Transformative Verse

To awake
another’s skin
to the touch of love,
to taste
the sound walking out of an after-dream…
to feel
poetry in the first pressures of light
to hear
an apostrophe fall,
the vibration of a diphthong sliding
down lubricated slopes of your mind’s inner ear.
To birth
a phrase to slate,
a torn rag, or cyber-white page,
to cast
a ripple of serifs,
concentric cursive to a pool,
or chisel
a cuneiform expletive.

Is it all just the draw a scalpel across an exhalation…
slicing its breath to black bits
that fall as cognitive rain in your head.

 

The Traveler

I am the cellophane reflection
you catch in your eye.
That presence in the doorway
just before you turn to notice
a blink after I’ve moved on.

I am always with you.
In the winkle of the sun,
the crinkle of light in that high autumn sky,
that flash that catches your heart
when you drive by the river.

I am the traveler
your secondary moon
on the sill in the evening,
the warmth in your pocket
the pang in your heart when the train whistle blows,
the glint of light as you close your final eyes.

Shhh my darling,
we have much more to travel
before you are to sleep.
Remember me
as you count the miles
til the traveler’s rest.

Stylized

I prefer to tweet with Montblancs and Pelikans,
check the LIKE box with a 24K nib.
I prefer the scritch of metal to papyrus,
see the tactile act, the bleed
upon a great weave of rag.

No words on phablets
nor scribbles drawn to glass.
I want to feel the connection
from neuron to whorl,
each dotted ‘i’ unique,
each nuance of emphasis
obvious, lewd upon on the page.

Windspeak

Mottled and scarred,
creased and marred,
you have a shelf life now,
a sell or freeze by: date.

Crinkles more than twinkles
in these ever more cynical eyes.
Well traversed maps
in these palms,
on the tread of these trail worn feet.

It’s a new road,
a new frontier,
My eyes cry FORWARD!

The wind speaks of the autumn dances,
how the colors are so festive this year.

Bones grind their gritty chatter.

The wind speaks of winter.
I can only smile with my brimming heart.

 

Stillborn to Grin

in those moments we lingered,
near to bursting,
grinning,
a-tremble,
pregnant with words never birthed.

    ‘Another 6 A.M. on the 405.
     A disabled vehicle at the Franklin.
     A small bender at the Hawkin pass.’

I kissed you

knowing the ‘speak’ on your lips,
the luscious buzzing,
how sparks raced to murmur and sizzle in our loins.

    ‘Take Clifton from Memphis
     to avoid construction on Lorain.
     a disabled bus on Pearl.’

I kissed you

watching the stir in your eyes,
the blush of the wow…
as it splashed across your face.

In those moments we lingered,
deep remains of our passage
fused with the deep winter snows.

Now… just a spent winter smile
gasping
as I claw for you
in the blister of September’s hiss
on this last summer’s grass.

Reflections in an April Rain

Two sprites we were
walking Oak Park Avenue,
wavering specters in the gutters,
‘neath the pin oak and maple trees
still budding with their silent screams,
still adolescent green.

We spoke reams in our heads,
our tongues beneath anvils,
throttled by adolescent fears,
as the rain fell in patters,
as our hearts opened like flames
guttering, flares
in the late April rain.

Two sprites we were
in the sidewalk pools
and oiled rainbow blurs,
two ants amongst the billions,
two moments crushed together
So full and bright
refections in an April Rain.

Wildflowers

There are wildflowers in the back of my house
some I moved from the highways here,
some from a meadow in PA,
others from a pasture in Kansas.

Like clusters of stars
they bloom in their small patch of space
little nurseries of memory.

Hardy yellow Once Upon a Times,
August Lilacs, a patch of Prairie Tears
with the Pussy Willow and the vines.

My neighbor has wild roses.
They don’t say much to me.
Nice to look at, but thorny and shallow.

I’d have a willow tree
if the climate would allow.
Next best think to hickory
if you ever need a switch.

There are wildflowers in the back of my house
some I moved from the highways here,
some are orphans, abandoned,
some grow despite my hoe and spray.
Some will always be weeds after all.

 

 

The Pleasure was Mine

Thank you for the grins,
the passions, the teases, the stories
All the wonderful words, the metaphors,
for the sharing of personal worries
the spilling of your fears.

Thank you for the energy,
your attention, and your time.
We only have so much of that sweet commodity.
I hope you always felt it treasured -
never squandered.

No, no…
I’m sorry,
dammit I don’t mean to cry…
No thank You!
The pleasure, the joy was mine.

Songs of Whisper

A singing whisper, a longing
laves over the rocks,
percolating,
sifting its gossip through the lichen,
salved to quiet,
to mesmeric eddies in the cold clear pools,
readied for the willow tongues
for the thistle, and biblical reeds.

A singing whisper, a soughing raw,
dark demons tossing the trees,
puling round the cypress knees.
Cicada fall mute
as does the slither over moss and ‘neath leaves,
hammocks fall still in a pregnant hush,
insects prey on themselves.

A singing whisper, a longing
as lavender suffuses your skin,
spilling the sheets,
sketching the deep curve of your breasts,
the pouting ridge on your lips
just parted in a vague dreaming smile,
readied for my kiss,
for the push
the pressure of light from this day.