He winces contritely,
The new silver in his hair
Is only a wise light.
I try not notice for only
He is only my life.
I stare with abandon,
My wine glass
And how it fills red, violet, white
And can only be the vessel for reflection
The filament spreads evenly
And this liquid delights.
I retrace the warmth of the quiet
To the long mountain road at midnight
The trees in the headlights
The thick forest blackness
Hours of clean air
I crack the car window
Freezing July tonight.
It is longer than expected,
But I know how to wait.
No longer a wispy maiden with eyes of dread.
Life is this heartbeat
He glances at me often on the curvaceous up climb
Our mature honeymoon
Captured in memories' sight.
I tell him this is a good place to stop.
It is frightening to be at the top of the wilderness in the cold,
But be bold for the cosmos has an order
That fills every space with spectacle,
In the pitch, there is no interference.
No glaring light bulbs or street signs.
Only creation's windows.
He winds me into his arms,
Our celestial bodies are now the heat
Against the shiver--Death's a small disturbance
Speak to me with light my love
For existence only
When the only cover for sleep will be these stars.
I believe prose is the devil,
The page is too large with detailed explanation.
A herring that is hungry for details and plot lines.
A parasite that taunts me.
I am in love with the poem,
The page is concise with word paint.
A butterfly kiss on a lilac desiring immediate nectar.
A lover that teases me.
For the verse is easier quest
For the moment bound
the present beloved
the feeling liver.
The solemn sinner.
I believe prose is the worthy prince,
The one with the page and the avid reader.
A well educated monarch on a lofty peak.
A soon king that rejects me.
I am in love with the unattainable,
The poem's black heart.
An ignorant fool who understands
A line left open.
For freedom is heartbreak
For the doomed spirit
the critically judged
the cursed be-er
The chosen loner
So this is the little shop
That you wish to stake your claim
Fill your precious storehouse
With sundries and fame.
So this is the commercial alter
That you pray to every night
Sell your cheap drink umbrellas
Hit on miracle sprites.
So this is the fun palace
That you built upon the sand
Worry not about foundation
Spit irreverently on its land.
So this is your soul’s investment
That you spend hours at play
Kill your own profit
Push eternal life away.
Play the everyday tune
And laugh at the need to swoon,
Over habits and needs
And all the worry it feeds.
Record the everyday woe
And question where should I go,
To the easy comfortable place
Or to the mysterious hard to trace.
Sing the everyday song
And seize the moment, make it long,
Amongst the short course of the day
The present has a melody to play.
Golden sincere guitar player
Serious musical slayer
True love lightening bolt stayer
Strong diligent brave man
Kiss bare neck hit a new layer
I love more than I plan.
For Rime Coulee Contest
14:Passages plot themselves on maps
To get you somewhere.
Pour your soul into a hollow vessel
For the archaeologist to find.
To replicate each moment’s sound
Will never bring satisfaction
perhaps exaggerate boredom
Definitely annoy reactions
Because the vessel's form is unnecessary
There is no catch-all for past rains.
Some work day mornings just fill with sour time.
The evenness of the florescent lights is annoying
I see all the familiar faces hating every moment along with me.
A department meeting, how horrifying.
The common voices outlining choices--that have nothing to do with you
Blacken and blue, I must stomach this painful gathering of shrews
A pressured push in the brain
To not let this poison my day
I rely on pleasant memories to carry me away:
The last cherished talk, the phone message from a friend.
I really can’t wait for this meeting to end.
Now my agitation has been noticed.
I am not paying attention--thinking about folly and Ben.
The expression on my face shows rejection
Can she see my recollection of the last time we met?
Crap now I am found out; she must be judging what my whole life is about.
Turn toward her stare, show sincerity and care
Easy now tiger-- and smile--give the moment awhile.
Save face, my Japanese ancestors would say.
I am disciplined, this is work--not time to play.
Don’t let distraction make you her prey.
Are dreams a rehearsal for death’s long sleep?
I am walking backwards into this fog--
Coolness is touched but not felt
My perception setting is muggy.
The seekers so often do not become finders,
But in the mist the hope is to connect again
To another transparent soul
In this haze of pre-curtain heaven.
But illusions are fragmented glimpses,
In my movie-making nocturne.
Floating above all the giggles in the shadows
Becomes crowded sunshine pools of pleasure.
24:Drops of color splinter from the crystal’s sharp edges--
From the hard clearness,
As yellow mellows
Down the hot day.
Even through the dust
that filters light’s passage,
Rainbow’s essence delights the ceiling.
Beams win against a decade of unwashed window.
On a Wednesday
Or even a better day.
I can't catch you.
The fast paced racer
Needs the best story.
Rich parables and attention.
The quick mess
That is never soothing.
My anxious ride is ending,
I've changed for better or worse.
But the lines and lances and tales--keep spinning.
There's still winning for all.
On a Thursday
Or even the worst day.
You want catching.
The brisk tapped tapper
Needs the loud presence.
Poor escapes and retention.
The shamed nothing
That is never silencing.
My belligerent ways are ending,
I've changed for myself and others.
But the periods and eras and echoes-keep screaming.
Pain is having a ball.