Hippity-hoppity

Those Sundays usually seemed to be an April affair,
unlike the ones I've noticed taking place in March
these years I am now living. 

Those Sundays took us to Moscow,
to Granny's smile and
Grandpa's smoke-wrapped chuckle. 

The newly spring event was mixed
with the sweet taste of milk chocolate,
bitter marshmallow confections,
and sour smelling dyes for various-sized ovals
collected from the chicken nests.

Balance was learned with our tiny hands
using wire dippers to lift the bathing eggs
from bowls of bright colors. 

Wet newspaper print and
white distilled vinegar filled
our noses while Granny and
Mom hovered over us to make sure
the boiled beauties were placed just so. 

Light blue, yellow, pasty pink, and faded green
were hidden under barberry,
in tire swing, and behind the feeder
made into a planter. 

Cousins scrambled to find those colors
awaiting our unsure hands
that would squeeze too tightly,
or throw too hard in the basket,
or tip too far over. 

Warm smiles created by those annual Sundays
always signaled the end of cold times,
certainly something to celebrate.

Key is to cast

nameless keys jingle
in the leather coat pocket

rusty, dingy cogs of a collapsed contraption

reminders of lapsed love, letting loose...

lessons learned

they are tomorrow's mail,
a forgotten token
to send to once kind thoughts,
now doubting disappointment

that Thomas won't
touch this blood
that has flowed
far from its origin

its life is new,
refusing to look back...

refusing to make the same mistakes

it caught the flight
to the distant horizon
with sunflower seed hitchhikers
dropped in its luggage
by its guiding hands

the tag-alongs of promise
tell of days to come

of days cherished
and savored

of days bleeding
from stomach, chest, and eyes

wanted tones drive those devils
to their earthly beds
that no priest could cast out

just as the postman
will cast the dingy cogs
to a past hell, relieving
the leather coat of its heavy burden

His hands are my hands...

Origends

the warm moist soil
lures the little leaves

to emerge from the softened shell

blinding themselves
in the first light

as the roots grow deep

herbaceous stem evolves
to armored wood

and a multitude of arms

those arms take in the orphans
offering shelter to
slither, creep, and flutter

whose arms have we known

whose arms swayed and bayed us

and encased us
as we laid the play

with our elders
and the little leaves

in the warm, moist soil

Sides of the story

 It's true...

 hope and fear entwine,

faces of the same coin,

a payment to the prostitute
who brought you into this world,


It's true...

pain and pleasure are twins,

eternally joined at the hips,

a sacraficial altar for this life,


It is the truth...

lost is the shattered bottle

and found is the granite end...


truth is the belief
in knowing what isn't a lie

Capt. Captive

in sailing through the ocean of moments....

the body of memories we call
life's pasts,

the ship's voyage found smooth
sailing and rough waters alike

away from familiar terms
did this vessel flow

into foreign seas,
unknown and afar

passing islands made
of stark desires

all the time in search
of one consisting of

sweet, sweet alleviation

this vessel will never
take on the liquid that
encompasses and alienates it

for it does not understand,
cannot comprehend

the mixture of moisture
with a mineral
which parches the soul

this oxymoronic journey
has forever been

the dream of a man
dressed in a straight jacket

Java stars

Lay witness to an ultimate view...

of the way things are for me and you

Though we may be
these tiny fleas

in a canine's tangled
fur of celestial lights

and busy we may be
gnashing at dog meat

wanting for blood and nourishment...

that we are blind to stop,

to stop and look,

to look and see...

on our coffee breaks
and amidst the smoke

to see the tinier
than we

swirling galaxies

in our own warm cups
of thick black space

Snow

interlaced crystals
delicately balanced
grasping on to more

interlaced crystals
swirl around
and dance with more

interlaced crystals
so small in size
and grow with more

interlaced crystals
thrown about
colliding into more

interlaced crystals
thick as fog
frozen tapestry of more

interlaced crystals
piling up
to simply and eventually melt away

Phillippy's gift

upon the table it sits
with weight of aged cities...

