In Honor

expanse of white tiles
clean and ordered
antithesis of the world
that provided such a sea
of surrendered life
fallen on grounds
neither lush nor shorn
more often unyielding
barren horizons
or wrenching bogs
wasteful and valuable
in the same moment
as over-exposed eyes shut
and darkness falls

Relocate, Refresh

looming in the periphery
far for so long
now suddenly claustrophobic
unmanageable and invigorating
a new adventure
ticking clock
measuring weeks now
next only days
and prepared or not
it will fall upon me
so shoulders must rise
to follow the chin

Impressionistic Interviewing

she entered boisterous
smiling and jovial
of little distraction though
from her neckline
creeping ever lower
and each answer
became another nail
vernacular pounding them
flush against the grounding
of call and response
employer and turn-down

Speaking in My Direction

eyes sliding over like I'm not there
my voice only ambiance
so that he responds
but not to my words
only as a springboard
my breath an entrance
and we aren't conversing
only tossing lines the other doesn't catch
because my youth is a curse
and his history gives permission
so hours pass slowly
tangling my ankles in the strings he lobs
and I am cobbled in the week ahead

Making Preparations

walking halls I've always known
could traverse in dead of night
and suddenly changed
walls stripped, boxes stacked
gaze nolonger gliding over familiar
now stalling at altered corners
a protest of fearful heart
making the leap
but uncertainly

In the Microphone

lids heavy
not from exhaustion
but weight of the melody
pressing from all sides
softly firm
like arms around my chest
embrace of E flat, C, sharp A
soaring from speakers
living in the air
thick
emptying my lungs
until they ache
dull and wanting
for the echo back

Critical Mass

I can see her
steps heavier, deliberate
carrying falsehoods like weight
shifting it slowly
adjusting to the new burden
loaded with years
sifting truth from lies
wheat from chaff

No Cost Pente

a touch of flame
that neither singed nor warmed
but perched on his brow
eating the air of dissension
consuming doubt
feeding upon the darkness
that spawns in men's souls
fingers reached into the shadows
until the night receded in fear


(Reference - Acts 2:3-6)

Age of Mutual Consent

adulthood
arriving not at a date
eighteen a superfluous number
good for laws and contracts
but telling nothing of the world ways
where maturity is measured
in a strange algebra
of education, experience, and hardship
and instead of a turning point
there is a gradual shift
until I realize
sipping pinot one late night
that we are equals
in your eyes as well as mine

Happy Hunting

spectator at the party
distanced,
just a bit
only far enough to frame
holding her face in the lens
waiting,
trigger finger hovering
not for cheese
but the honest smile
playing at the corners
perpetually threatening to strike

Like Deja Vu

except not even close
a madlib echo of my life
structure the same
all the players, places
a grab bag collection
and then she asks
"would you take it back?"
like it's an option
like years didn't pass
crawling and rushing
only turn back one page
and rewrite it
revisionist mystery
whodunnit I already solved
no takebacks

Fill the Air

bow touched string
and then it danced
sliding, flying, caressing
bringing squeals of excitement
and moans of agony
but always returning
soft and haunting
a lonely melody
yet an illusion
hypocrisy of expression
for the solitary strain
can only come from joining
bow touching string
and dancing
together

Divine Forgiveness

an affront
so small as to be less than slight
and yet it grows
fed by the passing hours
gorging on wordless days
becoming fat with neglect
insurmountable
until finally bound in ropes
it is dragged to the light
split with a blade of clemency
to fall away
starved of malice
a contrite heart triumph

The Greater Joy

I could travel the world
sample their delicacies
shuffle ancient pathways
melt into Dali
or float with Monet
and happy it would make me
yet hollow as a gourd

for the depth of life
is ever present in company
the spider's web of heart
tugging taut and captured

which is true bliss
warmth between my toes
on the beaches of Cancun
or tromping castles in the sandbox
with a three year old

four star Parisian cuisine
escargot and flaky croissants
or Mom's strawberry pie
piled tower drenched in glossy red

the mundane holds the key
joy of connection
of ties that bind
and the tensile threads
stretching the universe
yet never snapping

