Pomegranate Cottage – A Poem

Sophisticate mysteries of love, golden
little deceits breathed beautiful
in an effortless wind.
Move.

Move me.

Move me through the lingering aromas
of the Pomegranate
Cottage. Infuse me by the
pretty starlit pools. I am at the edge of our
desperation
retreating from this world of bliss and lies.

The asylum of our youth keeps me. A
memory. A mid-

September kiss
in the grove when our opulence
was still assumed. And now has age provided
me nothing except a
remorseful insight? Look out
over this…

over this creation. God’s only strength resides solely in
our ignorance. We are simply
the merry
and the damned.

4:29 – A Poem

At 4:29 the snow begins.
Wrapped warmly in my insecurities
I watch it fall knowing that

all that proceeds it
(all that proceeds
us)
will vanish
into the absence of what is
left behind.

At the watershed the
snowflakes circle in the air to
eventually
gather
together, slowly,
one binding itself to the next.

There is a shared, acquired
patience to winter.
I blush to the emergence of how
to a fault
I know it too well.

The Light of a Strange Sun – A Poem

Into the dream,
coiled and tense
by the blush of a morning
chill,
steps The Daughter-Child.

As the auspice of a swollen desire,
a newborn light moves
over grass and through
fences
and into the white fields.

The sky is dark.
The moon will no longer shine.
The stars have long ago redshifted
into The Obscure.

She thinks about The Father-Husband
and how his body rots
in the church yard,
and of The Son-Child who sits inept,
tormented in sorrow,
broken by the confines
of his own shallow words
that we, in our eagerness, believed
because we needed to.

Because, at the time, it was all we had.

The Daughter-Child passes
the neighboring houses,
the school and the library,
the hospital with its quiet windows.
It is there where The Mother-Wife
now resides watching the monitors that,
in mysterious ecstasy, dance their
limited view of the human
condition.
“We are all just violence, you see?”
Mother once said to her Daughter.
“It is our one true inheritance.”

Reaching the bakery
The Daughter-Child looks into the light of
a strange sun.
She feels it,
new and cold through
the ash
of a world set adrift.

It is the beginning she thinks.
The dream fades.

The smell of the fresh bread
excites her.
She hurries inside
to begin her work.