across the road

Bent over, pen in hand
carefully squeezing between
thumb and forefinger

Looking up to scrolled
white on black cards,
a's and b's

Performance at chalkboard
do so carefully
each stoke and space

Turn the handle slowly, steady
hold the yellow number two
firmly in the sharpener

Practice capitals
slow movement with slight pressure
leave space between words

Circle, circle, fill the page
loops, curls
wave upon wave across the lines

Write your name
no printing allowed
this will be your identity

Neighbors who walk our street
notice the ramp constructed
with the bend toward the driveway
is gone after only three days.  

New planks of pine
******* in place as a welcome
never greet the wheels
expected to transport him to familiarity,
to warmth, to man's best friend
and to the peace of returning home.

Cars gathered around the ramp-less walkway
like bees at blossoms drinking in bits of nectar.  
His children want a taste of him that lasts.

In anguish they rend their mental cloth
while missing a clasp from his creased palm.
Each offspring mulls over unfinished issues
with his lingering spirit.

In life his skilled hands crafted love
into objects made from sawlogs.
In death he leaves imprints of endearment
in the hearts of those left behind.

Swivel chair swings side-to-side
like a wind chime twisting in March's gusts.
Thoughts of the past fade in and out
reminiscent of film in a faulty projector.

Much is forgotten.
Denial of certain behaviors
shuns responsibility as whole
pages are wiped from his memory scroll.

Each night images play before him.
******, like a needle on a balloon,
burst thoughts of contentment
and feelings of tranquility.

How does one mute
static from past sins ,
to accept
the salve of forgiveness?

Swivel chair swings side-to-side
like a wind chime twisting in March's gusts.
Thoughts of the past fade in and out
reminiscent of film in a faulty projector.

Much is forgotten.
Denial of certain behaviors
shuns responsibility as whole
pages are wiped from his memory scroll.

Each night images play before him.
******, like a needle on a balloon,
burst thoughts of contentment
and feelings of tranquility.

How does one mute
static from past sins ,
to accept
the salve of forgiveness?

The wait
massages my soul
as I become still.
My breathing
finds a cadence
like a monk in meditation.  

In my dream
you pose for me
as your tongue
licks nectar
from petunia buds.  

I conjure
florescent shades
unlike those
any artist
can splash
on canvas.  

The wait for you
is as near to heaven
as I fathom
I will get
while here on earth.

Late in the evening we chew over
     how to foil dilemmas and conflicts

Does resolution come from
     defending my ground

Or by being sure I establish
     your guilt

Is life like a court
     of law

Or a platform for
     debate

The answer may be
     far afield

In an arena where shared
     feelings and misperceptions
     trump facts

Where love is honest enough to yield
     a renewed commitment

Adorned once again
in somber black,
standing in a row
all inhale an aroma
of purifying incense
from burning charcoal
inside a Thurible
flowing in coherence
with the arm of the balding priest
who prances as a peacock,
circling three times past the altar table.

Buttocks bump against
weathered and worn
relic pews.
Muscles strain to tighten hamstrings
sending messages  
telling the body to please sit.

Tears flow without
the gush that erupted a year ago.
Now the gentle drain
is like shallow
hillside waterfalls in autumn.
Grievous pain is so familiar except
the lava of volcanic emotions
has cooled.
Tissues passed from hand to hand
as those who  anticipated
the display
take care of those
sure they would not cry
or who merely denied
the tempo of the day.

Incantations dwell near the icons
splashed gloriously on the wall.
Chants to forgive sins
of the deceased
combine with pleas
for divine intervention
to elevate the Valhalla home
upward a notch or two.
Blessed wine and sacred bread
distributed to all
who keep the faith
as did the beloved son,
husband, and brother.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/julie-r-enszer/are-too-many-people-writib5560772.html

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Pantry shelves hold jars of jam
sweet spreads of life made from fruits and berries
so succulent drops of saliva
rain on each touch of tongues

Cautious people stack rows
of carefully canned fruit
preserved with small portions of honey,
sugar cane or molasses.

Tin lids eventually “pop”
leaving elastic bitters
for knives to daub and rub
against stale breads.

Must life endure until  
only vinegary fills remain
and I am left to consume  
sour roughage to sustain me?

