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.

No Longer Light

No Longer Light

Grief is the wind

a fifteen year old heart

as light as thought

when passersby mistook

flesh for summer peach

mind—abstract

before the rosy pinch

she took into a wedding

no one could explain;

grief is in the valley

grief rides the waves

grief is the wind

though her heart—

no longer so light.

Our Corner

A man hangs his hat in that corner

where once we slept together

an ignorant or discontent foreigner

to our dislocated nether.

No one knows what happened

to the images our jury pardoned.

 

It was not always rainy when you came.

There were moments, tucked into our night

we found shelter in our tender shame

knowing neither would ever fight

for all the stories Donne read within

that little corner of our skin.

 

No one forgets—

not even the man, uncapped, in grey

strolling through space time bid offset

frustrated and sweating through the summer decay

praying for the breath that weaves

through the door, but out the window leaves.

The Iron Mask

A Beijing opera mask

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Absent light

We stood before the mirror

To laugh away the night—

To watch the ebon shearer

Carve away all trace of color,

No escape within the muddled dance

Like finest wine tread through the muller

Far and away from time’s own chance.

 

Some men would brawl

To preserve that childhood lie,

Yet all must face the wall—

The iron mask—or die.

They called us children once

They called us children once.

Before eyes were windows

dappled in our fogged night,

dawn proud; unknowing

shadowed play between locked fingers.

They called us children once.

There came silence to the cries

when our skin learned its shape,

the mewling crescendo of fingertips

drumming our answer in the twilit backseat.

 

They called us children once.

Until we danced.

Warning: Winter Ahead. Image by Chris Galford.

* I realize in recent days I’ve not been the most prolific of bloggers. No Inside Idasia. No crafty banter. A brief smattering of poems, a Christmas photo, and little else. Well, I just wanted to let you know that will be changing with the new year. I’ve been out of town and out of state, and between family, friends, and a distinct interest in a little break, I’ve been having myself a pretty good vanishing act. Tomorrow I return to Colorado, however, and Monday things should resume their usual pace.

But with that, I wish you all a happy New Year! The old was crazy enough here – between finally publishing, between the move out of state, between all the kind support and friendly community you all have provided…I think the new will be hard-pressed to top it, honestly, but I wouldn’t mind a good surprise. I hope it has been the same for all of you, and thank you simply for taking the time to swing by my humble little corner of the blogosphere. It has meant the world!

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.

Time, Decisions, and Opportunity

William Murray, Lord Mansfield. Care of Wikimedia Commons.

Consider what you think justice requires, and decide accordingly.  But never give your reasons; for your judgment will probably be right, but your reasons will certainly be wrong. 
~Lord Mansfield

Opportunity is a bird that never perches. 
~Claude McDonald


The flower that you hold in your hands was born today and already it is as old as you are. 
~Antonio Porchia