"Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn."
walking through the darkness Lyla
home and wanton yearning purchased
semblance of the ordered palate
dirt and toes prehensile shaking
maledictions shared in whispers
bon vivant of naught and nothing
turning ghosts by pen to pictures
her late thoughts to chutes and ladders
hemingway and sinclair lewis
baggage claim and strident laughing
tricksters of the summer solstice
laid in layers lining Lyla
From dreams of iridescent blue,
she woke to damp and cinder-block,
the stone-gray sunset smeared across
a pane upon a window by
a door with broken lock and splintered wood.
A creaking spring, a bleary glance,
her glasses off a windowsill,
as slippering her feet, she rose
to wrap a shawl around her, and
to walk onto a courtyard looking out.
She waited in the cold and still,
the night before a hazy mess
of cigarettes and alcohol —
and saying “I’ll enjoy this life,
or die, at least, at last, in the attempt –”
A man she didn’t know at all,
came out his door with coat and boots,
and weary as a dying breath
trudged off and up the hill and towards
the distant town a half a mile away.
There was no warm to calm her soul,
just unrelenting hollowness;
but yet, a silent fixed intent
to find again the dream so brief
of cobalt blue and one love’s luxury
the birds feed her —
although, she hands them little bits of food.
the process: mutual.
but maybe you don’t know of what’s
not spoken quite the way she does
(i know i don’t)
the gulls know her —
the only one they recognize like that,
a type of wordless grace,
but maybe you have never seen
her like, i know i rarely have
a ministry to all who move with wings.
an act of love
You know her angry, critical;
A person certain, full of pride –
But once, there was another her;
From time long past and distance wide —
She loved a boy, who was her heart;
But he, at last, his love denied –
He left her on what should have been
The day that she became a bride
So now you see her as she is,
Someone who always seems outside;
Who keeps her distance from the team,
With comments both acerb and snide
But if you knew her as I do –
The love that never died inside –
You’d know that hearts are full of fields
Where flowers grow
That none
Have spied
(“Hearts Are Full Of Fields” – 6-30-2015)
she didn't agree with their solution, so
she was said to
misunderstand the problem.
but hers was not a problem of understanding,
- or sympathy -
but rather of an
excess
of
both.
for her,
only individuals
had any real meaning,
other things being
sort of
hypothetical.
a life can be a welter of confusion,
but a heart pure, as was hers.
she loved her friends
she loved her enemies, and
she loved the autumn because
of the smell of
fallen leaves and
wood burning in fireplaces
and
new spelling books
he chose the way of loneliness,
to feel wide open spaces,
to hide his many-sorrowed heart,
and guess, from people’s faces
the things that they might hide, as well;
by shore, on hill, in gym —
he chose the way of loneliness,
or maybe,
it chose him
He was a certain way, you know the type,
A born peacemaker he —
As everywhere were contests, wars, and strife,
He kept on, placidly —
Unnoticed by the popular,
Unheeded by the crowd:
A wibbly sort of Oliver
Who never spoke too loud —
He had a certain dream (you know the one)
Of color wheels and glass.
Of holding hands in carnivals of gold
(It never came to pass)
Another type of genre mystery
Who merits no analysis,
But who would never stir the pot,
Or turn a wheel
That wasn’t
His
