I have nothing but one second here,
Fleeting as the earth chooses to move right,
If she wills.
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Month: December 2019
Harvest
A midriff lay slumped on a chair.
The spine an adage of another existence.
Crumps and foils have been cleared away.
Breakfast long served before the bell breaks
again,
another blush of coral in a vase, like
a little child screaming for that what it knows not.
As always.
The sun has esteemed our resilience. Idyllic fair-weather uncle.
The soil has been trowelled for him to feast and
lush worms exposed in their hideouts.
Little sylphs of the earth, mopping up the dried salt
of this frosted mud.
I lay a bulb, inch apart, and hoped for some gross vanity
as spring disrupts into shoots and roots entangle the mess that we call life.
I let the water flow out wondering what it would taste like. A drink of brine inside.
A tongue for foregone rains. Outside.
A silent robin looked around, perching its hunger on a barren branch.
Goodnight and Good Luck
veins over tendons course
like a meandering river,
topography of lands and jungles
thicket, sinewing through muscles and bones,
in the lonely hands of a winner.
the thick gossamer of a deserted winter,
lush tones of yesterdays summer
allured in the wine crushed by another’s feet
percolating sin into another’s words
clouds like fresh cream, only in yesterday’s dream.
bright red stars and bells chime now
to bring in another chariot of time.
Decades more to sleep.
Charcoal Analogy
There is a burning fireplace
In every heart gathered here.
A dark chamber of secrets hidden
In the deep recesses of their ever burning soul.
Embers of dreams lost to a sallow, callous youth
when the blaze of arrogance danced to defeat.
They now yearn for the spirit of passion, that no longer
lodges in their withering flesh,
Longing to be ignited by the lick of a flame,
A touch, a swig of the tender fuel
Of love that can never be lost. Only found.
Again and again.
Our lives lie in this furnace, these lumps of burnt charcoal
That we are.
Waiting to be picked at, from its state of apparent futility.
These cold and needy times pleading for
You and me, again,
To be burnt to the end of being burnt,
And nothing more to give but
What was already there.
Yet another chapter being written here. Sat by this fireplace.
To warm another’s belly.
To warm another’s hearth.
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