Short Marrows Poems

Diphylleia grayi turns transparent in rain,
Transforming before me to lustrous bone
Drawing out aches in my marrows pain
Patience — the clouds will fade, leaving you standing alone
Ending transparency, we find white in every pane
Wringing you dry; elevates this capstone
Wet again, you bloom into ice-etched floral glass
Hiding in purity, the world forgets quickly; how clarity is surpassed...

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It's a bloody mess,
murder most kind,
the kind that does not kill.
Desires clawed within rib cages
or delved into tender marrows.

You get used to it, want it,
it keeps you alive
the way some poisonous medicine will.

Some love poetry
becomes the aromatic attar
of a perfect rose,
while others end in greasy stains
over wilting ego’s,

from a thousand miles away
both are worth it....

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Under the southern skies
You were reluctant to touch
For fear of anchored storm
In still stalked frozen seas
And you were afraid to enfold
A pungent beauty in your arms.

Counting the out breaths into
Leafed wind in dunes of sand
A few skeletons under the trees
Extending marrows in finite land.

Under the southern skies
Staggered promise for clenched pain
Expecting a smile at the very ledge
For a felicity dappled in crimson dawn....

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The pain that never goes away
In your temples 
Heated desire to stop it
But it remains
Inside of you sinking into
The bone marrows
Pain for the world 
That has been lost in its own
Meaningless everyday rush
And spinning feverishly
Around and around
The Earth is round 
But we don’t fall down 
To the endless sky
The world that keeps us
Locked on its surface
And lost forever 
In our insignificance
And hopeless desire
To get rid of the pain...

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Lotus, whose sapless roots 
Deep in stream’s muddy soul,
When lost the mossy bond below
Is turned gray in deeper gloom.
Her mate the light of all that live,
In pain he sinks in golden waves,
And the verge of seas are found
Billowing clouds that wailing loud.
Life is but a sweet  and snappy  scent
That keeps the pulpy mass in place
On frames of bones big and small,
Veins, sinews, marrows in tones. 
When is lost that fragrance blest
We are, but a fetid maggots’ feast....

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To War goes a Chariot:
To a Special Riot; 
With Quivers of Arrows, 
Bones piercing with Marrows… 

Had Throwers of Javelin, 
All through Men, no Jocelyn.
Chariots were for Elliot 
And Judas Iscariot; 
Largely part-horse, part-cart
You’d see and lose heart!

The Armored Car of Old,
Now in loved plastic Sold;
For The Tough Kid as Toy,
Future Soldier still Boy;
Some in Expensive Gold:
Their drivers fierce and Bold;
Ready to Homes destroy.
Make one cease being The Coy!...

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