Space Vultures
|
hovered over |
windswept lots |
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cold, bright |
concrete slabs |
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with bulging eyes that |
pierce the dim and |
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light alike; |
they peer |
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to find that savored |
placing amidst the |
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multitude, those |
brethren there |
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taking space with six more |
|
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hovering on |
each side around |
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the bend in |
hopes of having |
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room to get |
a taste |
|
and rest at last in line |
with the rest |
Beautiful: The Ballad of the Battle of Gettysburg
Beautiful cannot be caught
in single pain-specked pangs
flashed and gone without regard
for whispers between the bangs.
Patient perusal standing still
pays to perceive the scope
of panoramic persistence
born across this broken hope.
Caring eyes could comprehend
an ocean of emotion
tucked just beneath the cupping waves
the tides of deep devotion.
Optimistic overtones
lead on a bleak cabal
a body turned against itself
a suffered battle call.
Fighting not to save herself
but for the sake of others
those wayward souls engulfed in coals
her sisters and her brothers.
Scheming ways throughout the days
to soothe the scars beneath
the humble skin that shelters in
the gnashing of the teeth.
Praying for redemption
for purpose without fault
a means to light the darkened way
a means to become salt.
Loving past the limitations
rotten luck provides
if love is like a battlefield
herein love abides.
Surmounting now the stumbling blocks
in silent victory
that fate has thrown her rugged way
for all the world to see.
Breaking one link at a time
the chains that bind her here
a life lived full of fortitude
a life lived without fear.
Beautiful across the span
of tribulating fires
that spell a glory yet unsung
by heaven’s angel choirs.
All Hallows Eve
I found my last bed
in the place of the first
lesser my heartbeat
greater my thirst
only my pain can realize
the silent fear
that lingers here
among a dozen wetted eyes
and hearts doubled over
to see yellow skin
my last fleshly covering
a sad soul within
whose mate in tears resides beside
my rock and love
my precious dove
in whom I hope my fate abides
yet she refers me
toward other things
with halos of light
and feathery wings
but I cannot see the light from here
with eyes gone grey
fading away
and filled with cold and bitter tears
for fear and regret
all these chains that I’ve earned
in those toiling days
whose dreams I burned
with tunnel vision and selfish pride
my fate I chose
the thorny rose
whose beauty at last has bled me dry
leaving naught but a shell
that cannot receive
a blessing that’s blocked
by anger and grief
but I may have one final gift
my heart to give
to one who lives
long after this soul passes through the rift
may he love her with care
for better, for worse
and learn from my death
lest he fall to the curse
that still lingers here within the air
with brutal eyes
on new love lies
and fixes them with unmerciful stare
so my final act
will not be a cry
for mercy or peace
I simply will die
an example to a foolish world
to which I belong
a son of its song
its promises lies
when everyone dies
but lives like their lives cannot be unfurled
so breathe like it matters
live without regret
and love while you live
and never forget.
Morning Breath
breathe with me just once more
in lifting gasps of wonder
from different vantage
underbent
on silver strands
of sunlight
singing through the morning air
alive at once again
my soul calls out
in heartfelt hymn
an ode to
anonymity
lost in all this beauteous world
a silent saffron dancer
who paints the days
unspent in steps
and bounds through
endlessly
for all of time is held right here
at hand upon our fingers
for tunes that sold
our heritage
and sing in
timeless breath
First Frost
Supple droplets coalesce
in morning mist, whose cool caress
embraces all in loneliness,
sinking into shallow ground.
Follows then a breath air,
whose northern accent chills the fair
unfinished droplets, held with care
there upon my glass found.
Shining into crystal likeness,
bright and white and round –
they harden without sound.
Beaded strings of peasant pearls
twined about in crescent curls,
crawling up my window, whorls
unbroken in a line.
There beset with misting sweat
they bind together, tight and yet
their seamless sheen and coverlet
grows gently as a vine.
Silently, with silver strength,
they reflect the moonshine –
until the night’s resign.
Morning brings a glassy sight
a world engulfed in frost-fire light
and painted crystalline and white
in heavenly decor.
The dusted streets stand glistening
while festive boughs are listening
to birdsong southbound christening
the mountain to the shore.
The fragrance of festivity
wafts in and out my door –
til spring returns once more.
Blank Verse for Autumn’s End
The window pales murky in the fog
covered morning as summer falls away
and chases dreams of life and light and dance
and warm embrace
when chance is spent for good
and feeling leaves withdraw, detach, and fall
to their subsequent slumber in the earth –
I know not where
the morning glories bow
their sightless eyes to depths unfathomed
the clock cooing in the distance again
disturbs my rest
upon an angel’s lap
my body purrs, awaiting patient’s pull
on tail ticked left bereft of rhyme or right
this autumn night
fading into the blue
gray haze of winter’s ice-cold grip of sleep
less pain and shaking fever flowered dreams
beneath me lies
receding warmth and life
outpoured in shudders gently held within
and trickling down through softly shaking hands
upon my neck
a gentle gaze is fixed
and founded in the face of saving love
that spared me from a mother smothering
my infant breaths
in faint and feeble steam
my gaze away peers through the glassy shield
which shelters me from feeling harsher change
as winter falls.
An Acrostic on Wallace’s ‘Poet’
The hidden entrance
placed over each tremble
is still
the hapless endeavor
painted rich in even silk tresses
of flame
that heat every
inch not viewed in silence, in blazing life erupting.
“The poet is the priest of the invisible” – Wallace Stevens
Change
Change comes softly
on little cat feet
and bites the toes
outstretched by those
who’ve settled comfortably
An Acrostic on Wallace Stevens’ “One” Aphorism
One needs everything
dealt out evenly, sincerely
not only true
words read in terrible epiphanies
form our railings
and nearly yield
raiment eaten away, deploring each rude
etched xenolith caught entering public tribute
one never escapes.
