Tweet That

Sparrow beaks tweet ticket-ee tee tee tee

Yer mate tweets back, “Impeach the dude”

And all the kerfluffle of sham and shatter

Nattering a morning’s cuppa jo unsweetened

Enough to make you hate your neighbor or

Honk your horn at a red light to waken her, 

Lap-staring, brown-haired comatose waif.

 
But I read somewhere that choice cuts the

Day in two, yours and mine, theirs often 2

Late 2 make 2 more light seconds matter.


Close your eyes, blink twice, and it’s over

By the next exhale’s end, paused like ice

As you draw the next breath inward ho and

So it goes, so it goes and so it go, go goes.

Saying Good-bye: Ten for Today

A deep melancholy weaves itself inside a house leaking in 

the first cool night of October. 

It shadows the shades with daylight endings 

with no thought to warmer, longer days. 

It’s a passing of sorts, the dying season. 

The year’s swan song in golden ochre and chestnut hurrahs.

 
Only this first cold day, a day where I search for socks 

in a squeaky disused drawer overflowing unmatched orphans, 

endings haunt the costumed furniture. 

Almost Halloween, though none know it’s Halloween inside. 

And only I know my mismatched socks stretch 

hodge-podge high up my booted shins.

 
These and many others are fall’s secrets, 

hidden under leaf piles and broken relationships. 

I’m sorry to see some go. I’m sorry. 

Only spring light may reveal a return on investing 

in you all these years, but only if you count it out– 

the season of us has dried up and gone. 

Eostre

image

A March morning, I last saw her,
Jade in her eyes,
Mossy fingered stare,
As she tiptoed through my garden.
And her long veil draped her silhouette,
Leaving traces among the kale,
Her lips, the red of their veins,
Her breath, their gathered tears.
I welcomed her home and watched.
From my kitchen window, I saw her,
The flash of steel blinding,
Hitting the sun’s face upon her blade
As she split the day.

It was just a dream…

  

Credit:  http://s3.amazonaws.com



Softly now a wind swept plain threads the dusty sky
in tapestry’d landscapes open wide in an endless eye,
for who comes a’spin trailing cyclonic tear stained anger?
A dream, it was, a dream and only a dream.
The bone rumblings nauseate my awakening.
Fist pummeled popping despair explodes in fracture;
my joy is hiding, darkened in a webby cervical corner.


I awoke to the morning’s whistling words; 
my feet were cold, fallen free of blanketed body heat. 
Spring came early, opened prematurely, and so left; now
the returning cold deceives, rankles a ramshackle house, 
its half way adults of changing complexion, doors open wide.
They pass and return like the shoreline soaked sand,
intermittent, persistent and constant synchronous rhyme.


The words of my awakening were mere warnings.
Almost over, I squeeze between staying and going
come and gone, keeping me presently here, now by the by
jammed in by the leaves that fill my window’s blind view.
The green bleeds through me and approves noddingly,
quivering its reply in jittered tenuously ticklish goading:
Come out to the world, connect and extract its comfort.


I am a lonely laughing over it runner.
My feet, bare, exposed, never but lightly touch the pavement,
their steps imperceptibly driven past the crowds’ avoidance,
padding by in silent wide eyed stare, solemn mouthed,
a hasty reproof in the reading for the uninitiated.
I told him I never once felt enough a part of this world,
not enough out of it either and I meant it then as now.


Running steamed skin trails scents of the night’s visions.
Those words–never…enough…–circulate behind my shades,
blinking the sweat from the lids into the skin crease burn,
not remembering if I said them, actually uttered the words.
We were just talking or texting, smoke in the sage room,
grainy air or fog or hail, obscuring our voices in gassy ice.
There I told him, I never once…never…felt…, it was a dream.


Spring Reprise

image

Credit: https://www.google.com/search?q=finch&client/

Who stirred the flock of tittering, flit-footed finch flecked in winter’s burrowed stains brown and beige, a creamy crown distinct among peers assembled among the weedy fields and woodland edges?

A rogue among them, dressed in greedy golden coats of late summer’s stolen glints, gallantly arrogant in his per-chic-oree to a frenetic furrow of mad foragers, frowns from inky brow.

His nest–in spring–already fit, his queen awaiting, while the others peck among the thistle and dream to nestle golden wheat for seed-ful warmth when the heat of late season pairing in pale blue-egg tender caring lingers in hazy heat’s beckoning, he circles once in condescending flutter atop the crowd and darts in great goodbye to lazy longing of life to come.

A single black blink of an upturned unctuous eye winks in return, his bony beak enclosed upon a woody pea, exposing shriveled tongue in willed withdraw.

Greater gold yields edge; straw blown fire burns quickly.

A milky corona hangs crookedly, askew, among the feathery reeds on the skull unseen from heights  among the dun of an earthen sky.

March, her equinox anew, changes everything–again.