Relics – A Poem

New life yet what was found
but clinging remnants.
Relics of the old guard.

My pretty
periwinkle of a wife
is stationed at the cross
road.

The air is charged
and static.

Mary brings me the news
with a smile on her lips
before the sun rise.
Turned inward
a mistake pulses
in me
and I confuse my own
artful collusion
for sanctuary.

A Justice asks me where
and I answer somewhere…
sometime
past.
Past the canal where the water
no longer flows
to when I was born.
It’s there that the bones
still remain
to blossom.

The Dreamed – A Poem

Coin under a bridge.

Three beer bottle caps.

A girl with a butterfly dress

slumbers in a prison of light.

Nightly fold the summer grass

where the winds met.

The word of god’s world rests

in a fiberglass crown

as the dreamed mask

sovereigned plight

with sparkling pockets

and cast off curios.

The Proximity of Reason – A Poem

 

The Proximity of Reason

I don’t see through the years any longer
the lines that once distinguished us.
A cavity in space that the flesh
in an unholy avarice drips into
yet never fills
distorts my sight.

There are no heroes here,
here where our histories have become confused,
no fey brethren camaraderie
to bend the world straight
and realign the constellations
in their image.

At noon I barter for supplies
with a martyr in the desert
whose lungs, too filled with the breath of life,
have become cancerous.
She recites abridged Shakespeare for soup
and under the sun the suffocating masses
cling to her voice,
the words,
lost in a hot toxic breeze,
drift pointlessly past them.

Change the discussion
to the proximity of reason
(for me, my dear, for me)
and instruct me on the secrets The Giants possessed
before they collapsed.
What price do we pay for the secure knowledge
of our own demise
gained as our sole inheritance
of their ruin?

Violent Serenity – A Poem

 

Violent Serenity

The clouds blue endless
shadows
grey a summertime forgotten evening.
The musk of a cherry red liqueur
stifles the air.

Bend softness.
Measure the worth of our day
blanched and scoured
by interpreted meter.
The music of the descending sun
silvers our transitions
and pales in
my eyes.

If but for were the chain more
gold
its latch less fragile
the dance may have ended
differently
the neck adorned and bruised.
Yet whispers
lovely to our ears
laugh and brown our
memory.

Today is the disintegration to all
of our yesterdays
the climatic downfall for everything
to come.
So let us break open our soul
to put a moratorium on peace.
Revel in the violent serenity of
a hushed
afterthought
brought about by the neglect
of our crime.

But quiet.
A tombed yellow quiet
that stains and suits
our situation.
Day to night my heart runs and speeds
to encompass the absolute
of my isolated institution.

Bring me the head and genitals
of the monster
in the labyrinth.
I’ll dine on blackened custard
as the night comes.

Shades of Lavender – A Poem from the Archives

 

Shades of Lavender

Fleet of white sailing ships
rest in the harbor
under cliffs of green falling grass.
The borders of earth and sky
stretch into impossible lengths
of space
and time.
Shift what is possible into shades
of lavender,
flowers stream across fields painted
in blue.

Waking dreams course into illusions
of reality
as the ocean cycles into raindrops
and rivers.
Contemplate a moment a rope,
a net,
gripping the wood planks
of the pier
built on sea by land.

Where did we go
nights of snow
drifting away
molds of clay?
Four feet tap
by moon and stream
drifting in cross
crafty determent
of lives spent
together and apart.

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Another entry and exploration into old poems I wrote years ago. This has been changed some from how it was originally written, mostly to clean up and make the idea come through  little clearer. I think, however, I kept the spirit of the original in tact, which is my main focus in revisiting and revising these writings.

 

 

So Pass The Mariposa – A Poem

 

So Pass The Mariposa

The violets began to die the moment
the window glass was shattered.
An occurrence Marla could only interpret
to be a premonition.

In her youth she heard tell
(and Oscar can vouch for her on this)
how in the estuaries the birds
were giving birth
to living babies.
Human babies no larger than an egg
and with wings
instead of arms.
An old charlatan,
who was an uncle on her mother’s side,
said he even had one
when he overheard her talk about them
one day
to her friends.
He had it in a jar in his house.
But Marla was too quick-tempered
to believe him,
and trusted in this matter only the testimony
of other children.

“I could always place my faith in the violets,”
she said to Oscar.
It was a double pane window,
and only one of them had broken.
Its remains littered the grass.
“They were one of the few things
in my life
I could believe in.”

Oscar fell in love with her
watercolors
(perhaps unfairly)
when they were children and he spied on her
painting
in their father’s greenhouse
through the wrapping green of the tomato plants.
She wore a dress of earth tone pastels.
The morning was young and it shed its light
in a swirling panorama
of muted violins and fragrant
hot-house roses.

“We can name them The Mariposa,” Marla suggested.

“Why? They are nothing like butterflies.
More like mutant cherubs.”

“No, they are The Mariposa.”

Through the years
Oscar had stayed at Marla’s side
and had been ever vigilant
in his care for her.
From the wild days of abandon
as she mastered her art,
and enduring the complex violence
that epitomized her marriages.
Lasting as the house they shared
for all their years,
their parent’s house which once
was filled with life and hope,
collapsed under the loneliness
of time.
Even during the time when the flowers fell
from a clouded sky in June
and exploded.
Leaving only rubble, cinder and blood
in the town center
where the elderly would once gather to gossip
over hot black coffee,
and her children exchanged their hearts
with their lovers
in secret sealed envelopes
in the brightness of their passion.

“They have left now. The Mariposa.
They would drink the nectar from the violets
in the early hours,
but with the flowers dead
so too
pass The Mariposa.”

And Oscar stroked Marla’s hand
to comfort her as
she sat there in the stuffy confines
of the greenhouse
looking at the canvas that was
propped on her easel,
studying the painting she was working on
awash in hushed, bashful colors
for answers to riddles she knew she would never
comprehend,
and that he, of course,
found lovely beyond words.