Sunday, May 25, 2014

The Squab

The Squab

"Those pigeons mate, see how they flutter?"
the little seaman pulled at his new dress collar, stiff
stuck, in thoughts of home  was he, trying to squeeze 
a deep laugh from the smile he'd pulled from the mirror
before walking dark still streets to this loud smoky meeting
"Go on now," the deep basso encouraged with a hard shove 
the little seaman knew he'd need to report about this leave to
the little brothers and the single sister, who, bursting with pride
at their sea-faring elder, waited in the little village far north and green 
expecting the survey of a strong man without quaver or squeak to return
with booming  stories of roiling conquered seas and flocks  of pretty pigeons 
landed upon their upturned faces, welcome as an endless shower of penny candies 
shining brightly, booming in a loud laughing basso through never again graying days

The Sunday Whirl « weekly wordles

Sunday, May 18, 2014



floating on the force 
the people pass below
plastic-casted alabaster, 
bronze, ebon, ruddied red
yellow - shaded differently
soon to be revealed as the same
and the child on the cloud's cumuli
stands and throws with glee, altitude armfuls 
of the sweet bread of change, of peace, 
of contentment - watching breathless the whole of it- 
waiting - 
yet the glory is squandered 
and the small mind sent spinning 
senseless at the  graphic ennui of a  
collective coalesced massive shrugged shoulder
and the child falling back into a clouded center
wonders at the swirl of their complicit avoidable 
doomed dogma of disparate desperate disaster
as their cries of chaos tear tender ears
as the bread is trampled into mud, and dust, 
destroyed under heedless raging restless feet - 
that sweet bountiful bread ripped - raped 
to ravaged refuse in their mindless war of "Mine"
and the child wonders - again and again and still -
Why did they not rise in collective claim 
and catch the easy soft showered peace
Why did they trade the joyful common 
language of laughter for separate screams 
when but for swallowed mouthfuls of manna
they could have shimmered -
Oh how they could have shimmered  
within the mystic magic melting of 
Mine into Ours - and the child empty handed now
peeks over the edge of above to below - as a single
trembled tear gathers strength to fall 

Wednesday, May 14, 2014

Spilling gold


Spilling gold…
a tip a whirl
sideways room
tilt – a shake
of her head as
she moves about
her early retirement
thinking about planting
roses and eating grilled
cheese sandwiches in the
late afternoon with a glass of
cold sweet tea – as the sun sets
golden – in a silent garden of a life-
time’s sowing – she shakes her head
to clear the sudden tilt to the side as the
Universe smacks her hard and she recalls with
sudden clarity this feeling of life within stirring ever so
slightly and surely and surreally - transforming her futures  Forever


Sunday, May 4, 2014

That Night

That night 

on that late eve in autumn the porch light was bright
barefoot small standing on the wood slats that night
she stood near the swing clutching the heavy cold chain
fled the strange broken faces, that house pulsing pain
she stood in the gold illume - the only thing as before
until that wavered as flame, flashed and life was no more
the porch light is dead” – she called reedy voice small
but no one came – no one but night – no one at all
and night fell as a solid raining of impossible things 
dismembered chunks of blackbird broken wings
banging her head, brushing cheeks, those cold feet bare
she a small night-gowned figure alone waiting there
in a moment sure that someone would as always - arise
quick steps would come arms lift her with sleepy sighs
the porch light is dead” she called into the night   
only the rasp of dead feathers drifted ebon unright
as she stood shock still and watched normal take flight
born of wings fallen, now gathered, dread flying free
as a cat now with clear visioned eyes she could see
that nothing would ever return- ever- as it was meant to be