Tomorrow, last year

tomorrow, last year
your voice thawed
my still heart

a breath held for
a lifetime was released
into what I said

and tomorrow, last year
you reached through
the veil to touch me

to waken what had
overslept deep within
my soul's lonely bed

our hearts recognized
what our eyes could not

they heard what our ears
dismissed and discerned
what our lips failed to explain

tomorrow, last year
stripped away the
shields we held

little safety we
wielded to bear the
pain of the past

for tomorrow, last year
we didn't need
shelter from the rain

the refuge we had
sought we had found
in each other at last

Tree routes

they never desired
to be ornamented
with suspended
lifeless bodies

nor did they wish
to surrender their
own carcasses so
bodies could serve
as examples in a
more convenient locale,
their arms piercing
others' skulls

their fate is always
of that tied to us
ascending ladders
rising higher to
cloudy oceans and
smoldering quasars

but ladders possess
both directions and
tunnel deep into
depths overlooked by
everyday eyes and cares

deep into solidity
where pressure and
wait marry dismal
with brilliance

either ladder end
bears its own reward
and what is sought
can be found in both
depths and heights

only from mines
deep within can be
found gems adorning
crowns on high

and ladders are
climbed to and fro
as lungs inhale and
blow away collected
perceptions of existence

that is their fate
to be entwined and to
entwine what always
will be with what has
always been:

the germ and its
many coils flowing
down a stream of
dreamt toils

Gender rolls

the great baker man
turns out cake in pan

stirring together
one part carbon
to three parts water
and a pinch of
calcium, sodium,
and the spice of life

cracking open shells
and pouring out souls
to whip into frothy
means of existence

placing into wombs
a batter of body to
bake for many moons

but the sweet dessert
always comes last
the revelry and feast
after the long dull fast

though the baker
turns out budding
bodies from piping
hot female kilns
the buns aren't
ready to serve until
they've been buttered

and only a bun
can know when it's
ready for that
and find it's place
among the giant pan
of gender rolls

Bottle in a genie

a loan, just a loan
can you throw
me a bone

this needs gold
and that needs...

silly me to think coins
come down from
hanging gray skies

or are found in
the morning...

do they even
accept these bits
and pieces deep
within my chest

always the same
their wish's name
always why they came
lame the game

a loan, simply a loan
was there anything
you have thrown

as you can tell
I am in my own...

help! if you can
as I tire of the throngs
rubbing my belly
as though I was
from some eastern land

I wish they'd see
the genie is already free...

sort of, because I
swallowed the bottle
a bit too much to drink
you might say

and there's the loan,
a mere loan
for though I'm
out here on my own
in the bottle still
lays my wishbone

Gooseboots

'twas an article,
a simple piece to
wear when the world
had worn enough

away from you
my station passed
into a waning horizon

the sun dimmed
the view, blackened
blue flooding an
upturned empty bowl

spilled out the
moments onto its
canvas we stretched

over the bones
of our life to splatter
with oiled faith and
watery figments

flowing over
forgotten stubble
uncut from dull blade

the necks of many
waiting their penned
turns, rabbit hearts
leaping in their breasts

from the seconds
still to tick within
a few given minutes

comprise an end
to the last of walks
for which these brief
boots were fashioned for

Scenes from the Blue Garden: part 9

Off to school

chilly the wind of
early spring mornings
imploring rosy
cheeks on siblings and I

too long a walk
though it seemed
down a pebble paved
road the length
of our homeland

past neighboring
pens which caged
the animals that
captured a child's
avid curiosity

but there were
other things to
tend to then

finding our way
through tear soaked
views brought on
by the sting of cold

in the waiting
for a bluebird
with a giant yellow
body to carry us off
to the limits of
our silly little minds

in the waiting
we burrowed down
digging earthen chairs
in sides of the ditch
and ducked below
the cold wind's grip

in jacket or coat
huddled down we
waited to hear the
advancing diesel
engine roar and the
squealing brakes of
the giant yellow bluebird

for in there at least
was a bit of heat
enclosed from the
chilly morning wind

Washer woman's words

where be mer
bottle of bluing

ye know, da one
tat's used to treek
yer eye in seeing
yellard stained
linens as pristine
fresh snow white

for tat bottle
with its little
ground mineral
will brighten dis
sullied soul tat's
been dragged down
to da gutter view

for tat bottle
wit its powdered
azure dust will
turn dis ragged
tone to petals
tossed in angelic
flight e'er white

treeky viewing
a hue from bluing

trading brittle
torn pages past
lessons from da
looking glass,
for glamorous tale
behind pale veil

trading veins
unfolding paths
once traveled,
for salty flats
wit aimless reaches
and barren fonts

eyes surmise
what's seen aherd,
dat's all dat's said
so a bit of
bluing for deir
viewing and need
not know true
yellar deir pristine
white as snow

January 25th

raw space, raw emotions
jagged words and devotions

shutter once, shaken thrice
bumping into you was the spice

you apologized for it too
when my body joined you

"anytime", I softly said
going right over your head

giving me another chance
you spoke volumes in your glance

sigh to that night we missed
to that night we never kissed

Spinal palm