Still water mirrors the trembling branches.
Fifty breaths of fresh air stings my lungs.
I am reminded by a voiceless light that I
remain bound to a paradisiacal wasteland.
It falls from a red moon, whispering comfort
in the clever way it colors the landscape.
I am the same as I was before, and this truth
is a testament to my own insecurities. With
the rise of sin comes the guise of pity. I seek
out those delirious patterns of love which I lost
in my youth. During a time before joy became
stained and was driven into the scarlet abyss of
a baptism pool – whose still waters now mirror
the twisted, trembling branches, and where
the fresh air hovering under a lunar sky
bites at my skin and stings my lungs.
Botanical offerings on
Sunday morning. Bakery closed.
Half a mile jog to the river.
Boats row unison lines
in lavender water.
A violin concerto hiatus.
Movement strung tense flows
across the park. Cat on crates
peeking into the corner shop
window. Between the curtains.
Hands remove pollen
from the fir trees. Cracks appear
in solitude. Summer brings me
iced tea filled with lemon.
Man at the bus station waits
for absolution. Wet clover on his shoes.
Children swing and climb and
slide. The faithful regrets of
Cloud drifts cumulate. So high
in a sky so orange. Heaven
pontificates appropriate answers.
In the pond with biased fish
Oil on Water
Oil on water or on
and I am now and always was
and never have been.
on water or on canvas
and I am forgotten or remembered.
or on canvas
and green blue morning yellow at sunset.
Wake by four, walk by five.
Oil on water or on
and when and how
but not this.
Grey stone gateway a marker.
A path bearing right
Oil on water
and naked mouths shout riddles.
Closed meaning justification.
daydream a straight bridge home.
A Table Set for Five
Notices from the delivery driver
that we have now been avoiding for years
have gone unnoticed.
They are piled up by and tagged to our front door.
And still our past has found a way to disgustingly
cling to us.
A table set for five overwhelms me
and I excuse myself
to drink alone out on the patio.
“There are nights where sometimes I almost miss you,”
you tell me as I leave and to which
I have no response.
In their monolithic eyes I can see how even the children
have rejected me.
The liquor does not burn any more.
I light a cigarette and look around
for secrets that are not there.
A garden with flowers and wind and sun and moon and stars
and circles and circles and
my stomach hurts
and my head is sharp and feverish
and there was delight
and no matter and matter.
One time as a little boy I think there was a dream.
This dream may have had a name
but so too may the leaves
and the grains of sand.
She may have been lovely or hideous.
Living or dead.
Or maybe not have existed at all.
You asked me for a meaning once and
I handed you a bullet from our bureau drawer.
Inside I can see you at the table
the children’s lives.
Shades of heaven change hues
and in between us
that are just out of reach.
Springtime is in the air
fragrant and true.
It melts in the ice and dilutes my gin.
The girl’s shadow came alive
one afternoon under the spell
of an April sun.
This is a short piece that I have planned to incorporate into a larger work of fiction I am writing. I have posted on here writings from that work in The_Creature_Wakes, and in The_Deerfields, but I kind of like this as well as a stand alone poem.
The morning air smelt of
fresh corn tortillas
cooking hot on the grill.
A bourbon cakewalk into
work. Six floors of fluorescent
You read the outbound manifest reports
in a predictably clerical fashion
and the room is enraptured at the miracle
of your voice. There was a calamity
in the greenhouse that was
overlooked during the press conference.
A border collie was let loose
to run amok,
and he ate the tomatoes fresh off the vine.
Journeying down an alleyway I wonder if
there are mountains still in the
outside world, and if so, do they yet remain red,
and silver and blue.
Do others truly ride bikes in the countryside
where the windblown trees whimsically
bring a stillness to their bones?
Bob in maintenance dances to the
sound of your lyrical voice
reciting delivery schedules over the intercom
as he cleans up what has been dubbed
The Disturbance in the Greenery.
He bows to his red stained
mop, and weeps for the fate of the
paw printed concrete. An investigation has
been called forth led by one
Detective Monroe who has an
unnatural abhorrence for maintenance
of any kind.
I ponder retribution and its consequence
while collecting fresh sprigs of mint
at an open air market for the pork chops
I will be cooking tonight. There is a lovely star
in the sky, silver sparkling red in blue.
The sun’s light a grotesque monster
in comparison. I feel like pointing out
the star to the lady at the stand,
but her face is bored
and not inviting, taken in as she is
by your voice droning on about
exchanges and volatility
over the radio.
The scent of malevolence drifts over
the cobbled walk as I leave.
There were yellow flowers once that
lined the city streets.
From what I was told, they were
harvested in a glade deep in the woods
by the most desperate of people.
But where the flowers and the people have
disappeared to now
I cannot say.