Thursday, July 21, 2016

Out of Line



It’s been a long time, she said
into the dull phone,
the phone that had been waiting,
waiting for just this call.
               
Where are the dreams we had, she thinks.
You were going to bring them to me.
Remember how, when you left
you turned against the sunset,
I saw the tear.

You with your bright star.
I saw it first
before you even knew its name,
it was your future.
Far, far it would take you and stake you,
I could feel it when I fell
and tried to keep from looking into you,
down into the brown eyes of your growing.
But I did fall and your arms measured me
and I could see that I was not quite right.
                           
His voice sucks her into the wire
across the lines that dissect the sky
and makes lives accountable with it whispered answers.
She can see him hunched into his shoulders
delaying truth with pretty words,
looking across the yard where a cat sits somnolent
in the doorway and perfume invades the room
seeping from the closet.

He is saying good bye now,
the shattering is too loud.
She cups the receiver to keep it
from finding her ear.

The phone drops for a moment
from the grasp of his shoulder,
as he types answers that are important
into the glass eye of his future.
                   
Good bye, she says
into the dangle of line
that lays broken and betrayed on the desktop.

And all he can hear is a dial tone.

(a story poem from the good old days)

Tuesday, March 8, 2016

Her Song







See that girl all blush and thin
See the sky that dangles
At the edge of her whim
Blue dress exploding all around her
Hear the galloping of her youth

Hear her song
Of heart so long the sound
Held in dimming light
Covered with a flannel gown
Hung in the sun to flower

She walks where eyes watch
And melts as she passes each whisper
Her colt legs strong in root take note
Of each cracked sidewalk cloaked
With her impatience

She is falling in love with a love song
That plays her each night in dim
Her skin like angel dust when touched
Leaves a pattern laced with trust

See this woman strong yet fragile
She who walks the road less traveled
Dusted off from many falls
The girl still sings within her walls
Her song

Tuesday, March 1, 2016

Gone Now






February is gone now,
with her quick, clean lines
and tilting globe of determined sky.

She hung her skirt out wantonly
on the naked open neighborhood,
dark with clouds and pink with dawn,
I listened as her tongue licked trees.

No need for solace in her rain,
my weeping chalice is gone,
where winter skies and dappled roads
flush the aching river in me
to the sea.

A tree was made so love could stay
and blossoms gamely on that day
with pink peach petals weeping down
where tears have not an opening found.

February is gone now,
with her quick, clean lines
and tilting globe of determined sky.

I have fondly said goodbye. 



Friday, December 18, 2015

A Question of Belief

I’ve wondered since I was a child
Where butterflies go when they die
Thinking someplace of peace not wild
Softly floating in the whim
Of a breeze not tearing leaf or wing

The old cigar box where I kept a collection
When I was nine with pin and wing in place
A callus lack I can’t believe was me
Closed that box and left it in the attic free

Until I returned up ladder to the loft
Afraid of what I’d find or what the cost
to find ten pins gathering dust in gleam
No fragrance of spring or wing remained

And then today as if in answer to my question
Long ago asked to some one up in heaven
Where have they gone all color muted frail
when I had placed them so carefully in this cardboard jail

Today

On the front steps of a house in different town
A wing and then another had fallen down
No body held together the colors mighty chorus
But it seems like they were sent this day
with a definite purpose

The question asked so long ago must finally be
That given time an answer comes eventually

I’m saving them the wings like time
With feathers I have many now
Perhaps to test the strength of fragile things
Or more certainly to bless this heart of mine



Thursday, December 10, 2015

Searching For the Wand





I see the open door, come two, come four, the dry dirt holds its tender cover
where leaves all color and blushful
dot the floor.

Thatched with muscle from the pine, I pull the plug on holding back
and cuddle up within me,
a tree so high

my sky is colored green,
and under me a bed too soft to lay my head is for dancing instead.


(Dare I ignite the muffled laughter
of the critters all scurry run beneath me?
After all, I’m standing on their pine needle rafters.)

One after another day, (should I weep?)
as the fabric not tatted falls around my feet?

No downpour from this leak can awaken youth;
yet, I see another truth.


Ardor in blood is born
and I am torn; each piece must consider how the wind sweeps the needle’s path onto a canvas without brush or paint, knowing that nothing lasts....or does it?

Something wild and wet in loving
can be made fertile again by mulching;
to faint upon a ground so considerate merits knowing who held the wand
that wonder made it
and also tracked the lines across my face and with one finger traced the fragile lace. 

Wednesday, July 29, 2015

The Children of Wednesday….For Sam and Ellie



The Children of Wednesday

Around and around they go up down
walls with stairs and pools
carpets of grass the pond all laced green
and the ladder to the slide
put aside until the sun days of summer coming
call the birds the cat the dog
just any bug in some delight
especially worms will be alright

On the swing a song is running
push rewind and play
hold me past the time of naps
past playgrounds and sand and the perfect shovel
sing with me your susurration’s best
we’ll make the shadows dance fast

The tree is opening leaf  and my balloon’s all up and bloated
Squeeze the monsters from the clay and hold my hand
the inches wave goodbye at the door
and I will love you again on another Wednesday
or more

Thursday, June 25, 2015

She, Hope and the City

7 lines (or maybe a little more) from my current work in progress



Juliette is a grown woman now and her memory of the house is clear, but her surroundings have grown.  The timber of the staircase she can still count with her girlhood footsteps, but now she lives in a city, not just a house.  Her brother lives in another city far away and her grandfather and her mother died years ago.  She thinks of freeways and roads like veins and arteries.  She sometimes wishes for the sidewalks of her youth, where the innocence of her relationship with the supposed inanimate things around her, was pure.  Those things were safe and couldn't hurt her, though they overpowered her a few times with the depth and breadth of their cold steal and concrete.  When they did she would turn to the other place inside her.  In that place there was sun and shadow, color and movement and the fragrance of life.  A seed had fallen and a crack opened in time and a yellow flower took to calling the rain and the sun its lovers.  She knew these things but still could not say them out loud.