sleep

the soot of sleep is night's to keep; 

above your head swim angler fish

until your thoughts have time to steep–

they skid across a petri-dish

Primrose

Pressing petals against a rock

A door whose time cannot unlock

Crushed pulp and creased hands

An hourglass's double head, stands.

A door whose time cannot unlock

The unheard whisper of erased chalk

An hourglass's double head, stands

Before the keeper, is the bee that brands.

The unheard whisper of erased chalk

Following the ears of those who talk

Before the keeper, is the bee that brands

A cord to knot,  licks up demands.

Following the ears of those who talk

A busy hum does best to stalk

A cord to knot, licks up demands

And for truth, shreds the strands.

complaints...maybe im going crazy?

i have yet to write those 2 poetry papers

and those 4 other ridiculous poems.

prepare for major crap uploads, blog.

i am going to stuff your FACE.

no more water or eyes!

i need new material!

notes to save for future stories

ghosts/spirits trapped/born in trees of an ancient grove

can be found with a magic tuning fork.

the ghost of birch trees leaves white-capped mushrooms wherever she steps.

Soul Memory

drawn by the heat of an unrealized past

repelled by perfect hesitation, 

the imprints of scorned histories

they howl at two faces of the same coin,

feeding their frozen demons.

turning behind vanishing doors

eyelids-

trying to hide the street-lamp glow of 

the soul's flickering memory,

can't subdue the heart's swelling

for his eyes

and her eyes

lasso the ancient past

with each intersection.

TBC-what i wrote riding home from bwi

THE DRESS

        *

She carried her re-stitched red and blue backpack over to a mass of stony crags and crabgrass. Her ruffled white dress fit her like a kite, a windsock. It caught the wind like laundry usually does when put out on the line to dry. Like her backpack, her dress also carried subtle signs of wear and repair. In fact, if the dress had been found suspended from a wire hanger (for she was in many ways a wooden hanger herself) and was folded in half, one might mistake the dress for a runner, or table linen of some sort. Faded coffee crescents and tea moon halos freckled a small section of the dress' side. On the dress' back a cluster of four copper stars half-aligned themselves to form a marker, a constellation staining where once had been stuck a rusty safety pin to gather the excess fabric.

In the sand she pivoted and crouched like a paper crane beside the backpack. After unbuttoning and unzippering the sack, she reached inside and withdrew two cameras: one silver chrome and one which was mysteriously concealed beneath a stiff, but mouse-eaten leather case. Even with the two cameras removed from the bag, the sack's puckered contour suggested that there was still another camera or two hidden behind the familiarly firm folds. 

She wore the camel-case camera like a nymph might carry a quiver, and with one hand she cradled the lightly-frosted, silver camera just above her hip. With her other hand she locked her fingers in the crags' keyholes and descended the dune with as much poise as a Russian countess stepping down a winding Winter Palace staircase. 

THE BOY

        *

He was less like a honeybee and more like a dart when he held his camera. By the time she had chosen her cameras, he had already positioned himself, half-kneeling behind a large stone. The skin around his left temple gathered... like rain running from eaves  and into the gutter

clasp and curl

hair unfolds

like dye dropped

into water.

clasp and curl.

i am wet sand.

your imprint fills me with ocean.

My Body is a Bird-Bone Table

Two teacup saucers

Unaccompanied by their twin sisters

Might be topographically lacking

But, my–

Aren’t they lovely when set

On a bird-bone table.

 

Fragile to the eyes,

Her calcite buttresses

Cradle silver spoons and empty elbow-gloves

With a woodwind heart

You would expect it to crumble,

But on the contrary

It whistles sweet tunes

When in good company.

 

At the end of the table

A small knot remains unpolished

A drain to collect

Spilled tea and

The crumbs of unfinished sentences

Fallen from the mouths

Of anxious suitors.

On Writing Letters (Cont.)

languid liquid 

dissevers–curls.

insidious ink

vacuous–furls.

blot paper message,

carry my curio.

the edge

of my words

flicks you like wire

and I know

the holiest drop

is the one that seeps

through the parchment.

Wind and Weathervane (TBC)

A victorian weathervane

denies Wind's advances

revealing her copper cheek

she deflects his kiss.

He thrusts and whispers,

fingers failing to furl 

around her base.

And she,

pinnacle of perpetual pivot

cannot be beleaguered by Wind.

He evacuates from her presence

like a vapor.

And with a final pirouette, 

Weathervane releases a sigh.

The three particles of air

displaced by her breath

hum their way into Wind's ear.

Taunted by her song,

Reminded of his defeat,

He calls his sister, Rain.

Rain's glaucous cords lasso around

the sanguine dancer.

Usurped by rust,

Unable to catch the sun,

Quiescence quiets her pivots

and Wind may at last have his kiss.