Winters harsh dream gone…
yet…seeping residue…angst
path on cracked blue ice.
-
haiku
“What does the lake feel?”
Emerald depth
cold weighed down resisting
dreaded ascension
-
haiku: walking Fuzz
dead leaves rasp the street
smashed turtle at our feet—blood
caution—slow approach
respectful soft sniff
looking up to me—confused?
unable to speak
-
Haiku: our street
blinded windows locked
fireflies taunting us…blink…glow
mystic in plump dusk
-
Haiku
shells fall as spring rain…
the widows child dies…and yet
hearts are leaping pups
-
Weather
“What is this weather in my soul?
This nameless weather:
Squirrel’s flag-tail pulsating
A silent, nil day.
Exceptional drought……
memory’s ceaseless loop roils;
turkey vultures soar.
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scars
Daylight, unforgiving and true,
caught my hands at ease, flat,
unflatteringly flat, upon my knees.
Loosely applied over blue-veined
rivers and tendon ridges, a pliant
skin reveals a history of scars:
puckered, punctured stars, sliced
crescents, rude tears and gouges
all ungulate in a lighter hue over
blue-veined rivers and tendon ridges.
A skinscape of a crazed topographer;
a delineation of years of labor,
of incidences with sharp edges,
of inabilities, and worst, inattention,
of flailing arms and careless hands;
hands with slender fingers
better spread across opened pages
gently tapping, counting, calling out the joy.
-
Calla
Calla lends herself to lyric,
Flowing lines sync; visual rhyme.
You and me, our whining’s, not so much.
She exist in pastel syllables,
Cello bliss, dabs from the sacred palette;
Copyrighted; forbidden to us, by ourselves.
Deprived, we paint only you and me:
Gray lamentations, stark primary tints;
Decrying fate in strident sketches
Of perceived losses and longings.
Satiation, our illusive deity;
Calla, complete, an ignored embrace.
-
Veritas: The Woman In The Well
I recall the bucket of coopered staves to lower,
splash and feeling the weight filling. Soft rope,
braided and frayed winding round a slicked-log
spindle cranked by hand up through a squeaking
pulley would bring the bucket of water up to us.
I claimed first sip from the tarnished tin dipper
made cold to my lips by the wells sweet water.
•
If I caught him in a good mood, Old-man Carter
would sigh, lean his cane and lift me up to stare
down into the cool, unquiet, enticing darkness;
his private black hole protected by lid and shed.
Tall, taciturn and humorless, I though, he told me,
“A woman hides in the well and sings to me.”
“You drink the water?” I asked. “I do.” he bragged.
•
Even at five, I knew people told lies or as
Mama called them: stories. You’re telling me
a story! she would allege puckering her brow.
A thousand siren songs pulled me from the well;
decades falling away before I knew her name;
the woman beneath the water down the well
who sings to sooth and protect her only child.
•
A goddess, yet still, only a frail creature hiding
from those that would disfigure, abuse, and
malign her for the songs of truth she sings;
holding Virtue, sweet child, tight to her, she
watches for descending light, a face above,
an ear attentive to voices other than its own.
“You drink the water?” you ask. “I do.” I brag.
•
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Heart’s Script
We all bear witness, self-sworn daily,
speaking our lies, shinier than truth;
painting ourselves, molding a visage
of reflections from fouled mirrors.
We profess enlightenment yet cling
to darkness choosing each sin care-
fully writing new, discreet definitions.
What is written will endure; flourish.
Our heart’s script perishes with flesh.
Belated Words 