There.
third row, second seat
hair over eyes, red-rimmed
tired maybe?
shirt buttoned wrong
laces untied
broken hearted
last row, right at the back
a young couple
giggling
not watching
love
how long will it last
the movie starts
theatre darkens
eyes front
focused on the screen
engrossed, distracted
popcorn, drinks, spilt
front row
now on the floor
children
necks tilted up
vibrating in excitement
can't look away
middle aisle
near the exit
new parents
on the edge of their seat
waiting for the call
desperate for a night off
movie ends
lights rise
people stand, stretch
slowly trickle out
leaving behind spilt drinks, popcorn
the floor a mosaic of people
netflix
stan
prime
hulu
peacock
disney
empty now
darkness lingers
screen unused
velvet seats grow dusty
stale popcorn permeates
I am empty now
No one there.
Cicadas drone their sun-drunk, tireless hymn
as July swelters, gold and overfull.
the driveway steams, the plastic buckets brim,
and heat, like dye, won't sit still or stay dull.
We cinch the cotton tight in twisted rings,
as if a knot could hold the blazing tide.
but sweat and color are unruly things:
both spread, both stain, both won't be denied.
Cerulean and crimson breach their line,
seep into one another, slow, unplanned,
and thicken into a hue with no design,
no name the rubber bands prepared it for.
The soda ash unlatches what was sealed;
the color doesn't sit, it moves in deep,
past cotton's threshold, till it's not revealed
but lived in, permanent as things we keep.
So heat unstitches winter's careful fold,
loosens what was buttoned, cinched, and pressed,
and turns the plain, repeated days to gold
the way a fever turns a body's rest.
Unwind the bands. Let August find the proof:
a swirl no ruler's hand could have designed,
the driveway's stain, the sun-bleached, faded roof
of summer, fixed now in the changed mind.
I have seen some sloppy sonnets
Syllables buttoned wrong
Rhymes wrangling for recognition
Tripping over the final couplet
Rambling free verse
Ignoring the caution of line breaks
Stuttering in search of continuity
Freedom stifled in search of submission
Haiku
Mimicking a Geisha dancer
Mocking Basho’s frog
Quatrains leaving the station
Destinations … unknown
Mice trapped in a maze
Cursing the odor of the cheese
Knowing it is not a goal
But a test
Forget the cheese
Become the mouse
Dodge the traps
Be thrilled by the adventure
Of trying on a sloppy sonnet
Without the sun, sleeping;
perhaps dreaming, in the grasp
of a brown boy's clasp.
Boy’s head in the crook
of his bent elbow;
his lighter skin contrasts
with his chocolate shirt,
buttoned at the wrist.
He leans contentedly,
over the wooden chair,
whilst the head of the sunflower
with wide open sunshine,
dreams that it’s a gift
given by God,
and gladly sleeps
and dreams
until awakened.
The room’s quiescent darkness
like a warm womb.
The breast of the flower’s stem
leans close to the chair;
large green leaf, rolled;
smaller leaf, chewed.
The boy’s hands in contrast
of light and dark.
Modeling the innocence in sleep,
the one where a mother, or an artist
falls in love once again, and again,
and over again…
God, love each of these children,
given from above.
We wait for the flower to stand up;
one day a man will be as straight
as the chair; and weathered and worn.
For now, and until the end,
he will sleep on a private collector’s wall
or perhaps be sheltered in a museum.
mirror woman, barely fancier than an Amish woman
wearing her bowler hat and her dour look
looking face is similar to Angelina Jolie
like her, I do not choose to smile
my hair is messy; I am buttoned up
an evergreen tree
dons a frosty coat of white
its snow-laden boughs
hang heavy with winter’s tears
like incandescent pinecones
a jolly snowman
with a Pinocchio nose
wears momma’s red scarf
its buttoned smile, coal black eyes
and pipe, polished to a gleam
I dance in the snow
as arctic breaths billow in
a mushroom of smoke
snowflakes faintly touch my lips
then melt in a puff of air
Summer slipped out the back
Packed up the heat so fast
Didn’t even say goodbye
Just left sand in my shoes
Folded the bright short sleeves
Boxed up the ocean blue
Now every hanger’s heavy
With thicker
Darker hues
I hope we have a mild winter
Let the cold come soft
Come slow
I’m pulling on my long johns
Flannel on my shoulders
Watching one more season go
I hope we have a mild winter
Give me one more gentle day
I’ll walk that same old block
Then sit at my computer
Do a little work for God and stayTop of my long johns on
Flannel shirt buttoned high
Bottom half hugging my legs
As that gray rolls over the sky
Round and round the block
Same cracks in the same old street
Breath like a faded cloud
Keys waiting back on my seat
Quick bite at the kitchen counter
Crumbs on a chipped white plate
Living room light like a little altar
Cursor blinking
Asking me to wait
Screen glows on my tired face
Hands on the keys like I’m in prayer
Small quiet tasks in a quiet place
Believing someone’s with me there
Why do the Ghosts wear Clothes—
If Flesh has fled away—
Is Modesty a Habit
That Survives the Grave’s Delay?
