My gratitude to Silver
Surfer for this honour.
..
.this wind
your voice
~ home ~ |
the conditions
politeness -
honed messenger of icy wounds
to the casual view may succour,
feigning kindness and respect.
obscured in passionless phrases
lies the blood of lust and love averted -
the ultimate withholding;
buried as it bloomed -
and embarrassed... swept below the deck.
evaluation has new meaning -
the take without replace burns slowly
like copper pennies
in a coke,
eating at the shine, tho' blame
is not permitted for the sin.
conditions reviewed, and penance,
metered by quantum integers
hides inside a book of ethics.
words cleared
the fledgling falters -
then survives to seek the win. |
|
Seeking Tide
Between the planting and the harvest
lay the barren years -
oft-reached-for and the never-grasped
entwined in mortal combat for her tears;
sheltered by the kindness
of the blinders
worn by friendship and the guardians,
mere mortals in the trench of inner fears.
Seeds of qualm, that bitter root,
germinate and fester
in voices and the votes of strangers;
street-corner prophets all agape
at bleeding wounds - their jeers
mock testament to the ecstasy
of self-fulfilment;
prophecy denied...
clearer vision steers -
shattered wreckage, seeking tide. . |
wildflower riot
loot
of spring |
|
flowers in my hair
barefoot, tank top,
waist-length hair...
at the party by beachfire's light
Mary Jane made my nose itch
(and sand between my toes
was such a turn on), but
two sweet kids and a trampled id...
resist, resist, resist. I did.
sailed a lot, and drank some red pop,
cheap wine we ordered by the number,
and the case.
those friends are dead now...
Jad crushed by a tree,
and David's doing Neptune's chase. .
|
it can wait
there are days
when the maw is so great
it has the capacity
to swallow me whole;
when the abyss is
the only friend I seek...
and then, I remember my soul
and the promises I said I'd keep
primal chaos is infinitely patient
- a delay won't make it weep. |
at 1:00 a.m.
a memory, you come
unbid
with faded hues
the consistency of smoke
what used to be...
the words we spoke
are truths
unchallenged
and they carry me
through the miasma and the blue
of promises not kept
and dreams I didn't stoke. |
pages turning...
history's stopwatch
set in motion |
|
|
R.I.P. (Robbie-1964-89)
on the mortal side of somewhere
there's a place that's near enough
where I sense you in the indigo,
as daydreams slip sideways, and
time has no perceptible consequence
elusive as you've become
I juggle the urgent need
to let you go
with a heartfelt desire to
repossess for you
the hopes and dreams
that gave you substance
balanced against the mystery
of what killed you
is a compelling urgency to
keep you whole and growing
into righteous manhood
ours, not forever or exclusively
perhaps, but, surely near enough. |
|
Author's Note: To honor a special
friendship between
kindred spirits,
please read -
Mirella's Gift
"Flight of Fancy"
(H. Long-'98)
|
parched for morning dew
weeping bluebells
wait for dawn
|
|