Morning Glory

eyeliner smudged
a trail of emerald
like a tear slipping away
catching the light
as I blink again
trying to awake, aware
a swipe to blank slate
pale skin and cloudy eyes
lips dry from only speech

Breathe In

rasping at the end
she made her greetings
short and soft, daring a smile
without energy to make it wide
shallow breaths
that bring her oxygen
but no air
as her spirit deflates

(Re)Discovery

secrets hide behind her eyes

framed by freckles
the tiniest bend at her lips
staring back after a decade
glossy 4 by 6
a fingerprint in her hair
blended to the soft curls
I still wonder
the worlds caught in hazel
and the glimmer I saw
only the beginning

 

(Kendra - taken March 1997)

IOU

I find myself beholden
obliged by your words
by the actions you take
in debt I can not pay
with every penny I ever make
or every moment of my time
none is of worth
against the barrage
and though scales shall ever tip
so shall my tongue make payment

Manifest Mysteries

though omnific in my world
building a home of words
plastering the walls with pictures
that tell stories without fear
still you circle in confusion
prodding the edges to understand
thinking reaction will reveal me
all the while I blink dry eyes
from urging you to hear
my thoughts tumbling tornadoes
little do they confess
only everything that I am

No-Touch Clean

beating the window
waves ascending, descending
car wash like patter

Taurus

dirt compact beneath his hooves
advancing straight ahead
trav'ling all the rehearsed moves
avoids distractions red

yet temper flares in accord
when driven from his task
those who wish not to be gored
should ponder what they ask

Tyre-d Revelations

trying to escape the throngs
burdened by the needs of so many
spine one straw away
he ran
but there is no escaping the world's pain
and the unending desire for healing
so a lone man on the road
can not mask the eternal love within
like a beacon
drawing a woman forward
seeking even the dregs
the crumbs from His table
for the unchosen can choose
the outsider can enter in
when faith bends their knees


(Reference - Matthew 15: 21-28)

Mother May I

go into the world
shoulders straight
thoughts clear
carry love like a blanket
to always warm my heart
jump the chasm
with your words
winging me higher
yet forever be tethered
to the love which bore me
not simply through birth
but held me aloft
when the ground trembled
and my feet lost their way
Mother may I always?

X/Y=11

all about the numbers
just one sliver
only a single part
but tangible
more concrete than happiness
and so I work them
bend them to my will
for concrete is not immovable
they are a puzzle
a relationship in digits
alter one piece
and the effect blossoms
small changes
in the right moment
and my enemy is cowed
for the game play is
all about the numbers

Meaningless Menace

warnings slip past my senses
danger just under the radar
the flashing lights I refuse to see
for though they intrude so loudly
the ruckus provides me nothing
just the rattling of empty words

Enter Bogart

sterling rays descend

bathing the world in grayscale

Casablanca born

30 Days Hath...

counting out the year
by the landmarks
every month another
life-changing events
penciled or inked
they stack heavily
washing me along
with their undertow
pushing me to happiness
and thin-lipped grace

Is It Vanity?

that I steal years from a box
disguising threads of gray
that multiply each season
adding warmth
of no genetic source
until fifteen years pass
and I don't know the root
tabula rasa a distant memory

In the Trenchants

I hear her words in my head
burrowing
hiding until time to strike
critical comments she floats like feathers
and yet they drop like anvils
sharp and crushing
in thoughts already so beaten
and when I turn a deaf ear
they write themselves behind my lids
haunting each darkened eye

Keys of Spring

variegated, it

fed by sun and thunderstorms

preparing to fly

Study of Me

half shelf of empty books
virgin white pages
waiting
anticipating
dreading
the words that will fill
winding stream of India ink
hitting points high and low
the inane and the pivotal
capturing whatever the moment holds
without shame or guilt
a personal history
autobiography and fiction
in eight volumes
(so far)