The keys have never lied to me;
They really only sing
Echoed notes to my favor:
Utmost passion, pain, pining.
Four worn walls of floral
Patterns once were vibrant.
Torn and tattered blossoms of
Pastels in alignment.

There is a view of the terrace,
But my song cannot be free.
The sill is chipped and window locked,
Sun’s outline halos, mockery.
My hands don’t shake across my board
Nor tremble ruined red lacquered.
Composing now my newest start
Arranging how I want to feel and
Fill my place with hopeless heart.

Serenade my soul, please,
Even with my mistruck keys.
The shadows grow so long here,
Dear, they always frighten me.
Dark hair turned amber gold,
Iridescent,
So I’m told.
But I’ve only love for which I cannot hold.

I do not play with another,
Lest they feel the need.
No one else can play the same;
My jumbled notes? Your misread.
Regardless of me all,
The dust collects around.
Yet shimmering like diamonds
As they catch the sunlit crown.
But silently they fall away,
Hiding faded footsteps where no one stayed.
And so I no longer wait for them;
Press the pedal yet again.
Find their portraits on the porch—
Mourning sound my keys had then.

I see you’ve gotten the old brass doorknob to finally let you in,
But you’ve disturbed the patterns on the water-damage within.
Come and sit beside me now on this wooden bench
Creaking gently through my chamber with no chance for French
Exit as you’ve entered now.
The warm light
Cascades on my
Ivory.
Touch on me your melody.
It may not ring as it once did,
But I shall share it as we wish.

I usually do it on the porch
in old age
lines blur, giving you a headache
it requires a pain reliever

its a metaphor
plushy cotton pill packing
fire kindling doused with gas
just out of reach of the flame

If only fire would arc like lighting

this paper would sail like the Hindenburg,
down the street,
by the park
there’s a tree fort

a little boy sits crying
the bigger kids stole his lighter
told him shut his mouth-
"You're too young to play with flame"
"Keep it up! We'll steal the gas too
set your house on fire!"

more valueless analogy of fire and emotion

meanwhile,
lifeguards stand watch
above the public pool
a dwarfed Mediterranean
polished stone sculptures
chiseled piece by agonizing piece
solid form,
classic replica
the scrap pieces falling to the floor
heavier dust piles,
swimmers bare feet leave footprints on the path to the diving board
and muddy the water
the lighter debris dances in the breeze
coming to rest on whatever it touches,  
painting it marble
thwarting a beautiful tan

this sculptor looks tired,
calloused hands,
one bandaged wound from a hammer mistruck
***** apron and a few dull tools strewn about...
I've seen this before
Pieta remade, but not quite right
even that masterpiece was dashed by a hammer

my plushy cotton packing still struggles to kindle
it definitely won’t consume those stones

across the street
the second floor window is dark
curtains drawn, inside
he hurts, cause she said
he only wants me for my body
she, cause he stomped her heart
they both grab a knife,
or at least a rope
their detached parents will find them too late
neighbors will call when it starts to smell

I see three others run out from behind
Ol’ Man Closson’s shop
stolen jug of paint thinner
plan to set the town on fire,
but they’re too scared,
just fools being hooligans
acting tough
no grit

On the sidewalk a stranger smokes
didn't need a lighter
used a match,
made him feel uniquely proud
but people don’t share pricey cigars
doubt he even noticed I watched

I stood up, walked off the porch
showed the sobbing kid a trick

flint, strike
flint spark,
smoke
but no fire

rearrange the kindling, and exhale
we remember
read it in some old dusty survival manual
twenty five cents, picked it up at a garage sale
bought it mostly cause he liked the cover,
secretly it made him feel tough
served it's purpose finally

Viola! A flame

tended slowly
burned out overworked,
became just a glowing coal
gives some heat
but very poor for lighting
a dark room

in the context of the Big Orange Ball,
this tiny candle does little
to assist with lighting the world

if that Bob is taken for granted
we don’t stand a chance

so, I took a nap
a few days later I catch the news:
appears some irresponsible **** flicked a cigarette
set the whole **** hillside on fire.
by accident
it threatens to burn down some suburban homes
fat investors are angry
the scene shifts,
weather reports a seventy-five percent chance of rain
tonight
it’ll fade out