Snapshot: The Morning After

She walked out of the trailer
Into frigid Winter air
And left the boy she’d met last night
Alone and sleeping there

She heard the softish crunching
Of the snow beneath her feet;
And pulled her jacket tighter
To keep in her body’s heat

She walked to a convenience store
A half a mile or so
Where she bought her some breakfast
And a coffee cup to go

And as she headed back
She thought about the night she’d had
And said: you know this growing up
It isn’t that half bad

On An Old Abandoned Hospital

“I’s” unknown,
So many “they’s”,
From untold places,
Bygone days,
In rooms for healing,
Pass away:
We know this.
But we just

With our contumely
Carry on,
We’re here —-
What matters who is gone?
We think
It isn’t real, beyond,
A faint remaining
Crust

An echo, an
Enablement,
A bill of life
That’s elsewhere spent;
We needn’t hear
What there was meant,
Nor sit down to
Discuss

The primitives
Who came before,
Who lay in here,
Or built this door,
Whose tears and blood
Call from the floor,
“All dust is made
  Of us —“

The Pines

Among the pines we walked; we were in love –
The sun was streaming through the boughs above –
Our hands were clasped together by our sides
Out in the place where happiness resides

And even breathing did intoxicate
Us, stopping constantly, to share a kiss;
The moments between moments seemed so great –
The shining sun looked down on all of this

Just peeking through the pines to see us there –
Two soon-doomed lovers, as he knew we were:
So thoughtlessly we wandered, me and her,
Two lovers in the morning forest air

And though, this sonnet now, I may enshrine:
He pines the most, who lives but to repine


 
(“The Pines” – 7-21-2015)

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

Snapshot: Grocery Store Singer

She sang,
Where she thought nobody could hear her;
The sound,
A low and bluesy sort of thing

He heard
As she was walking by, and humming;
Then stood,
Entranced, to hear this woman sing

She did
Not see him there, for she was shopping;
He froze —
For he remembered, clear and long,

Those times
Of music, crying in the darkness,
When all
That he could feel
Was in a
Song