Lyla

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

One Cobalt Morning

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

birds feed

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

Hearts Are Full Of Fields

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)

love // autumn

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

 

the way of loneliness

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

A Propitiatory Heritage

  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