“…certain dark things are to be loved
in secret between the shadow and the soul.”
Pablo Neruda
He sighs….
concedes a close to night
as serene and soggy haze
escorts the butter and blue
blooming on the quiet of a dawn
glistens ㅤthat painterly view
of a dozing cityscape
on too early a Sunday’s morn.
The serene will cease
and quiet meander
into a scamper of the waking
… as he finds hisself
in an ascending want
beyond the corporeal
ㅤunsated….
pangs of his connoisseur’s
obsession
ㅤ yet
…. somehow wistful
for those gone-days
before ㅤHer.
This nouveau phenom
a phantom painter,
eclipsed by the dingy harbors
in her canvases
of alleywalls and sidewalks,
shuns the sun
beyond
those darkened corridors.
A knowing stray
…she stays
her distance
to the come and go again
of the breaking day.
A feral corsair
of the backstreets
serendipitous night
under inky skies
avoiding…..
as cautious creature
s l i n k s
to fade as shadow would
betwixt the Crescent’s
dart & pry
a cursorial-hunting
of her anonymity
- she navigates
the cold of concrete maze
strewn
an abundance
of artist’s wraiths
left shadowy debris
in casualty
and namelessness. …
Free Verse
“The business of words keeps me awake…”
ㅤ ~Anne Sexton
Falling soft, at the back
of an old daydream
forgotten sound of the milkman
whistling, as he often did,
while bottles rattled ㅤan early day, waking.
I loved his son ㅤonce
before war claimed too much of his whole.
Lithium and Thorazine
taking ㅤa little more.
How well I’ve known the orneriness
in truthㅤit rarely sleeps (wasn’t meant to)
learned quieted hungers hingeㅤstubbornly
upon this heartㅤ like parables.
I eat the day ㅤbefore it’s sunlight
mending… always mending.
Sit to write ㅤ as the world burns, somewhere
ear tilted to nearest birdsong. …
Free Verse Poetry
He’ll stop playing the radio
prefer the echo of backroads driving home
hotㅤlate summerㅤblue-hour already tumblin’
old friendㅤthe Wagoneer lumbers
tires sucking early dusk air
between warm blacktop and worn tread
its thrumㅤwet purrㅤsinging her into sleep
on the back seat blanketed.
Still rested in the curve of his lip
a spar by ghosts ㅤhe’ll sense
as mustard, sweat & baby oil.
Her wet hairㅤjoin scent with day’s glistened skin.
He’ll want for a goneㅤmourn intoxicating Augusts
grow tiredㅤevening drifting orchidㅤinland
homewardㅤ …and she will wake soon
not knowing who he is.
Windows rolled downㅤfinding comfort
to breeze’s rhythmic brush against eardrums
rustle of tall blanched grass sent to shiver in curves
raise savour in salt, seaㅤand roused memory.
Time an emptied pauseㅤflat black road winding
lost where thoughts can stretch
a silent-prayer cast across dark altar. …
Free Verse Poetry
times even in the grip of trouble
get no less a sunrise than sun is capable
the capable beauty all we have…
–Ed Roberson
Motionlessㅤand surely dead
the sparrow’s feathers neat ㅤclaimed.
Bore cleanㅤas if to sleep somehow
it tucked its tiny feet then self
in between the eye-teeth of a cat
life-lustered black button eyes behind
buttonholes tightly stitched.
Two paws, torso stretched willed presence
proud perch upon my sunny threshold
hunter’s lime effulgent eyes glare
summoning by cat-speak,ㅤL o o o k. …
Free Verse Poetry
Light ㅤan armor in slow cascade
holds tempo in my breathing
eve settles in orange cloud where rain solidifies.
I stay awake ㅤ listen beyond this ear
the cold voice that bronzes veining death
in message leaving leaves unclenching
/detritus, littering force floating quickened
withered bittersweet & raw umber demise.
I’ll gather twigs, their going brittle in rattle,
the round a’roundㅤsun then sun,ㅤquieted
as Iㅤcan not shut these eyes
tonightㅤit seems too close an act of dying.
Touch ㅤ[touch]
touch–
once, in careless stepㅤbefore the air
hosted panicㅤnear forgotten days that grazed
upon our skin, brightened our heads in fiery halo,
we layered fate buttery in-between
like fancy pastriesㅤ –gluttonous interaction.
Now fortress of doors and windows greet
each day unrecognizable as sequel.
I can not close these eyes this night
for fear a darkness roils permanence.ㅤI …
Free Verse Short Story (YA)
Measuring up to Mother
Mesmerized –eyes held by lovely pair of costly shoes
every night.
ㅤ ㅤ[smooth, most delicate leather, a skin
ㅤ ㅤthat bends with every whim. color like
ㅤ ㅤripe fruitㅤ–a tart peachㅤ–a soft melon
ㅤ ㅤawaiting the teeth, the palate. sweetness
ㅤ ㅤshe could almost taste against her tongue
ㅤ ㅤ…each shoe a sundaeㅤtopped in slender
ㅤ ㅤbow of grosgrain ribbon.]
Not new. Never ever worn, a gift she saw as such…
perfectionㅤshe can only stare in quiet breathy sigh
wish-filled to girlish daydream.
ㅤ ㅤ[so thin, their handmade wafer-sole with
ㅤ ㅤslightest heel, a foot might feel the journey
ㅤ ㅤbelow each destined stepㅤ–each and every
ㅤ ㅤtwirlㅤ–each and every curl to toe before
ㅤ ㅤtheirㅤskyward ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ A ㅤ ㅤP
ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤE ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤS
ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ L
ㅤ ㅤa girl/a bird… flight of dreaming feet in
ㅤ ㅤgrand jeté.]
Nearly every afternoon, addressed just to her, arrives
a postcard. Only yesterday, after reading, she spent
her better part of evening-dreamㅤfrivolous,ㅤdancing.
Tiring all –the shoes & the girl– near to exhaustion…
ㅤ ㅤ[ …a New York ballet legged playfully thru
ㅤ ㅤ137 postcards –Central Park seen bursting in
ㅤ ㅤeffervescent bloom. each & every card ended:
ㅤ ㅤComing home soon, never to fret my Dearest One. …
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