Little boy, blue jeans to the belly,
puffs his little red cheeks—
his pointed spectacles, falling down that button nose,
watch as he blows his mind into the trumpet.
She sighs,
constantly. Always
the sigh, sighing herself
to wishful elegance,
whisking the whites to rising peaks,
she counts herself backward,
Evening light pales into my windows from behind the palms,
piloting in a fruity breeze to stir the pages
at my desk. I’m 30 percent writing,
25 percent sipping tea, 9 percent listening to jazz beats &
63 percent certain my poetic Muse has taken the day off.
Fall colors warm her sweet face,
deep reds and blushing oranges snuggling
into the gentle wrinkles at her cheeks;
the low light off the fading greens
bounce from the brown of her sweater to my eyes,
the softness I cannot myself believe.
Contained in one tiny, aging human
is the breath of ages seen and past—
each petite wrinkle is a memory of
laughter and play, the meadows at dawn,
the whimpering brook of the forests, the
birdsong in the high branches of the willow.
& tell the abyss the darkness is
temporary.
The moonlight is warming &
the breeze which sweeps
transposes the seeds and growth is in
the underbrush. Tell the abyss it’s
nearly dawn—that time runs parallel
to furrowed brows and intersects
Thunder resigns the dimpled sky to fatigue
and stirs my Delphian soul—
Around my brow clocks circle, clocks in heat
in twenty directions the ticks tock—
When the lights flicker, I come to.
Lucid puddles seep into shoe beds
I’m a Fiat roof rack I’m the
bicycle lacquered in red lights I’m the
afterthought after the period drops.
I’m dizzy with it all and too sleepy to wait
til Christmas. Let days just be days—
they’ve been overlooking my permission for ages.
There are 7.8 billion poems about the moon;
having read none of them,
I wonder:
If all her glowworms cast their eyes to her size
and whimper amongst themselves: why she so low—
then what does she do?
Diddly.
Continue reading “Moon Dance”
Borrow the car
Borrow the flour
Borrow the book
Borrow the shears
Borrow the money
Borrow the tuxedo
Borrow the pencils
Borrow the clothes
Borrow the tampon
Borrow the vacuum
Borrow the ice pack
Borrow the envelope
Do not borrow
the soul. The soul is yours.
The words house themselves within me,
I am not the words.
If they come
I remain whole. If they do not come
I remain
whole.
I want to be an art critic.
I want to have such a glorious
eye piece, that the thinnest strokes of oils and acrylics
could shine off my lens into your face
when you address me as “madam”
and I grace you with my gaze.
