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Thursday, February 23, 2017

Gone where?





Gone where?

Where have you gone
baby boy – the scent
of you – turns my head
looking – your skin slips
silk against my chest –
I feel the hot imprint of you
curled as though you would
melt back into me and again
we would be one – where - oh
where have you gone –
 baby boy – you linger
in the air –
now
grown
flown
still
for-
ever
held







Wednesday 

Sunday, February 19, 2017

Boom

Blinding Sun Related Keywords & Suggestions - 



Boom

She woke a tiny girl in a large apartment
marooned on a canopy bed high in the sky
Walls of glass – far above this new concrete
city -silently scurrying far far below -her bed
piled high with pillows – a cover to be called
a duvet – as though it made all the difference.
Her mother took her swing, made a good deal,
accepted as a sign from a divine Universe the
tall man who kept coming back to Do-Drop-In
diner and finally after thousand cups of coffee
and steamy side-wise smiles took them away
to here –Her mother now wore shoes with high
heels and bright red lipstick – lifted a little finger
when she sipped wine – from a closet filled with 
fancy glasses – all the same – all sorts of repeat 
things like that here – fat stuffed animals choked
with neck bows glassy-eyed on the window seat 
like one of those infinity mirrors things repeating –
on and on in this endless apartment -a pinned up 
butterfly behind glass walls –she lay marooned on
this canopy bed high in the sky and -it was wrong 
selfish wrong -she knew it-but she could not deny 
that she ached for the small stream at the end of 
the dirt road behind the school where she used to 
stop on the way home - looking for tadpoles and 
the glint of copper pennies -she knew it was wrong 
to look for a line that would draw them back – back
to wish each thing to vanish into a vacuum of never-
had-happened – for time to fly back to the then-when
she walked on ground - bare feet in the soft warm dirt 
of home – hope a thing that was only an ache in her 
mother’s eye.



Sunday, February 12, 2017

Re-sound Melody










Re-sound Melody

Who shall sing my song when all that is
left are scattered rhythms
Who shall gather scraps and stand face
to the wind upright in the gales and sing
rag to a bloodied eye - torch still aflame
root of all that was and can still be right
Who shall sing my song?