March 31, 2017 § Leave a comment
A fight is best for us mortals
who look forward to better weather
As long as our health is good ~
Better to die in autumn.
A fight is best
a stormy fight
so that Persephone can leave her lover
in a hot rage.
Her mother’s disposition becomes sunny
when she can spend a late March day
disparaging her daughter’s lord.
Persephone weeps in April
A touch of conflicted homesickness
Tears so light and soft
that they barely bend the flowers that
bloom in her footsteps
March 20, 2017 § Leave a comment
Love me like Persephone
Who sees spring return
And regrets six seeds
When the whole fruit
was in her fair hand…
Love me not.
March 10, 2017 § Leave a comment
Small birds complain in the softly falling rain
too light for the cover of my hood
it falls like a kiss from a friend.
I breath the sweetened air
as I walk uphill
and by the time the rainfall grows
I am walking on the broad way
among the cars and the crows
who never complain, but state.
Black bodies sleek wet or dry
They say a small bird’s egg
would make a fine meal
and pull greasy burger bags,
last night’s trash, from the bins.
Sometimes, I have something to tell you
that does not matter any greater
than the complaints of small birds
or the detritus of the expired night.
So like the crescendo
of this morning’s rain
here is my kiss.
February 14, 2017 § Leave a comment
Words like these must be written in careful lines,
To keep the truth of my feeling ensnared,
Every letter caressed with slow and conscious care,
Every part behaved, contained, confined,
My meaning is bound in strokes of ink
Laid quietly across the smooth, calm page;
It’s caught in the folds of a paper cage,
Barred from release and held back from the brink.
February 10, 2017 § 1 Comment
I wanted wings, but for more than to fly:
To feel the growing of their folded weight
Close-pressed against my body while I lie
Enchambered in a still, suspended state
Spinning deep dreams like a cocoon silk thread;
Then when I wake, to stretch their wonderous span
With caution as I crawl out of my bed
And, drying, flutter like a painted fan
My colors with a slow, sensual sweep;
To bask under the sun’s lingering kiss,
To let the air caress away my sleep;
Beyond the wish to fly, I wanted this;
To show someone the breadth of my feelings
Given their freedom in the form of wings.
January 10, 2017 § Leave a comment
In the roar of the Twelfth Man she hears the sound of the distant, deep ocean
of her sisters, in the crashing waves, singing from the foam
crying, calling: come home, come home
the Siren peeks over the top of her tower; she whispers as rain mists over Elliott Bay,
I have emeralds to watch over.
In the shriek of jet planes descending, she recalls amorous pleas
of sailors as she pulled them into the embrace of gray death
gasping, gurgling: a breath, a breath
the Siren’s crown is a compass rose; she surveys from Leschi to Harbor Island,
I have a map to treasures.
In her clock tower, high above the streets, the Siren watches scenes
of bicycle couriers dispatched by smartphone, meal desires to fulfill
huffing, heaving: a hill, a hill
the Siren looks over the lights of Magnolia; she sighs as dusk settles,
I have a bejeweled city.
December 20, 2016 § Leave a comment
Everlasting, or so they claim
these short lengths of fiber optic glass
soaked in oil that never pours, only spills,
sitting cold, in dirty lamps.
When nothing is forever
Why would I believe the name?
Still I try
as the match flame runs to meet my skin
as the blue races to the cardboard’s end
a brief attempt at the frayed and blackened wicks
that are surely plugged with soot, and besides
all but one of the lamps are dry.
Nothing… nothing. Nothing
is forever, except maybe the blackness up the flue
which looks like it goes on eternally
Even the black stain of a year of candleflames
comes out of my nailbeds with enough soap
and thorough scrubbing
A crèche, of a kind
a home for foundlings, candles in motley, mismatched
I put my spirit to the task at hand
On knees that willingly kneel, I sweep
the tailings of a spent year
the broken pieces in hearth and heart and mind
On this longest of nights
on this shortest day, I bring out small stars
match flame to candlewick, candle flame to candle
On a whim, I touch the one glass lamp with oil,
that so called everlasting wick,
and as if to prove me wrong