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...
A gear
slips,
the mechanism slows
and my mind
is left
idling...
Deserted
Alone
on a sand bar,
in sight of shore,
salt water licks
at my wounds.
Behind me,
oceans,
seas of despair.
Ahead,
an impasse of fear.
To dip a toe
into the brine,
feel the beast nip
at my heels.
My summoned courage,
a ship full of holes.
My faith,
a sieve for bailing.
Hope lies
beyond the breakers.
A future can be claimed
on dry land.
The sun on water,
my St. Elmo's fire.
Deserted,
stranded--
I tread.
What
Hemingway Might Have Seen
It was
late-
Late like the end of the world,
like a young man standing at his father’s grave
unsaid words forever stilled on his lips.
Everyone had left the café-
The waitress scrubbed at tables
with a sour rag
leaving streaks in her wake.
The busboy pushed a filthy broom
across a coffee-stained floor.
The cooks laughed
about their own special recipe
for split pea soup.
One was uncharacteristically quiet.
No one noticed.
Everyone had left except an old man-
An old man of sixty
who sat at a dimly lit
quiet corner table.
In his left hand, a pen.
In his right, a journal.
In his mind
a clean, well-lighted place.
What's
Left Behind
Tracery
remains
where your fingers skimmed
the delicate curves of my face.
The heat of you
penetrates my flesh
long after you've gone.
Each fingerprint
left as a reminder
of your delight in me.
Tides
in sight
your memory
an ever fading view
recedes as tides from the new
moon
to sea
Standstill
standstill
let your pulse cease
your breath should flow as wind
whistling through the tender
shoots of
a
reed
Carpenter
sweet smell
of sawdust
but all I sense
is his mouth
on the pencil
as he sucks
and nibbles
the eraser's tip
Postmark August 17, 1942
Vintage German postcards
pour from desk drawers
like warm honey
from a nest disturbed.
Postage stamp eyes
recall a past of
secret meetings,
under cover of night,
dancing to the beat
of machine guns.
Linger
He lingers
in the corners of my vision-
a memory, and more.
A half forgotten dream, recurring.
The whisper of my own voice, echoed.
His breathless words stir
winds of change,
calm harried waters.
Move forward, he demands,
I'll stay with you just the same.
Just when I think,
he's left again,
I feel him unfold inside me,
bloom like a rose,
petals ripen,
then wilt,
drop one by one,
flutter to my feet,
linger in the corners of my vision.
I Breathe
Still here.
Far from sidewalks,
hurried footsteps of men,
interwoven freeway traffic.
I breathe.
Rising
Tonight,
mercury falls.
My spirits thrive anew.
The slivered moon, a thumbnail,
rising.
Dan
I'd like to slip inside you,
live there, sleep,
let the flow of blood
in your veins
soothe the thoughts
that plague me.
Retribution
A jarring
slap
spoke her volumes.
Leather-bound tales.
The lingering scent
of another's femininity.
Stiletto stamps
in the bedroom carpet.
Dye job hair clinging
to the shower soap.
Still
Hold
your heart close to the vest
and
still the sound of its beating
before
they hear.
Giving
in
It takes too much out of me
loving you,
the best part of me,
the part I’d like to keep.
No melting clocks,
nor languishing shadows.
No women bred of ivory acrylic
cast over stretched canvas.
Only crisp planes,
earthen hues,
the knife-edge where light meets night
and the looming presence
of
clay colored mesas.
Garbage
Day
The
dregs of blackberry spirit,
dry
wishbone prayers
and
lo mein
from
the take-out
on
the corner of Main and Lowell
snake
toward his belly.
Mourning
Doves
Roosting
in the braids
of
back alley double dutchers,
cooing
beneath the folds
of
a belted tan overcoat,
delivering
olive branches
to
the clinic on Pine,
Doves,
always in mourning.
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