snow-cherries

the queens of meritocracy, who sing
of shortness in the lifespan, and the fall
of capillaries once encumbered flush,
the way that halls for Kostelanetz filled,
when everyone who knew was frozen red.

hereby the wind, afraid it might be late,
takes bits of snow with it, to reassign
a crinoline escape to stalk and stem,
a baritonal escapade in frost,
and caravan of jesters in the snow.

drank the shadows

the night came fast, and so they drank the shadows;

then woke to light that stung and scratched their eyes.

a gallery now stripped of all its paintings,

uncluttered with the evidence that they

had ever changed or terraformed surroundings.

the day had poured into each crack and crevasse,

the floor seemed new again, as though to say

“you had your fill of dark, the spring is coming:

come feel the possibilities and go.”

but they no longer heeded to the light,

but lingered just to taste the last few dregs

snowshots

you took your camera out into the snow
with joy upon your face of twenty-three,
and laughter swelled upon the fields in drifts
and rang across the hollow through the smoke

from chimneys up and down the backyard way,
as images of icicles and frost
and crystalline embodiments you shot,
in days before you’d ever know how good

a picture was, until developing
the film, you’d see if any was worth much
of anything worth keeping then for viewing,
it all was feel, and happenstance, and chance,

just like a snowfall in a southern winter,
just like a day of laughter in the snow,
just like a memory that’s slowly fading,
your words, your face, your laughter, and your voice


Photo credit : ID 49849775 Talashow | Dreamstime.com

I Wish That Things Were Simple

I wish that things were simple, but they’re not.
For life is like a test, a spelling bee:
With one mistake, we see our fortunes fall,
And slump back down to rue our own disgrace.

Or maybe, we’re delusional. That works.
The world is always someone else’s fault:
As stand there, our rectitude intact,
Among the ruins enemies create.

Or we can be aggressive in our ire:
And reach and grasp and grab and steal and take
Whatever we might hanker for, or want,
And maybe think, “Well, circumstance be damned.”

For we can wanton lust, or wanton hate,
And we can take our time or run around,
And try to make thinks simple for our minds
By falsifying evidence of eyes.

I wish that things were simple, but they’re not.
The good and bad are mixed up in this world,
And it is hard to separate them here:
All we can do is see things
As they are

my imperfections i place in your hands…

my imperfections i place in your hands.
with you, i can’t idealize myself –
for what i am, i open up to you,
and strip away far more than simple clothes

connection & acceptance are my hope;
to feel you’ve brought your whole life here with you,
and that you may, on knowing who i am,
move off, in finding me not to your taste

but here, withal that may be put at risk
i ask your imperfections show, as well

the best days

the best days that we ever have and know
are just so many heartbeats in a span

we have to form a story from such things
as are to hand within our daily dance

a thousand different ways i could have said
the things that now lie choked amid the weeds

and you, a steeple, torn from off a roof
aren’t meant to point the way you’re pointed now

the best days are a tangle on a bed
and laughter so ridiculous it hurts

but you must feel the hot earth on your feet
and give away the things you never had

Here, Again

I close my eyes, and you are here again.
Your hand upon my shoulder, just a boy;
As though by magic, wrinkles smoothed away,
And graves released their peaceful, sleeping ones.

Your voice I hear, the ringing baritone,
The joys of harmony, and hearts content,
Though labor and the struggle, even then,
Put creases on a face not far from youth.

Your aftershave – I feel it even now –
The way my nose would tickle when up close,
The eyes that swept your family, then the front,
Of trying to, believing in, the good.

My eyes are open now, and all is still.
The sun is slanting in, and moving by;
And here, again I’ll feel that love is best
When it appears unbidden and aware