Summer Values – A Poem

 

Summer Values

Wary and suspicious
a justice buries himself in the
shadows of a liquor cabinet. He lacks confidence.

“I am attached to the sparing of summer values and
grant reconciliation to November’s barren days,”
he says.

The letter from The Office of the Superior
lays torn in half on the carpet. It smells of internal networking.
A dog in a neighbor’s yard lets out a low moan and smells apples
in the air.

“If only his children… If only his children…”
Mrs. Witherbon utters to the crowd assembled
in the parlor who had come for dinner.
They look down at their hands and shake their heads.
“If only, if only,” they repeat in unison.

“A mantra!” the justice screams. “A mantra?
That is my compensation? No more. Please. The blood of my children
will shake the earth!”

Elsa, the daughter of the justice, examines the number of scratches
in the dinnerware and finds it suitable.
She is alone in the dining room except for Raymond the parrot who is
caged in the corner. With a smile she takes comfort in the
secret she has kept.

“It is a temporary madness. So much stress and now this.
What can one expect?” Mrs. Witherbon reassures.
The crowd is uncomfortable with her desperation being so
visibly displayed.
They nod, shuffle and appear concerned.

“Take flight you peacemakers,” the justice warns,
“for I will have your heads.”

In the town of Ruxberg some distance away
The Office of the Superior
asks a young woman if she would like to see a movie.
And she, overcome by the charm of His Elevation,
backs away from him and into the glass
of a storefront window. He can only laugh a chirping
cough-like chuckle in remorse
for the scandal.

Broken – A Poem

Broken

You break me
you should
undress in the half-light

The Patriarch’s slumbering lust
chills

your fingers
turning grapes red
with blood

I fear the omens
shuttered in the tresses of your dark hair

voices
released and feeble
haunt our naked passage through the hall
you step past me

feet stained a ghastly blue
light
weightless

beyond living

the crystal faces of the dead
appear
full of a blind malicious
trust
to stare helpless at my submission

You bind me
you should

Where The Graved Go – A Poem

 

Where The Graved Go

Talisman drift design
a playground
an October mentioned in passing
the swinging laughter
borne upon the eve of holy days.

“But why and where do the graved ones go?”

Eight count decent dreamt
valiant on solar currents
permitting god
to tumblefall.
A begged pandering to a crowd of ghosts.

Opened beauty eyes
the high stream.

“Just a while longer.”

“We
must go soon.”

“Just a while longer?”

Do tell that sliding lunar joy
a story
on fished paths twisting
below the knotted stars.
A manned door open to the whim of youth.

“Down.
Down the high stream is where the graved go.
They make no residence.
No permanence
or settlement on the bank.
Ever and on
and why
is left to them alone.”

Exit 14 – A Poem

 

Exit 14

Exit 14
the world.
I don’t believe any more.
Esoteric remains from a populist cult
are
littered on the highway.

Breach the subject under tulip trees
in the mangroves
with me
before the oncoming autumn storm
eases our passion.

Listen
listen
listen to the water drip and drain.
It is humid and I am maddened
by the violent surrender
of our morality.

But Exit
14
the rain comes
and we struggle for footing
on the shambled pilings
searching
for a creator.

The voice of a strangled life
withers in the fires
that
we set.
She will not be born
again.

Magpie Tea – A Poem

 

Magpie Tea

You’re sky in ecstasy.
My lips touch
the blight of your pinked fruit.

Vacation.
What we need is a vacation.
Perhaps to Croatia
where on the balcony of a hotel
overlooking the Mediterranean coast
I’ll dream of Odysseus
and you will drink your Magpie Tea.

But I don’t want to get to know you
darling
only investigate the mysteries
of your body
and just leave the rest for my fantasy
to fill.

Avert your eyes when we pass each other in the hall.
I am a scavenger
for attention
muted by the notes
your fingers
somehow know to play.

Peace in ecstasy your sky showers blue patterns
over the land
and I want to play in the mild breeze
it brings.

A call
an abrasive knock
a creeping paralysis crawls over the carpeted floor.
I shiver frightened into your forbidden nature
limp and broken
by the softness of your shoulder
whose skin
pales
beneath the sharpened knifing shadow
of an aristocratic chin.

The couch is lonesome now.
I am cold beneath the blanket.

The Summer Room – A Poem

 

The Summer Room

The summer room lines are drawn.
Darling opens the door
to bring me the sweets
of unkissed youth.

He was lost one day
walking home from school
and kicking stones
along the sidewalk.

Maybe it was I who was at fault
being bound corporeal and
becoming
The Isolated
by my own design.

But he is still alive somewhere
outside this room.
Somewhere outside
of me.

Broken innocence
smells of sweet grass and its taste
mixes with the blood
in my mouth.
I feel still that cool evening wind
being blown from a childhood desire
through
the open car window.
How it stirred suspense and danger.
And in the end how empty it was.

The summer room lines are drawn
and weighted
I surrender to them.

A mirrored field of vision hides my name
and as the years rest
over the hills and in between the sun
I realize I no longer miss it.

Atlantic – A Poem

 

Atlantic

Holiday in an Atlantic state
of mind.

1979

A lost year

I cannot remember
those flushed moments
of tenderness.

Oceanic innocence
naked in the sand and silver wrapped.

Retribution quaked
1948
Beechnut Drive.

Holly lived

Quietly
with parents who smoked
too much
on the back porch.

Orange fluttered in the pit of her heart.

Random billowing waves of nausea
left me
bitter and resentful.

Crooked salty breeze twisting
fire
slipped over the dunes.

A matchbook
dance in an Atlantic
romance.