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Poem

Dreams frolic
  in the basket of the mind.
    Like Easter eggs on Sunday grass,
       pastel hands for slowing time.
             A misty- trusting face,
               just beyond the frosted glass.
                 A spirit mare with fiery mane
                  that licked the heart with lips aflame... 
                     then backhanded 
                      your naive face into the fangs
                   of loneliness refrain.
               In place of friendly smiles 
            were sirens with hollowed hearts, void of any grace.
               The leather souled elders taught you the art of
              kneading hope then weaving scars.
                  Turning a room of bitter spirits into angels
                       taming the bucking flanks of moody stars.
                               The golden mouthed flutist 
                            whispers of a long- forgotten dream,
                          when ice cream trucks and noon church bells
                         flowed into the soul like rose petals on the wind...
                          When streams of angels waltzed with innocents....
                           upon a stage of gilded rosaries.
                          Now, everything is forever lost.
                          The flesh-the bone- the burlap- the silky sweet.
                        The heavy metal of our youth 
                       minced into the thinning cloth of age.
                      Most every soul is gifted to the silversmith,
                    who forges halos and shimmering wings...
                  while a few are hung upon the tusk of
                  the icy, gray slag heap.

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