Pushing Off

And so I set myself adrift

on a capricious sea,

prone to unpatterned winds and

uncharted currents.

The danger of being caught between

two symbiotic, warring gods

is less dangerous and painful

than what I leave behind.

Whether my new home will be a bright new shore,

or the briny ocean’s silted bed, is for them to say.

As I push off, there is no one there on shore to share a kiss,

and mourn and say farewell, no one to witness the wake I leave save for the

dull grey gulls, and the cirrus clouds suffused with color by the rising sun.

And yet I travel on with hope in my heart,

to fill the lonely days by a loving hearth,

as the cold of Time draws close, and

all I am and was called to be,

is complete.

Unblended 2

‘You’re pretty for—‘

a novelty, a one-night stand, a fling.

‘You’re pretty for—‘

a light skinned girl.

A ‘lovely little thing.’

So I’ll put feelings in your heart

I think that you will like,

and when you give your heart to me

I’ll take the match

and strike.

A Rising Wish

Don’t wish upon a falling star.

It comes back to the ground.

Your wish will go unrealized,

and never will be found.

Rise high upon your tippy-toes

and stick it in the sky,

where like the stars, it ever shines its light into your eye.

Yes, wish upon a rising wish

just as a kite flies high,

within skilled hands, sharp minds,

strong hearts.

And wish it til you die.

The Imperfect Art of Life

My life, this life…

a scattering of

impressionist-ic drips and smears

that never make the canvas.

My life, this life…

A vandalized mosaic

of broken tiles,

discolored and on display

in a ruined museum

where only unadmiring vermin amble,

sightless in the dark.

My life, this life…

An ugly black and white photo,

where the only things in the light and shadow

are predators and prey.

My life, this life…

Misfired pottery that leaks,

or perhaps a clumpy lump of clay

molded by broken fingers,

a child’s misshapen sculpture

used as an ‘ashtray’ in a house where

no one smokes.

My life, this life…

A rainbow’s broken, dissipating arc,

a defiant banner of hope and beauty

across a barren sky and a dying land.

This life, my life….

An imperfect work of art,

bright with colors, rife with rust

laced with cynical hope,

veiled in gossamer trust,

and glued with love as fragile as unpainted seashells

waiting to grow stronger

despite the odd feeling of

emptiness inside.

Muttered Rage

In the muddy, midden corners of its cage

my rage

mutters, stutters, hiccups, sobs,

and folds in on itself

like a

dying flower.

Hate and anger climb to the surface

with sharp spikes and strong ropes,

as I work to cut their ties with

love’s violent sword.

Darkness dots my spirit like lawn weeds

and whack-a-moles.

The decayed and rotting past seeks to

coddle me, cuddle me, clobber me,

and sing the listless lullaby that induces

paralyzing ennui masked as sleep.

At the end of this gauntlet stands Death,

coated with cold, and patient as river stones

waiting to to wreck me on sodden, craggy points that

will break my spirit like rotten boughs broken off

a vibrant, growing tree, and

scatter my flesh

like fish bait.

And nightly, as the sun wanes and the moon waxes,

I realize that after all this time,

the cage was never locked.

Crystalline Quiet

Snow-swept,
these softened crags
belie their lethal silence
with a peaceful scene
of still and silent lakes
of ice, and mournful windsong.

The cold tranquility of the whole
speaks to something
inside.

A longing for beauty unattainable,
love yet unrequited but holding
a glimmer
of hope.

*************
An explosion of spring!
Life in hiding
resurging with new energy
of colors and songs

The crowning note
in the music of
our spinning world
among her sisters.

We welcome now
the challenge of a new
slow-dawning day.

Poetry’s Lament

Her sad eyes
looked into my own,
and I looked away,
unable to bear the weight
of her gaze.

How did you not know?
she asked.
“I never set out to do it,
not deliberately.”

And yet, it is a part of you now.
“So it would seem.”
Will you nurture it?
“I’ve little choice.
I’ve written way too many now
to turn back.
I don’t think they’ll let me anyway.”

That seemed to bring her comfort,
and she smiled
as I wiped
her tears away.

I would have hated to leave you.
“I would’ve hated to see you go,
but peace now, Poetry.
I’m not leaving, so
come take my hand
and open your gift.”

Cobwebs & Raindrops

Those ideas that drift

down

into your mind

in the small hours,

 

The images come

like refracted light

in raindrops on cobwebs

after the storm is passed.

 

These mental photos

etched in words,

but no less

an essence

of captured time.

 

Caught like raindrops in cobwebs,

a symbiosis

of water and silk

that slip away from your mind

in the

light of dawn.

Wilting

The force behind the hand grows tired.

The field where words roared and played

is barren of life,

full of bare trees, hard soil, muddy snow,

lost time, and regret.

I own the irretrievable

and the unacceptable.

My idle hands have doomed

my legacy to obscurity.

I tell myself

I do not care,

and wonder why

I’m weeping.