Patchwork

Adulthood clings

patchwork to this suit of skin

 

Frankenstein named

and Frankenstein burned

 

an ill-tailored suit

lunatic suitors sewed

 

as clouded eyes beheld

silhouettes beyond the street

 

scissors dancing in the dark

could not return light

 

notions on the periphery:

dreams of what I used to wear.

Crass Costumes Dreams Wore

Deep down in the marrow of costumed bone

lies the lonely bastion where hope might roam

 

she cloaks herself in mercy’s skin,

constructing strength, as warmth, from within

 

scores the walls to scale the rain

before the river dries within the drain

 

hips akimbo, straddling the lands

once stoked and carved by swaying hands—

 

it’s more than stubborn brow,

it’s something less than the weight of a farmer’s plough;

 

yet prisoners don it day by day

with gloved flesh, lest humanity wash away.

One Winter Morning

She woke before me,

straining her brush through aurora strands,

smiling at the pale gown

reflected in the blue-green mirror.

 

When she stretches,

pink melon breasts exposed at the nipple

collect prism dew, drowning

in the throb of rehydrated crystal needles.

 

The vapors of her perfume are scentless,

senselessly caressing the rivers of her eyes

like butterfly winds—fluttering out

from east to west; an oriental song.

 

But the lantern burns—

by night she is radiantly departed:

she lays her head in my lap

and the mascara runs in shadows down my leg.

*Out of season by the title, I know, but I hope you’ve all enjoyed the cool touch of this one all the same…my contribution to what may well be the last, or one of the last One Shot Wednesdays at One Stop Poetry. It has been an honor and a pleasure, everyone. I look forward to visiting you all outside of the linkies though, and to continue basking in your poetry as time rolls on.

Masked Longing

And here it is,

this lonely longing,

for time and place unseen,

unheard, mayhaps unknown,

a future or a past that neverwere,

in Ghouls and Goblins fair,

these Ghosts of Pasts our blood

have never seen,

this laughter, in a sweet

wrapping up the joys of childhood

into a chocolate wrapper, knowing

the eyes, not the face

its monstrous mask a momentary

Madness answered in a thousand faces,

the spirits channeled through the joy

of laughter in the chill,

these golden lives pirouetting to

the Pumpkin Song, all hail

Imagination,

Master and Commander

of mind’s most curious Desires.

* Another poem for the wonderful Monday Poetry Potluck, as hosted by Jingle Poetry, and those lovely poets Amanda and Kavita!