briefly upon glass it sits

although fluttering wings
shall sweep it away in a glance...

it sits in eternal peace

the body bellows out to
its wide open mouth

colored in envy and ash
to persuade passers by
from their journeys in similar vessels
to pause...

to peer over the edge...

to succumb to the curiosity
of the brim's luring seduction

the glazing, the crazing
the raku-fired splattering of hues

one could fall inside
and find oblivion, perhaps...

or perhaps not
after all it's just a pot

Non-existent days

there's reason why
either you or I
hold to ourselves our own age

for neither can
hold in their hand
from the book of time a page

and bolder yet
I dare to set
the reason for dreamy haze

Linger do we
either you or me
in sought after, non-existent days

whence we came
all are the same
from pool, stars, or master's hand

yet we fight
scream, scratch, and bite
over what's above and below land

true it's said
we lost our head
as it rolled down the forgotten lane

truer yet
it rolls I bet
to rid itself of us and pain

here we sit
in woe and fit
unknowing of wisdom and its ways

worry not
time we had bought
in our search for non-existent days

Sioux Falls today

The Timeless Twirl

sunlit serpents trace
    the edges of a falling leaf,
         which floats to the forest floor...

...inflamed and blushing red,

    the descending leaf slowly turns       

           this way and that, exposing both views               

just as the frail thing almost lands,
        the slight, yet brisk breeze arises
            and carries the leaf further along its way...

...the dance is abrupt and smooth

      the faint wind spins the sanguine petiole,       

              twirling partner's unfurled arm and wrist                

though unseen, the breeze is garbed
        in the delicate patterns it imprints upon
                standing water and breaths captured on glass...

 

...further, it cannot resist to bestow

        its essence upon the whirling leaf        

                  and seals white ice upon the flushed flesh               

completing the kiss of chill,
         the boyish breeze gently relinquishes
                    and lays the leaf upon soil locked in frost

"P" poem

pointless, probably...
this penning pen

possibly probing
peculiar problems

plentiful palettes
of predictable poems

a plethora of peacock
perceptions...

plighting the pottage
of people's perplexities

peering past
personal prisons

perhaps my personality
probes perversely...

how petty

Forget-me-not

you put me in a box standing up
and filled me in with mortar

you worked fervently in slathering
the mud upon my body...

as if time would escape you
or maybe me

I always told you
don't hold on to that you will never keep...

and my advice you wouldn't grasp

you were always good at
ridding yourself of needs
to fill yourself in with wants

my face has yet to be spackled

Do you leave it bare for a purpose?

perhaps when it's faded...
you can truly remember me

perhaps when I am gone...
you will know what I was

Tin Man

Ushered, fateful fusion

he asks me if I'm an angel
that my secret would be safe with him

I tell him that I am as human as he
though not sure how human are we

he wears my skin
and I can read its every word

I have his feet
he has my hands...
we have the one amidst the sands

the one who struck the match
and kindled the fire
in our hearts once again


we drowned in each other's sweat
the night our souls
consumed our bodies

we were fulfilled in finding
the other's pleasure

and our impatient dance
was perfect in all its needs


the numbers halted on the nightstand...

the stars paused their pace to watch...

overcame by our draws
we laughed in disbelief...  and deliverance

absolute contentment in our completion
we have found

Feed me!

In the kitchen I won't be a bitchin'

eating meal after lusty meal
French silk pie, how I love the feel

pudding to pop and tofu terrific
darling I'm a ho for escargot

fruitiness of tart berries,
banana fairies,
and bouncing cherries

all plucked from the garden's loins

and I sing my ode to the doughnut gold
hail the holy fried confection!
'tis a miracle beyond perfection

glaze me in caramel,
then lay me parallel
to the pastries I must bid farewell, gulp

hey it's sugar on my upper lip
not white powder for a super trip

although, I say whoa to cocoa
and bow down in its presence
as a low and humble peasent

or more likely the ravenous beast
musceled and toned to say the least

still, I digress or even digest
in the pantry I am truly blessed

whether it be savory or sweet...
how I  love to eat!