Snow and window

spittle of frozen elders
dribbles down the cold
cheeks of the window
the glass remembers its
burning liquid youth
and fondly reminisces
while it sags in the
weathered sashes

the bones creak in
the walls and ceiling
as the building sighs
in age and cold and pain
northern nightmares
pierce the skin as
harpoons of Inuit
whalers dive deep
through ice shelves

the invisible beasts
leap from limb to limb
in the trees overhead
and rush the ones
that line the lane that
leads to the fields and
the fading horizon

Sown seeds

in porous earth the seeds have been sown

a winter wait to see what will grow

the chosen fruit not normally sought

to so easily ripen, too easily rot

the will will wait within the ground

in the freeze and shell be bound

a patience must for the time we wait

'til life emerges through a warmer gate

which leaves will pierce an April sigh

will they offer offense or be an ally

will their tendrils invade to creep and choke

a bane to all of what was spoke

will their buds blossom and be many

will their fruit differ to nourish plenty

the seeds are sown, the deed is done

time is fleeting in the southern sun

Bee a thought

if thoughts were bees
the hives would all be empty
that sit upon their vulturous shoulders
peering out into the desolate sea
they've created in their honeyless lives
with their empty hives

the monsters and bears
have licked the bowl clean
and demand more and more

down you paint your face
before the inflated giants
who radiate with chemical smiles

oily cake is all they serve
at their red born banquets
of which hogs will have none

what they won't sweep under
the rug or waves of  the sea
all they've milked of bee pee

they cheer their army of marionettes
into public squares or out their orifice
to overlook what now is naught
so soon the death of bees
the death of thought

Dear November

In case you didn't remember,
it's after Halloween.
We should have thrown out
all the rotten pumpkins by now.
It appears, however, that all
those October fears have
bled into your time
and still wildly roam free.

In case you didn't remember,
your time is for gathering.
It's for making food that
has been anticipated
during all the other months.
It's for taking stock in
what makes life worth living.
In other words,
it's for thanks giving.

In case you didn't remember,
those nightmares
should be behind you.
The ghosts and cobwebs
should've been all swept away.
We need to make room for
turkeys and cranberries,
even presents for Christmas day.

In case you didn't remember,
get over it November.

Boom!

it's a churning magma
that restless burn that steals sleep
a relentless grinding stone
whose friction steadily
raps at the door of rage
biding for Vesuvius
to silence Pompeiish bickering
hoping for those atoms
to split again, and again
and then...
the smoke standing tall
the collapse of the wave
the drain of the red
from the cast iron tub
the scattered lives
the motionless knives
the opening of the door
and exiting
the exhale

After these words

we've hung a mobile of blades
over our future's crib
just hope the strings our strong
rest easy though under
those suspended swords
as terror and danger
and pain and agony always
lay at the foot of the bed
or under it
we knew this early on
when we signed on
to this fucked up party
some call life
others won't admit to it
while still others have
snorted all the snow and
already jumped
out the window
these words may ramble on
as this journey so often does
over paved and muddy roads alike
through smoke filled days
and crystal clear nights
only after we've finished
can we begin again
only after we've
squirmed at the sour taste
of disgust and displeasure
can we revel in sweet honey
if there's any left
so break out your remedies
and swallow them down
the lights have already been
turned off
and we wait in the dark