Poem: Care

 

To enter into

the castle of her mind

 

— a private place adorned

with the illuminated thought

of past centuries —

 

was an adventure

she allowed to few.

 

The gate into

that world of reminiscence

 

— a veil ornamented

with the beauty and vacancy

of a divine smile —

 

was kept firmly shut

to all but the hardy.

 

The key to

that locked-up voice

 

— a brittle stained glass window

etched and impacted

by the meteors of time —

 

was inspiration

affection and love.

 

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Poem: House

 

She always kept olives in a glass jar

In the cabinet above the pantry,

Amid the fluff and dust of decades.  Tar

Paper lived elsewhere, with the iron gantry

For lifting meats, the turpentine and wax.

Everything else she threw in the dark cave

Of the understairs;  all things that would tax

Her strength she threw on the floor, and this gave

The house the appearance of a swallow’s

Nest built from found goods.  But always she had

Irises, quivering on a cold rad.

 

Poem (Lo)ve

 

ecce homo

this Jew ex machina

who’s purloined Pauline

aphorisms

crashed the Whore

of Babylon’s machinery

 

— a sudden stoppage

in the

constant(ine) gears

which had weathered

the (st)orms

of barbarism and buffoonery —

 

died on a tree

say it

(s)aint so

devoid of (e)motion

qui(e)t, silent even

as the public gawked

and prodded

pierced

b(lo)ody hands agape.

Agape! he cries,

Love!

through the tears

renting his b(lo)ody flesh

almost as ba(l)dly

as we have

rented his b(lo)ody

super(ficial) image

through the years

perpl(ex)ed

(conf)used

gored

in the

par(ox)ysm of death

he begged

his go(o)d forgive

those who

(k)illed him

with their fears

 

Poem: Triage

 

Losing a lover is like

losing a limb

or a necessary organ:

take whatever drugs you want

to ease the pain,

it still hurts like hell

in the morning

alone.

 

Taking a new lover is like

another transplant:

the dose of anti-rejection drugs you need

just grows and grows.

And as the skin thickens

it takes a harder push

each time

for the needle’s point to pierce your cover;

and each drop of blood seems redder

and more precious

than the last

until you decide

at last

that the payoff is not worth the pain

and you consign that part

of you

to an oblivion

that is not complete

to a decision that is not whole-hearted

to a diagnosis that hurts

 

like a lover leaving.

 

 

Poem: Before Time

 

In a time

once upon a time

when time was fluid

and not restrained

by time zones

invented for train

schedules

 

in a time before

Columbus tripped over

the Americas,

before Marco Polo

invented China

 

in a time before

the pyramids

and writing

and agriculture

and fire

 

in a time before

dinosaurs and

the time before

the first fish

in a time before

the earth moved

when continents shifted

and mountains lifted

 

before the time

when green algae

was the top of the heap

before the time

when green algae

had an empire

wider than the Romans

or the British

 

before the time

when green algae

gripped both poles

with both hands

before the far away time

when green algae

grew from the heat

of the furnace

that the earth was still

and the under-earth was un-still

bubbling and oozing

through the ground

 

all the time

 

in a time before

asteroids banged the earth

in a regular beat

as a drum

keeps time

in a marching band

 

in a time before

the rocks fell

from the spinning disc of gas

to create the earth

 

before that time

maybe then

I didn’t love you

 

Poem: Memories Are Made Of This

 

filters of memory

crimp images from forgotten

edges.

 

tread carefully

 

down these pathways of the past,

canyon-like corridors,

chasm-sided walls

tiled with jagged notches

of previous wants.

 

tread carefully.

 

Poem: Diner Waitress

 

The waitress at the county’s

favourite luncheonette counter

swings and sings

the songs of the sixties

 

“She walks like an angel,

talks like an angel”

 

jiving and gesturing with the farmers

and truckers and travelers

flashing her eyes

delivering pies a la mode

 

“In Dreams, you’re mine,

All of the time”

 

dancing and prancing to mothers

and all kinds of others

soothing and smoothing

and smooching and cooing

 

“Mashed potato, yeah, yeah, yeah

The mashed potato, yeah, yeah, yeah”

 

passing the work day with nary a cloud

of concern no matter the crowd

that packs in the cafe

each afternoon.