Good Night

As if to foil some clarity
or lack thereof,
the heavens tonight are
obscured entirely
but for Venus beaming
some secret smirk
and the moon reflecting
some shallow thought
onto the backs of the clouds.

And I am bare-assed
and feeling the warmth of
some strange memory of fall
in the wind with a welcome shiver.

A Lake

Hoisted upward by the hips, the body, a drenched hairpin

but for the flailing tornadoes storming rain in four directions,

pauses to admire the face-to-face image just after cresting the surface;

recalling to life the first love a life knows, an infatuation really,

perhaps never outgrown, a child’s favorite blanket

stored in a pillowcase at the bottom of a drawer that over time

is shared with only the closest friends less and less frequently.

Winter claims his kingdom,

petrifies the world below, forgotten

underfoot, under skate, under snow,

under the frigid table of inactivity.

Through the aged mirror pane thickened with chill,
a fading picture, almost recognizable,
is stricken, paused in time. Still,
heartbeats pound out of the red clay, dim
and rhythmic as a dying clock, barely
reaching up to their solid roof.

Boaters part the hair of the water,

swimmers take to the sand,

and Summer dredges up the long sleeping

or long dead flotsam from below.

A deep, rumbling growl, the belly of the lake,

demands the return of what it relinquished:

“Come back and get your sea fins.”

To a Sycamore

Sycamore in autumn,

golden hue emerging from

a sea of green surrounding.

Your trunk, your limbs

stretching appropriately

and with ease—

the unequivocal ideal.

Earned beauty in the patchy bark

with its shades of green and gray

from the bitter and the sweet

sloughed off and scarred,

badged with life.

From under your shadow

the world drinks up, sucks in,

devours your perfection

where it unexpectedly comes;

the form, the function

curving with purpose; age

compounding strength

compounding wisdom.

An Expectation

She returns to ground zero
anticipating a lingering cloud
to remain outside of herself;
perhaps a haze as thick as
the memory that lays siege 
her mind, her being

like the smitten psychopath
who expects to see his love
at the subsequent funeral;
or the life-prisoner released
in his twilight years
grasping at threads of normalcy
from what had become
his security blanket.

Limerick o' the week, a la Mad Kane

Methinks I will end up posting more weekly limericks than other original poetry for awhile, as the fun of their composition is quick and puts me in enjoyable company! Again, I recommend any readers of this limerick click over to Mad Kane's Limerick-off Monday to submit one or be delighted in reading the others!

The beginning line this week is: "A fellow had made a mistake..." and variations thereof.

Here's mine:

A love-struck man made a mistake,
took a femme out for wine and a steak.
After the sup
he invited her up
but heard, “I don’t do sausage, but cake.”

Mad Kane's Humor Blog Limerick-Off Monday

I just discovered the blog of the lovely Madeleine Kane, who creates a Limerick challenge every Monday for open participation.View details via link above. Basically, she writes the first line of a Limerick and anyone is free to submit their own continuation of the verse.

This week's opening line was: "A man who was known for his flash". I highly recommend clicking over to her blog and reading some of the highly entertaining entries!

Here's mine:

A man who was known for his flash
was too quick for the coppers to stash;
garbed only in skin,
his big, toothy grin,
and below a revolting mustache.

Recovery of Sorts

Revised 8/12/2012:

Thunder splits a cumulonimbus mash;

denying light

refusing sun

deflecting clarity on every plane.

A river of words evaporates through a

cauliflower of mud sludge:

blocking, blockading.

A beggared man,
squeegee in hand,

clears the murky panes

nothing to give—

fleeting memory fading fast.

It is there to be had…

capture it, set in stone

the truth recovered once again

again and again

for the last time

for now.

The Visit

She came with the sunset

and left at its rise,

day and night

day and night

day and night

in between;

undulate

panging of

disappointment

washed away

with explosions of joy

Helpless Relaxation*

Best demonstrated by
vagabonds in cafe window seats,
dinner dreamed or imagined:
lost to life;

or a young one
brinking sleep and waking,
bobbing from mundane to divine:
the quintessence of innocence.

*Word combo planted in my brain by Betty Smith's A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.

Untitled

Once a whirling dervish without restraint,

here and there a dance on wind

as spiders toiled in vain to hook

a wisp of leg or arm;

the will of this one a stone

plopped through woven webbing

left a  gaping hole of unpaired threads

fluttering like severed strings

on cut-off jeans.

The Golden Haired Harpist

The golden haired harpist,

to have her symphony,

exchanges her instrument of tranquility

for one of urgency –

Bleating disturbance in the healing halls

as trumpet only can:

Harp harp harp

for bleat bleat bleat –

in her manicured hands

there is little difference between them.

Harpist, harper or,

as trumpet is her choice, trumpet she now blows,

Trumpetress may have the priceless notes -

Her lengthy rote sounding or resounding

near and far, all around;

whirling cacophony in a dwindling prairie,

once a place of peace where, now,

grass, reeds and dust dirtily mingle

in a composition of destruction.

She plucks, strums, or blows

her notes of haughty righteousness,

absolving her own acts,

molesting passersby,

or mere moles in holes

that come out to blink just twice

for light

before scampering back underground,

fearing being trodden,  stamped and mangled

beneath the deadly stiletto heels

propping up her femininity –

Away she goes,

Jezebellian priestess,

Jester of Hippocrates,

Conjurer of explosive discord;

leaving the simmerings of strife in a cymbal,

salted and peppered to perfection.

Mia prima donna,

you play not for me,

for I am no child of Apollo;

but swerve not from your symphony:

Your notes, my offering.


This piece was shared on Poets United in Poetry Pantry #108