Tuesday, October 29, 2013

Curse of the Common's (A Poem)

Image (2)


It’s funny how time
erodes things,
Steals your prime away
In the inky blot of everyday.
We plant the seeds of ourselves
Beneath an anchored TV station,
Small-town radio talkshow,
Left eye of our minds
falling into a blank space,
empty plate of the pie,
closed in leaf of the pea.
We yearn
Against the dim rings
Of saturn’s blind moon,
for a bend in the road,
A life lived nonlinear;
Hope against black coffee
And the luke warm water
Of every morning
For an immeasurable
Branching out,
Two hundred sheets into
The novelty of another life.
Yet the days only unwind,
Liquid vessels that sink
Into the running
Green legs of the sea.
We walk cavernous circles
Across the same old spaces,
Feet burning blisters,
Only a pebbles’ skip away
From the flames,
Of the king’s chair.
None of us are safe
Even in our stilled hearts
And rusted joint-wheels.

Written From prompts provided by:

Saturday, October 26, 2013

Coffee Dreams (A Poem)


She walks slowly,
Feet a leisurely echo
Amidst the earthquake shuffle
Of a morning commute,
She wears her raincoat
Like the robe of Christ,
Coffee stains dangling
Toward her fingers,
early winter wind whipping
A knitted scarf across her face,
Tickling her throat like
The bitter taste of chocolate.
A flurried wind pourettes
The strands of her hair
As if something invisible
Were swimming through it
As she passes church parking lots
And the old ladies who linger there
With their pursed bottles of liquor
And cheap cigarettes.
Smelling of food stands
And the busy city,
She tumbles into
The crowded bench seats
Where old men laugh
Like clowns in a caravan,
Bright-eyed and curious
On a day full of clouds and crow.
Café walls a portrait of colors
She wishes she could
Splash herself across
And live forever
In this wonderland of coffee beans
And freshly-brewed sweet tea.
She dreams the brake lights
Of stopped cars
At the corner intersection
In the near distance
Are the blinking eyes of fate
Pulling her into the strange arms
Of a reincarnated soulmate
At some coffeeshop
Along a delipadated back alley
On another morning.
She prays it’s true,
Hands a miniature clay temple
Crossed over the veins
Of one another, and not
A God in either one.

**Written for a prompt at Poets United.

Tuesday, October 22, 2013

The Time Lapse (A Poem)


On a winter night,
Sky as bright as the moons open mouth,
We wander aimlessly
In our slick, metal time machines,
The vacant roads of this world
Branching out, swift as tentacles
That pull us into so many different lives.

We are young, our dreams shiny.
We borrow them from each other,
Stuff them into forgotten pockets,
Arrange them across mantels
And the boxed-in tops of walls
Like golden, amalgam bricks of mercury,
Barely blemished by the hands of humans.

On a spinning dew drop,
Between two separate centuries,
We walk the fenced-in grid of Zodiacs stars,
Never knowing the backward ritual
In all our ways of life;
The there and back motion
Of everything becoming and diminishing.

The time lapse between
Beginning and merely dreaming,
We balance our checkbook,
Take out the trash,
Cheat at mindless games of solitaire
As if time was an expenditure,
As if the blood of our clay bodies
Will beat endlessly,
As if the wind between our hair
Were not a magician playing time tricks.

We walk this earth as if
there were gravels glued to our foot soles,
taking and shoving and regretting,
then returning to the morning role call
of an endless losing game
as if the earth owed us something,
as if everything living
will one day die alongside us
while we go shouting into the glorious
blinking eyes of nothingness, and nevermore.

Monday, October 14, 2013

Pizza Talk and English Beer (A Poem)


On the eve of a holiday
I cannot fully remember
I came to you
Like a drunkard on the mend,
Stiff in my winter boots,
The smell of front porch
on my hair.
I’m not sure what I expected
But you were two thumbs deep
In some foreign documentary
So we spread cold pizza
And Old English beer between us
And talked sleepy circles
Around mad prophets,
The historical poets of our time
And each syllable you spoke
Felt like the edge of another world
I could cross, except
The alcohol was stealing my thunder
So all I could manage
Was a 2am rant about
The binds this world born us into,
The unjust in our lack of choice,
The wondering eyeball of chance,
And the God in all our words;
How always Saturday night
Would find us waging wars
Against the invisible forces
Of our universe and how
Come Sunday morning
There’s always more questions
Than there are answers.
How, exhausted, we fall asleep
Across the bent in arms of each other,
Aging as we sleep
Like old dogs waiting to die.

Thursday, October 10, 2013

On A Winter's Evening (A Poem)

At the hamburger joint
On the corner of main
With its gumball machine,
A universal winter wonderland
Of sugar and the rusted penny-reel
Where I’d drop my coins
For cheap thrills after dinner,
Is where I first fell in love
With make-believe
And the gritty feel of humanity.
I’d watch old men dip their hats
Across the counter
For the Friday special
And a far-sided view into
the thirty-something cleavage
of a burned out waitress
in frizzy hair who’d try
to feed me dishes full
of lard and sugar
while the winter wind
blew away the daylight hours,
trees bare outside the dusty window,
each branch full of limbs
waving in the air
like a skinny hand asking
for a silent favor.
The owner’s old dog
Would appear from the shadows,
Ghost wolf of the break room,
And lay across an
Indian-stitch rug, the only
One to cover the hard-wood,
Grease-stained slats,
Then lazily make his arthritic way
Amongst the sausaged kitchen,
And tables full of hungry lovers
Who’d toss bone crumbs and bread-sticks.
In the meantime silly school boys
In their shaking, virgin fingers
Ordered milkshakes for young girls
In their after-hours hair and
miniskirts the color of jelly beans,
their breasts and minds
too full of cold air
in an otherwise breathless room.

**Written for a prompt at Poet's United

Sunday, October 6, 2013

The Moon Nymph (A Poem)


When she enters,
Snow-booted footfalls
A rabbits’ whisper
Across the long-tail carpet
Of the campus library,
She spills the coffee of herself
All over the room
Like a stubborn stain.
Her eyes glide toward your table,
Quick as a cloud-swirl,
Then blink past you
Like a chance.
She moves like air
That blows surprisingly
Into a windowless room,
Clutching paintbrushes
To her chest
As if each bristle
Were made of hand-flesh.
Her walk is reminiscent
Of a swiftly-forgotten mission,
Hands fluttering
As if she’d just picked
A basketful of burning stars.
When she walks past you
She smells of smoke cinders
And pine wood, her hair
A nest to catch
The rattled needles
And lose leaves of
An unforgiving fall.
Her smile is as clever
As a secret language,
And when she speaks to you
Her words are as ripe and fleeting
As the hand-sweep
Of a dandelion dream.
You’d saw off your own hands
Just to capture her,
This nymph of another world.
You sing praises to the worship
Of her skin temple
As she dances naked against
The lusting fingers of the moon,
her body full of God.