Would that love release me from its grasp
For it had never wept until time passed
For love must age as do the lovers
Bear the tests of time not shared with others
If secrets be the bane of lover’s trust
Aged fingers leaving thumbprints in life’s dust
And openness an ever-weary quest
To dance around the rim of loving’s nest
For truth is truth and will not be denied
Thus, lover’s must be wary what they hide
As dust allowed to linger can’t deny
The beauty ‘neath the surface of dust’s lie
Far better that we dust with truth each day
And buff the lover’s heart with whom we stay
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The spine cracked like parched soil,
pages swollen at the edges
with spills – cinnamon, grease,
splatters of tomato sauce.
Her handwriting, a slanting vine
across lined paper: add more salt,
stir till it feels right,
Grandma swore by lard.
Faded ink blooms where tears fell,
once, beside funeral cake.
The spine breaks open like a secret told,
pages swollen with stains – cinnamon ghosts,
thumbprints of butter, a splash of burgundy bold.
Her looping script, a faded charcoal host,
maps forgotten Mondays, birthdays gone cold.
Pinch of patience, scribbled beside roast recipe~
an ingredient never bought or sold.
The binding frays where gravy pooled and dried,
a topographical map of meals that fed
more than just hunger. On the margins
her notes bloom: Add less salt; He likes this bread~
Double for grieving written between lines, implied,
the quiet alchemy where love was spread
thicker than jam on all the years inside.
I wouldn't bother
alchemizing language
into golden press releases
of your own making.
It never works long anyway,
grapevines get better reception.
A dog knows who flinches.
Moss grows where one lingers,
even silence
leaves thumbprints.
Say nothing. Say too much.
Either way—
they’ll know you.
Cold milk and a couple
Chewy Macaroons or
Chocolate Chip. Maybe
Cherry Thumbprints and then
Crispy Florentines, or
Caramel Biscotti?
Crikey! I'll take them all!
A photograph of us
tucked into an old paperback.
We took the book to Rome
long ago.
I left it on a bus.
Most likely
it has been destroyed,
by riffling thumbprints.
Paper rots,
the bus recycled into,
spoons and helmets.
The book was once
a romantic novel,
now it’s a ghost story.
Book worms rewrite history -
a very natural process.
Oil stains on canvas,
thumbprints on the frame,
the price dangling from the bottom
on a string and paper tag.
Sculpture in the corner,
penguin eggs in clay,
all piled in a random pattern
on a plate made of glass.
Gallery.
Lithography landscapes,
black and white on gray,
resigned against a cedar backdrop
like a stage before a show.
Gallery… in gallery.
If I can keep an open mind,
messages in crumbs of bread,
engaging what’s been left behind
might sweep the cobwebs
from my head… in my head.
Quetzalcoatl rising,
navigating space,
the last Chichen Itza villager
mundane in photograph.
Gallery… in gallery.
If I can keep an open mind,
messages in crumbs of bread,
engaging what’s been left behind
might sweep the cobwebs
from my head… in my head.
Gallery… in gallery.
NOTES
letters
birthday cards
bits of who he was
my eyes flood as I watch
mom guide his hands for thumbprints
"my dad-once a man of letters"
Written on 06/28/2016
My goodness,
I’ve been handled by the best of people
And the worst of people,
the purity of my crisp white borders
has been eroded by the sweat of wily men.
The hem of my petticoats
marking the border of my self
has been besmirched, blackened
My angular, prismatic, diamond core
has had thumbprints pressed against
the blood red of its planes.
My golden locks have been coifed
restrained from their rampant fall by
brocaded folds of embroidered linen
yet, still I reign Regina Queen of Diamonds
see my specter, curry my favor for without me
there will be no flush dynasty…all hail the Queen.
Applying for teacher certification
I caused one technician much consternation
My fingerprints had simply not registered
Again and again the test he administered
“Guess you could have had a career in crime,”
He retorted reapplying ink grime
He said this had never happened before
But the results he surely couldn’t ignore
He sent me to an experienced tester
Who made many cracks, joked like a jester
He claimed my blank prints were quite unique
Turned over my hands just to take a peek
The delicate lines could scarcely be seen
And the fingers themselves were awfully lean
“What work do you do?” he asked with a scowl
As he removed the ink with a towel
“I now type 82 words per minute,
Most of my life I’ve been immersed in it"
My helpless fingers were worn to the bone
And my tester let out a mournful groan
Apparently pounding on my keyboard
Had produced an undesired reward
Faint thumbprints revealed no criminal record
And I won an overachiever award
Typing is essential to the work I do
Next time they need prints, I’ll remove my shoes
** True story for the Finger Frenzy contest
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