Tuesday, January 18, 2011

A Breath for Brief Intervals

do not take more than you receive
spend just a moment to breathe
watch the sliding shapes shift past
for a second let down the mast
feel the wind sail alongside your shoulder
watch the tip of the fire before you see it smolder
keeping hugging her close because you know someday
you may never again hold her.
Sit on the park bench for the rest of the night
your youthful smile will still be there
but under the weight of a young adult with many a care
remember the summer sunset
because of your scattered memory you are sure to forget
gaze out at the wild field behind the house
before an opposing edifice rises to break the back of every leaf and mouse
spend each fruitful night even eating the skin
do not forget that toothy grin
for it too is part of a whole
give back what you borrowed and burn what you stole.
It will all be gone too soon
so in the meantime dance and then croon
let your voice dance in another
let your dreams bleed into your sister and brother.

A limber body called life rouses from its bed
so dry your eyes and only cry once for what you know is dead
gold weighted ships line the shore
you will send them to their paths and make them for what they're for
While pointing out places on the map
avoid the thankless trap
of letting the wind blow by
without stopping to hear its passively delightful cry.

Sunday, January 9, 2011

Bard of the Dark

Burning holes through in the photos
where two portals would dip into
an upright cranium
emanate shining youth and passion
which we will all lose
gain and watch the cycle
play itself again.
Sounds and movements to bring to life
an outstretched dancing hope;
caught between ourselves and the thin membrane
that keeps our hands
from feeling what really
lies in the dark.

Tumbling Columns and Lonely Bas-Reliefs

Lay to rest the suckling baby
gnawing at history's teat
at the bed of red rocked ruins,
swept by the sand
sprawled across the continents
like a hazy blanket
that stings my eyes.
is the child to grow old
and crumble the statues
so delicately placed beneath its
smooth feet.
Its mother is blind,
father deaf
and his vision struck with
sights of melancholy
veins pumping round cells of passion.

Save the dangling baby!
He hangs by coarse cloth threads
from a worn Doric remnants
lost and sought by centuries of sticks in sand
and chariot cars side by side.
Or watch him fall!
Some say to not let his toothless smile
fool the eye of the moral innocence inside
for the child
(so they say)
is a dirty old man
mad and too muddled with
five thousand years of plague.

The Passionate Machine

Adjourning from the splashing oil,
burnt hands
and heavy eyes
I come to the paper to breath
rather than blow my nose.
For even though the cold has beget a cold
my lungs do not breath heavy
as now I can breath freely
with a blank sheet
to fill with the maladies
beget by a hand that shakes,
waiting for the pen to fill
its space;
even when filled
with the promise of standing rigid tomorrow
like a tree cutting its own branches
so the machine can only
sputter at its trunk
in a fit of motionless excess.

Weight of Dust

Pulsing in the back of a long chain
the weight of memory
brings me to a silence
leading my eyes
back to the pinpoint figure
standing with arms at the side.
Memory fail me now
I may plead but
streaming film of days past
leaves me pushing over
the jagged rock in front of me.
Watching a video
back and forth;
the stains of a sepia summer haze
I blush to match the warm red colors
in every sunset wherein I recall a shadow.
Comfortable on the same two feet
facing forward between the grass and
an unfortunate entanglement
I have stared straight at before.
It pleases the dust on the edges
entangling the corners of this
weightless chain
to blow off the small pieces of
the dirt left by the heat emblazoned season
Weightless maybe,
but dust does carry its own burden
when a cough pushes its way
out of my mouth and into the air.

Smoke into the Horizon

Carrying my mind off to the coast,
moss covered and shell struck
in the midst of a misty cover
bound to blanket me with a comfort
even far from my bed behind
that white creaking door.
A sweet face with little
lines that run around the edges of the eyes
may be what I need,
dreaming up dances in my mind
searching for a figure to
put into a cloud shrouded picture frame.
To amuse the idle conscious pauses
makes for melancholy that lifts
my lips and pushes
the tips of my teeth
to break forth a hissing sigh
which is sure to float away into the moonlight
like smoke into the horizon.