Neighborhoods of angels ascended from rooftops, from porches,
from flooded streets with those long neglected leading the
grand procession skyward for no cars, no buses, no boats, no planes
came to their rescue; they were left with only their wings.
The poetry flu came
without warning, a virus
sending its bacteria
pulsing through my veins.
It secretes from all my pores;
it drips from my runny nose;
it burns my forehead;
it congests my lungs;
it churns in my stomach;
it catches in my throat, making me cough;
it aches my limbs;
it throbs my head;
it makes me tremble;
it forms goose bumps under my skin.
As the flu ravages my body
I finally collapse in exhaustion,
vomiting a steady stream
onto the paper.
I wait for you. Your honor comes home
to a safe oasis apart from harm and
danger. Your cool words are the water
that quenches my souls thirst for life.
A task is a duty. A duty an obligation.
The whole thing is a test. One scene
passing to another, divesting of the
slight burrs in the opportunity of moments.
Resting in the breast of the eternally
renewing dawn I answer you with my
footsteps. Every day passing another
goal to quota, another mile to try. The
evening of glances and of looks. The
morning of arduous labor. I ply with
my hammer and sex of origins, but I
cannot apply what I am perfect in your
meaning is. I merely flail, asserting
again and again my muscles and
imagination soaring upon my dreams
of you. Making you the giant object of
my relentless quest for the answers in
myself. It seems we never wander without
you, but we do stray far from home. True
love has an answer though, It is.
Please, come with me
where there's no path,
where we are not to go,
where God, through bishops
bid us hide
and Eve's naiveté,
under piles of sodden leaves,
behind walls of fallen wood,
let desire be our beacon,
conscience be our guide.
Now wend our way
through brambles and forests,
through fumblings and bumblings,
through miles and trials
of unexplored and
forbidden, forbidding ways.
Where we end,
I cannot say,
even bishops sometimes shrug,
for they, too, once were young.
I don't know if
we'll finish together,
or what we'll find,
or even if we'll know
when we've arrived
but once we go
there'll be a trail
for others to follow
and on our way
we may not even find each other,
but, let's hope, we'll find ourselves.
I'm trying to jumpstart my life again
But my battery is dead
Without you there's no spark
My dreams have all gone flat
Since you hitched a ride to the Other Side
I'm stranded in the middle of nowhere
Without a map
Where do I go with no direction?
I always knew where I was going
When I was with you
Now I'm lost and out of gas
You were my only oasis on
This long journey home
My faith in life has temporarily
Been towed to the junkyard
And my mind is flooded
With memories of you.
to symphonic halls
which sing out
and in countless
in voices from
the virtuous sounding
keeper of the keys
Angled against the edge of an ebony sky, the trees huddle as though in robes of black,
and fireflies, like tiny lighthouse beacons, blink on and off in the heavy air;
stars as distant buoys are sprinkled through the vast, seemingly liquid space above
while I, I hold this single moment as a chalice to my lips,
listening to the intermittent buzzing of the crickets' song.
I wait to see if you will appear on the porch
in a pool of saffron light,
letting the screen door bang behind you
like a reality check,
or as a crack resembling the crack of doom.
Heat lightning strikes, flickering.
Do you see the stars as I do?
Would you try to hold one on a lifted hand?
You have come from a far shore
on a ship I cannot even see,
and you anchor beside me on the grass
trying to find, for a moment at least, the course we both once knew.
Unlike you, the stars don't change, no more than do the arching silhouettes
of stranded trees, earthbound as though marooned on an island
declaring there to be no state of grace.
Tonight I prefer their stately company to the unexpected tracking of your course
that seems to me to be a pirate's thrust,
not a civilized adventure.
in wild abandon,
hides white-tailed deer.
cross my path.
As I sit quietly
on the stump a doe
with frisky fawns.
At dusk as I wait
in silent expectation
a buck may surprise me
with his grace.
you seem to be hiding.
I reach out
but cannot quite
touch your hand,
look but see only tracks
where you once walked.
Are you waiting
for a quiet moment
to surprise me?
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