Cloudburst under cover
leaves shaken limbs strewn.
Still, wild distant shore
What more from love
with too many words?
What is it about how
you fill up an ice tray
that reminds me of the
difference among snowflakes?
Or why the random pattern
of pomegranate torn open
by mockingbirds on the lawn
looks like the puzzle
of your dishwasher load.
Is it merely the way you
are framed by the moment,
or the picture behind you,
left hanging askew
on a nail firmly anchored,
to the inescapable
impermanence of us?
“I’ll help with the dishes”
Tell your friends you’re a painter;
they’ll want to see your work.
I know you may not have the heart.
You were lovers in your lust and rage.
But you betrayed her by your silence,
while she broke you with untruths.
And you bailed up the reasons,
under heat of the sun; yellow
in fields of ochre colored angst,
you twisted like black crows
storming the canvas.
Tell them you’re a poet;
they’ll change the conversation,
not caring how poems grow
like ivy on your fences, probing
tiny cracks in the walls of conscience.
They are heedless of ebb tides
or swells from the moonrise
on shorelines of memory.
Maybe you’ll be forgiven
when you can write a poem
that smells like cerulean blue.
On the highway home tonight
tears for your mother came in a slow rain
under trust for my love of your company
and the joy of the day.
The sound of their falling
hushing me at sundown,
and ushering in
a greater silence in the carmine sky
settling over a lighter halcyon blue.
Memory, like ripples on dark water
stirred from high above and long ago,
a deeper understanding of you.
When you break-
The world is not your
No matter how
you think, you
You are no longer
the you, you
a marker, keeping
fictitious futures in
I rose to the sounds of fish weeping,
while wind in the palms echoed lament.
Shadows covered over the glint of the moon
and danced on tears and scales.
I tried to console them with metaphors,
amusing stories and poems,
until all was connected to everything,
and the world poured over the shore.
"Death gives us depth", I said
showing them pictures of the blind,
those living there who could still see,
but were always standing between.
In the end they remained dispossessed
by all that was said and done.
So I spread out crumbs...
on the water.
I am not afraid of flowers,
not afraid of a sparrow's song,
not afraid of wind on long grass.
though I know there is a price to pay,
bones to grind,
flesh to be ripped,
for a taste of this beauty.
I know there must be blood
running under this ground.