The Song of my Heart

A blanket, wrapped, did fall
from over wicker cage—
a basket or a golden carry-all—
and with it flew an ebon rage
upon the doves of heaven.
They pirouetted, by and by
yet though we cried for thoughts to leaven
they flew on until the sun between them sighed,
us standing pinioned beneath
daggers flown beyond their sheath.

Cockamamie Celestia

Credit comes where credit’s due, and laws—

well, laws come twitterpated before the thaw

of old white men in old white suits;

They (omniscient, omnipresent, indescribable they) did it first to Galileo

then to poor sweet Mattimeo

(better known as Bob the bloviating, argle-bargling snob)

with the theory that he chose to lob:

Balls.

You laugh, but it’s quite a simple fall—

the world, the moon, the stars, and all the drumming racket between

it’s all just balls of a rather vibrant sheen.

Given, he colored himself early with the choice

of Al Gore for Internet’s first modest voice—

a tubular choice for a system clogged

with indecision blogged

for people! for substance!

Well, he’s nothing but a nuisance

some little boy crying wolf

when the world was playing golf—

but as the rest claimed ends of ice and fire

(destruction, not the Game of Thrones) desire

telescopes were found to spy The Bearded Man align

the perfect shot from His designs

too late to cry for all their hope

that God was not a golfing man or replicating trope—

Pool’s the game on which He set His celestial roots.

The Gunsmith’s Song

I narrowed the world with scorching air,

a cave I stalked into earth’s bosom lair

echoing with its iron song

where no foreign hand belong.

I weighed my lungs in the choking air,

it laid the foundation bare

with the sinking burden of its flight—

a flash of light, and swift goodnight.

Years drift through the sulfurous after-air

Buried at the point of its timeless snare

Bent, unbroken on its stark crescendo

Lost to a brother I should never know.

(And for the more fantasy/full book inclined, don’t forget that there’s just one more day to get in on the FLASH SUMMER SALE currently involving The Hollow March, the first novel in my Haunted Shadows series. Don’t let it pass you by!)

High School Reunion

Everyone gathers to hear the poets preen

on the source of inspiration:

how the athletes ran into

glass cases;

how the singer overcame

dead man’s notes;

how the clown croaked

on a moped’s swerving laughter;

how the skin of truth

peeled from our bones

as the noise of the streets

drowned our jail cell march.

Huddled over coffee and secrets

we agree only those without

stand alone.

That their haikus

lack the character

of conviction.

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The Plagiarist

Welcome to National Poetry Month, everybody!

The Plagiarist

Worlds lie bare

before the intellectual

the pen moves but

slow before the thoughts—

easier still to drift

into another night sky

and pluck the stars

for pocket-borne

pages academics

snare and preen

with words of ascension

no thought to the have-been

only the where-to

no acknowledgement

for services rendered

merely an old book

full of new stars

on which the autograph

is still drying.

Anonymity

Searching for anonymity

is dancing nude along desire’s paths

white moon to black sun.

A month in the whole enterprise

drifts like paper cutouts

mad men strung between the rafters

leaving sadists to admire

photographs of life

and naming them poetic

for the exposure

it never gave them

the memory of heat on bare feet

as he submerges.

Psalms She Sang

She stands with the leaves

gathered about her knees like piling waves

receding back to the rocky side of the driveway,

fingers tinted the same sacred blue as the sky.

 

Trees have bared themselves for her

and she stops her labor to watch

September’s cold flicker on their boughs,

palms open to the sky.

 

Spires tinged amethyst, reaching

for the puckered kiss which taunts

the picture of an impatient smile

black flies harrow.

 

I remember stepping off the porch

slim light trails in the rainbow mess of symbols

which sought to scream her precarious footfalls on fresh earth,

She and I, and the setting sun.