Wednesday, April 15, 2009

last full show

The old movie house by the town square
still remembers you,
from a decade’s cadence
of topgrosser movies
and blockbuster shows;
you, with the boyish grin
and the killer swagger;
the caramel eyes, the caramel hair
and the caramel toes;
the projectors will run your caramel lips
one last time, for its final show—
tomorrow they will come in droves
popcorn in hand,
just to see you go

Sunday, April 12, 2009

wild child

woke up to the morning sun; kissing me warm
i can still feel it—little tingles that run like rivers—
on my belly, my neck and my arms;
telling me to cartwheel out my window,
and ride, a dragonfly passing-by;
to see my happiness reflected on wispy wings
that chart the colors of the sky;
to hear my heart stutter as we flutter
through the wind, touching grass wet with dew;
to feel my ears go numb, in anticipation of a slowing due—
a mid-air transfer—free-falling, tumbleweeding;
landing softly on a butterfly’s velvet wings;
to taste my excitement as we glide; oh, to glide—
hair matted with dirt, and twigs, and leaves that dried—
into the sun; wings flapping, gliding into the sun:
to stare at it, and not go blind;
to stare at it and not go blind

Thursday, April 9, 2009

crimson flowers | a rhyme before bedtime

tiptoe, tiptoe;
sneak, quietly;
duck, hide—
dive when you need to

her lair, its there—
loud with her snoring;
and chicken-a-clucking, too

slither, slither;
like her hair slithers;
into her pit, silently—
creep oh-so-quietly

careful, careful;
take care, oh, do take care,
not to wake the monster
beautiful in her slumber

or you will regret,
terribly regret;
once those eyes awake,
all bones will break

unsheathe your dagger;
slit her neck, a flowing
darling crimson flower—
but first, hear them hiss :

her hair, her hair—
hiss, hiss; hissing
hissing in her chamber;
hissing, plucking

plucking, plucking
plucking at the chicken—
cluckity, cluckity
cluckity cluck, cluck

plucking at the chicken

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

in the tender light, in the blistering heat

You once wrote, in ink and paper
that i am your missing piece;
that i make the puzzle—
your puzzle, complete;
in bold, curling, romantic strokes
your heart bled those words

for me, for me

for you i won’t write, in ink and paper—
for you we’ll have lovely dinners;
lovely walks, lovely talks;
in the tender light of the moon,
in the blistering heat of the sun;
i’ll hold your hand

i’ll hold your hand

and together, we’ll have alchemy;
we’ll write on our very own—
skin, flesh and bones—
the lone word we tried, forming
with our minds; curling with our lips--
at the outset of this journey:


just lovely