Waiting for a coach
and four
that never came,
she realized
a ball gown
won't bloom
out of sackloth;
glass slippers
are not dependable
and mice
are best left
to their own devices.
Midnight was never a friend,
and under that suit
he is the same as any other
man.
They say the last rose
of summer
is low born -
a slow moving blossom
that bears a crooked stem.
Pluck it carefully,
tender color
to raise the dull dusk
of your dress;
flush it pale and perfect
along your thighs.
You move through the trees
like pelerines at the fair,
carrying it in your hand
the adieu of petals
already inscribed -
never thinking
to score the thorns
or to leave it behind
for the one
who called you sweetheart.
Beloved,
Is it possible to feel too much at times? Can the heart become a weapon, carrying the weight of unspent dreams?
There are rare nights when I seem to ghost dance with the world. I move through it, aware of the physical existence of people, places, things - their connections - and nothing more.They leave no indelible mark; they are a mere whisper on my landscape that echoes vaguely in my conscious mind, a glancing blow that barely registers. Mouths move...words are said, and I comprehend the physical act, the meaning and reality - but it only ripples the surface.
And then there are nights that are quiet electricity and life blooms o
Blasted blistered roots of trees,
limbs askew in knotted knees,
darkling bark of branches grows-
turning back, my fever flows,
Maudlin madness chills my veins,
wretched reek of death remains -
draws me dreaming to this place,
sallow streams and wallowed waste.
Twisted thoughts begin to creep
into woods where willows weep.
Turning twice I light the flame
no one there to bear my shame.
Burning bright, my sacrifice
beacon blazing in the night
warning all who wander here
that God's truth will cost them dear.
Progress -
a simple act
the art of moving on
suddenly snatched away again
Regress
Falling
always alone
without a friend or net
suddenly lifted to the sky
Rising
Flying
Wind born poet
nestled into the clouds
words the only safe place you know
Landing
Moving
trick of the light
hurtling into the sun
an impossible position
Stopping
Living
only an act
you are on a trapeze
relentless fall of acrobats
Dying
Shall I find thee all in ice ensnared,
the tree boughs stripped, the blossoms bared,
trapped in a wet and wintry grave -
the blight of snow and hoarfrost shared?
They brought you here, their souls enslaved.
The altar where your minions prayed -
a brilliant diadem of ice,
the offering that your cold heart craved.
They linger here whilst you entice
their frozen limbs as sacrifice.
Their wizened hands by you declared
the chosen few who paid your price
Rings and rivulets of water
Rolling down the panes and roof
Running wildly through the gutters
Resting underneath the porch
Raking wet across the shutters
Remaining still for far too long
Restless children yearn to play
I will call you Rachel
was all he said.
It suits your mouth, your dress,
the combs in your hair,
like starlight.
It fits the starlings at your feet,
the crows in a perfect vee
at the end of the sky,
the low voice of locusts -
unpronounceable.
And it remembers his handprints,
just how you took them off
and pinned them
to the hem of your skirt
and wore each letter
bareback like his thorns.
When I grow old
she said
I will be the crazy cat lady
all the neighbors talk about.
I will dwell
in a house of sycamore
and live off taffy and gin,
and paint my ceilings yellow.
I will dangle carrots
off the clothesline
and only bathe on Sundays.
I will keep 47 cats
(or maybe 63)
and give them names
like Cumberbund and Camembert
and let them sleep in the kitchen sink
where they can dream of midnight raids
on the pantry-
of sardines poached in pepper sauce
and mocking bird and beetle pie
and we will fish off the crumbling pier.
I will tie bells to their tails
to warn the birds
they are invited for a meal
and watch them