angels call, singing for a while,
watching us,
aping things they’d heard, saw,
obsessing over things
we tossed away–
time, primarily–
angels lost feathers, attempting to understand
our tossing away time like used tissues, soiled food tins–
when we held little.
Staring deeper into the center of the pool,
The wisdom of a street wise Athena
Forgotten, ignored, stripped away,
She stood readied for the flow of molten metal
To form customized links of chain, binding forever
Spirit and soul into a trophy of destruction.
Thus, she stared even deeper,
Praying for escape,
As molten metal seared her wrists,
Her ankles, her soul,
Chaining her forever to the stone,
Making of her a possession, a trophy of destruction,
Displayed for an ego never sated.
Tell the angels
To tuck away deep inside their chests
Such a cotton candy fire of winter sky raging,
Roiling in clouds there
Undeterred by storms
Or answers
Or truths
Provide no magic, no elixir
For human loss or longing,
Aching and confined in such beauty.
Wish I could rest beguiled–
Believing willingly in soft whispered lies
If only for this little while of rest
As if slipping easily between
The waxen petals of lilies
And curling round the sweetened smell
Of wonderous blossoming softness—
Yet the price, the price of choosing
The rest of such beguilement
Give me a minute.
Let me have another cup of coffee,
Will you?
Before I slosh on after,
Down the trail–
Again– maybe.
You say, a guard now stands there,
Of the newer variety,
Who advises of the locust thorns,
The kind that pierces the shoe
And can go straight into your foot?
Could have used that advice–
Once or twice
Maybe thrice
In life.
But now I’ve rubbed my thumbs
Over the sharp tipped thorns of regret
Until callouses formed.
Then I moved on to other
Fingertips until bloody, raw,
Proving to myself the sharpness of thorns.
So now, you say this stony guardian warns
Of all the thorns
Along the paths and trails?
Might this guardian advise of a thornless trail?
I really wouldn’t care, but the soles of my feet
Are without callous, and I’d like to keep them so.
Send me down a muddy, sloshy trail where
I might just fall and break my neck.
That would be simply fine,
If the soles of my feet
Remain as soft and unmarred
as a baby’s behind.
The year ends with heavy rains
As if to wash us all clean
Of the leavings and grime.
Now, standing with each year
For each foot of earth
Between us forever—
I gather to me
Broken pieces of colored glass
And think of—
Just after midnight,
An early morning
Long before dawn—
The third day of a new year six years ago,
You left in blinding, flooding rains.
If only on this third day
Of this new year—
I could open the earth
And roll a stone away,
Bringing you back from under
This six feet of earth.
But I have neither the strength
Nor the talent
For miracles great or small
When most days
There is not enough
Left over to become
A mosaic of brokenness.
The languid time of evening
Comes in flames,
Searching horizons
In their lazy, twisting way
For truths and hearts.
Forever searching
For another flaming heart
To serve as a twin
As if that could be found
In such languid searching
In slowing time
Between sunset and sunrise,
Each a prize of flame,
never finding another flaming heart.
Icy cold wind walks.
Blinding sunshine ironic,
Burning horizons,
Promises of warmth
Unfulfilled in morning’s cry
Of grey storm cloud’s tears,
And then nothing left
Of fires or dreams curling,
Blanketing round us.
Sleeplessness always told the story
Between the here and the now
The between and
What she thought a game
The tracks that led to nowhere
The last section of a living
Something not well lived
A swirl of memory
Piercing through knots
could not be undone
She had lived with no plan
With only a heart that failed
More than once
A heart she could not ever trust
A heart that spoke in religious tongues
She’d yet to understand
Its rhyme or reason for speaking
In lies and whispers,
For leading her astray,
For leading her to abandon her dreams and plans,
She would never know.
This was her last act, in her last years,
To strip herself of harlequin clothes.
As winter whispers
The longing starts
For warmer days
Of a warming spring
Leaking slowly
Into a sweltering summer.
As winter whispers
In pretense of knowing
Warmth and cheer
Of holidays it cannot contain
In its freezing coldness,
We are left untouched
For far too long—
Our souls grow grey
In these winter days
And leap at the hope
Contained in striking colors
Of Winter’s sunsets–
Only to have hope
Bashed, broken, bleeding
Against the frozen Winter
Ground. As Winter whispers,
Chuckling at our fragile humanity.
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