Moscow

the howling wind
made us shutter
when we were two
blades among the
green that stretched
further than the

horizon after horizon
the thistle rolled and
bounced in the flat
and infinite emptiness
with the brutal beast
of torrent as cold
as its native Siberia
being its only

friend, to find
that other bent
and broken hollow
stem, which whistles
the same tune
out exposed and
bare in the barren
lot allotted to the

poor that have
poured out it all
and gather very little
in dust and sand
and scorching thirst
their search is gone
in zephyr flights
as they have already

found and lost
the box should read
for she knows she
can't hold on to the
picture frame forever
she can't always know
the neighbors' kids
names, let alone her own
or the other things
she has earnestly known
but she can listen
to the wind chime clang
in the sun, on the porch

Bold blues

bold, these blues
that bear the cold
that burst forth
in winter's hold

the bright and
brave starry eyes
who gaze off
in simple guise

wee, these ones
so short and low
hugging ground
to miss the blow

and in these
the striking hues
hope springs forth
from bold, these blues

March, in time

leaf squares off with
wrapper on the pavement
sparring like their robin
counterparts who
have returned with
the waxing daylight

through windows
I watch the blackbirds
that are really blue
in the right light
they ebb and flow
from tree top to
the lowly gutter
trickling with a drink
for them to sip from

though through windows
I watch these things
I see in front of me
the Monday before
when I was soothed
by the beating pulse
of an IV machine's pump
as it echoed through
a tube, the side bar
of a hospital bed

twas a mantra
laid upon my heart
chanting relief is
on its sweet way
and the tones of
the heartbeat and blood
pressure monitor sounded
the bells of mountain
temples within my psyche
signaling the end of
this superficial ritual

but the present slaps me
letting me know this
has passed and gone
and reminds me
to keep an eye on the
blackbirds that are really blue
as their tides will
pass away too

Unconscious shadows

those visions of last night
only seen in nocturnal sight
and the conversation I had spoke
within the dark before I woke

a spirit of earth
some see as mother of nature and nurture
I was to prove her existence
from a pile of her bones

the bones I had tossed to a hungry sink
only the night before

and this spirit threatened
the bare flesh of my chest
with obsidian claws of crow

from the anger of the roasted bird
I ate only the night before

there I was laid out
upon a primeval wooden table
and the spirit, with her
dark downy cloak and
abysmal eyes, lamented
for the loved ones I had lost

but I was weary of condolences
and tired of people telling me,
"I'm sorry for your loss"

I explained to her
they were never mine to begin with
for mine is not known in the language of love