Perhaps the Mind remembers
The Shape it used to be—
And wraps itself in Cotton Thought's
For old Identity—
Or maybe Death is bashful—
And veils what it has done—
Lest we should see the Truth too plain
And tremble—then be gone—
If Spirits roam unclothed of Bone
Yet stitched in Former Care,
Then Clothes are but a Memory
The Soul refused—to Bare—
I asked a passing Phantom once—
It neither spoke—nor smiled—
But buttoned up its Silence tight
And drifted—unware—
Love is a harpoon
Joy is a spinning umbrella
Grief is an empty suitcase
Hope is steam above tea
Love is a gun
Love is a sledgehammer
Anxiety is a pencil sharpener
Relief is a freshly made bed
Fatigue is a half-buttoned coat
Love is an ice pick
Love is a bonfire
Gratitude is a signed playbill
Resentment is burnt toast
Shock is shattering glass
Love is a ship in a bottle
The early evening is cold, wet, and gray
like the expression on the woman
dressed inappropriately in a light silk skirt
which is caught by a sudden breeze;
a dark, slight top as yet not fully buttoned
reveals a slender neck so recently embraced
her hair haloed by the orange glow from a streetlamp
reflects on the damp pavement
and echoes in the bouquet she carries;
a parting gift from a man who walks away.
In 2013 Amélie Ségarra danced on a Grand Piano with knives
taped to the tips of her feet.
The room is empty apart from a single man in a music box
He wears a black an white suit buttoned up to the collars with bronze cufflinks,
To get up she uses an old Woven Rope in brown
You can see her nipples as she looks up, Adam's apple following her gaze
along with everything else.
She starts dancing.
From above the waist her arms jut out, grabbing widely at air and trust
But below it's easy
At times it looks harder to be the piano.
Remember how close she got to the edge.
Rapidly tapping the tips of toes, taped into shoes,
Screwed onto knives.
At times the screech was louder than the music.
Engaging her hips she’d lift up her thigh, bent at the knee
The arch of her foot seeming to just hang there.
Before it drops she makes the sound of a boxer.
Something only rooms with loud figures giving orders to lots of people
doing the same thing in repetition can bring out.
The music has stopped, so now all you hear is knee engaging ankle,
Holding up a foot wrapped in pink ruffled straps.
Smalling down an into
a seemingly endless
Grand Piano.
Busy…Buzzing…Bumble Bee
Busy Buzzing Bottling Honey
Jumbo Bundled Bumble Bee
With Bold-Brown Buttoned Bottoms
And Billowy Belted Blemished Top
All well-suited for yet another
Busy-Busy Beautifully-Buzzing
Kind of Day
Bottling Golden Malted Honey
For the Bubble-Blowing Honey-Bee…•
For talking too much in class, we've buttoned your lip.
If the teacher does ask you to talk, here is a little tip.
You unbutton your lip just like a button on your shirt.
The first few times, you may feel a little hurt.
So be gentle, so your lip ~ doesn't rip.
Snow Angels, Snowpeople, and Evergreen Trees
When winter comes, children know how to have fun.
Laughing and catching snowflakes with their tongues
Or lying flat on their backs with arms flapping up and down
While swinging their legs in and out in unison,
Then carefully standing up to step out of the area
To marvel upon the angel shapes they’ve created.
Or roll sticky snow into balls piled upon each
To form snowpeople with stickily arms and no feet,
And coal chunk eyes and smiling lips, and buttoned-up chests
And old scarves wrapped around their necks,
With carrots for their noses and old, worn-out hats on their heads;
That almost made them look real, so the children nodded and said.
And evergreen trees they love to decorate to the hilt,
With pretty ornaments, hanging icicles, and tinsel strings,
And swirls and twirls of twinkling lights wrapped around the tree
And a star of wonder, shining innocently, adorning the top,
With presents underneath wrapped in colourful tissue paper.
The first one to sleep is the first one to rise, come Christmas morning.
***
Purposefully put together
Piled up piece by piece
Donning my suit of armor
Thought it provided peace
Polished exterior portrayed
That I had it all figured out
Buttoned up from head to toe
Yeah that’s what I’m about
Pay a price to put on a show
As the projecting takes a toll
Time to lay down my shield
To start tuning into my soul
Looking inward can reveal
Kinks in the armor are alright
Using them to our advantage
Since they let in the light
Illuminating what was hidden
Revealing spots that were blind
Done with depicting an image
Choosing to live life by design
Seeing through clear eyes now
Guiding me to let down my guard
Defenses have been dismantled
My heart no longer behind bars
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