When perdition creeps
across the sands to envelop me
what will become
of unopened jars?

first comes the walk
walks are required now
prescribed to ward off
effects of life

getting from here to there
taken for granted
vertical movement
now a task

next was found
the Underground
home of brews
home of seats

some soft, cushy
others wooden
yet warm, inviting
come, taste our brew

chairs, sofas
filled with chatting people
mostly women
looking into faces

illuminated screens
across coffee, latte or tea
communicating
smiles, grimaces

what is shared
humor, news
fears, fraughts, fragments
dimensions of now, the past






people rise to
pick up special steaming
drinks fresh from
the Underground

he never orders latte
standard drinks
brew of the day
fill his cup

someday
an inkling may stir
his brain, he will order
a white chocolate mocha

Faded stains of spilled bourbon
dot the weathered nightstand’s surface
like stars speckle a clear midnight sky
Each commemorates a prop of courage
swigged to help forge another day

Bras, slips, heels and flats
pepper the soiled carpet
reflections of the many
nightly transgressions now
impediments which fleck her soul

Her frontal lobe
harbors distortions
from her past
forgiven by those who know her
forgotten by others

Rain pelts her window
rat-tat, rat-tats against the panes
compulsively splatters the door
flings open her mind
to let today’s downpour
splash away
any trace of her anguish

She feels no confusion
in her glance toward his eyes.
Eyes deep blue
as a mountain lake.
She senses comfort
across her
chest, like the first time
her cheek touched his
bicep when they walked
enmeshed.

Now feels so warm,
soft on the mind
for fear has
fallen to the trail.
Renewal of trust
fills her heart.
Now feels
like the first time
again.

She swells
from her anger
until blue rivers
flow down her legs
as distinct
as though traced
by a tattoo artist.
He toils, resisting
temptations to apply
the balm that soothes
her soul, she boils
from residue
that falls
on her trail
as they walk together
through her daze.
Resentments sweep
across their fertile minds
caught among this labyrinth
of dreams, desires and fears.
They weather persistent
torrential storms  
pelting their being.

Scarves. high collars,
or extra mascara
hide the brownish-purple
disfigurement wrapped
around her throat.

Part of her being
is scarred with
remnant traces
inflicted from traumatic
scenes endured
during his rage.  

Horrific echoes
careen around her brain
like video clips replaying
the self-hatred he
spilled upon her.

His crazed lashes
struck her
bone deep.  
Musty smells
from those moments
linger among her nostril mucus.

She carries on
distracted with moments
near tranquil music
or beside still brooks
and squawking crows.

Each day she captures
views of sunrise
and sunset while chanting
mantras to unknown gods
striving to complete
her forgiveness.

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.

She never noticed
books of poetry.
Her life was busy
with empathy
for those troubled
from pains scratched
on psyches from
neglect, abuse
or sacraments to fallen Gods.

She seldom heard music
except when,
heartsick from lost love,
she wallowed in vain misery
or during her youth when
hit parades blasted from
solid state radios
in dashboards, or from
jukeboxes flashing
come hither.

She thought little of flowers
nor paused to note scents,
shades or grace on
stems of green.  Her head
was busy with
important matters,
day-to-day grinding
away on work or play.

Now alone,
she absorbs whiteness from
clouds,  motion from birds,
or fragrance from flowers
with senses dulled by
age, injury or illness.
She sifts through her
day looking for
fresh tranquility.

Trapeze rhymes with breeze
It ends there, tis' not a breeze,
To fly a trapeze

Each morning
the boundaries recede
Skies are still blue
Wisps of wind still stir
High noon marks an end
and a beginning
Must someone star
in a slow motion film
as a carp stirring
in the remnant floodwater
of a receding river

She feels no confusion
with her lips against his eye.
Eyes blue as a
deep mountain lake.
She senses comfort
resting across her
chest, like the first time
her cheek touched his
bicep when they walked
enmeshed.
Now feels so warm,
soft on her mind
for fear has
fallen to the trail.
Renewal of trust
reborn fills her heart.

Twister
Demolishes town
Strangely named
Flat Gap
Ironic

Bluebirds, matching set
Follow along as I hike
Flitting on phone lines