Fingers
Horizontal stalagmites
In the oblivion of other anxieties
Beneath the celophane
Skin tight as string
Drawn over sharp edges of bone
No music left in that old trombone
Blown by too many
Self inflicted winds.
Intestines shortened
To match the memory
Of lurid days
Digest the delicate lies
Of flour and sugar
By some fancy name disguised.
Watch that figure
Quite appropriate for the age
The recurring problem
Is the constant sagging of the skin
Masacara and a few pearls
Can deflect the eyes
Wondering towards the shrill sharp of voice
Contentless of childhood tones.
What is left here
Is the final theatre of tragedy
The body is the onle free stage
Of time's immense weight
The heart's last sorrow tell
Against the actor's unbroken spell
There is no interlude
Once the curtain is raised by earth.
Eyes
Clouded by their thickening lens
Move closer to see
Was the tragedy in our birth
Or our passage
Back to the hollow earth?
For I know
Death is too late for us
It is the cul-de-sac
Kind to the rubble of pride
And the emaciating slide
To a sack of detritus.
Categories:
contentless, life
Form: Free verse
Coming over the open horizon
My eyes prospect the garish cliffs of day
And find not gold in the morning light
By sorrow sifted away.
But there and there across each state
The subtle sun of spring
A new crop harrowing brings
Into view ... and crows cawing to devour
The contentless cases of crumbled minds
Tent cities, like old cotton bales
Tent cities, like cold rotten tales
Of gypsy curses bringing here
Retributions of brambled despair
And I panning through tears
Turned away from the condition
That was for my history the predetrmined condition
But I could not shake the thought
Of butterflies by spiders caught.
Categories:
contentless, life
Form: Free verse