You laid down and made snow angels
from a memory of Your youth;
flinging away purity descended from heaven,
into Your pattern
as You danced in creation.
Clearing away the melancholy mantle
of my mound beneath You,
You designed their outline in Your shape,
each one unique;
fair souls that You set down
in my winter night.
The imprint of Your likeness
You left in my life;
feminine wings spread towards
soft elegance pressed into my humanity.
She is Free in the Sky
To Lisa Free
The river no longer reflects the sky,
but now, a memory.
I dreamt of immersing myself in flowing darkness,
and letting it twirl, anticipating my touch.
The river is deep.
I’ve found out her currents are tricky, and strong.
I may lose every dream I dreamt I could carry with me,
so I pray life’s passage
will join us before her conclusion,
and quench my thirst
in love’s unending satisfaction.
There is no reflection
because the world drowns out the heavens,
although she runs in the night,
slow and steady, towards her completion.
Is there still light in her eyes?
Do they still contemplate eternity’s expanse,
I’m sure she knows is still there?
One day the world will know that it is dark,
and she will shine with so many others,
in glory’s paradise.
To Lisa Free
I’m sure you remember it—the deserted shore
we walked along that spring night;
steps in sand, now imprints in my memory.
Side by side we strolled wrapped in comfort—
life’s burden light on our shoulders,
blanketing us in dreams we still remembered
Steps of innocence we took
soon washed from me,
by the tide that always seems
to ebb and flow, as our seasons return.
The Darkness Held Me as a Child
The darkness held me as a child. I could
only see the city
disillusioned on my wall; an illusion
of carefree superficiality;
the animation of life’s traffic
like the slapstick of my parent’s cartoon.
Dim obscurity was difficult to understand,
but the world’s surrogate
brought comfort with electrifying standards;
figures I tried to identify
by their illustration of enlightenment.
But all I really knew was darkness;
the life of the night.
Seclusion that isolated the issue
from the distress of indifference;
like the cold chills of this child’s fever
consoled with cruelty
by the source that would shine
with the dullness of familiarity,
I rejected as closeness.
my regard for devotion.
The glare shone through more than
windows of a darkened soul
I had confused for security.
The adorations of civilization
are mass-produced and marketed
from a cast of common clay,
and it has always been that way.
We used to liquefy our precious
toil into differing consistencies
and trust in our shiny talismans of gold,
for what was actually broken security.
Now we find our favorite treasures
made from manufactured polymers,
produced by our extreme reactions
to unnatural bonds with the immaterial,
poured into the same depression,
of ethereal virtues we value.
Unending circles surrounding
the vacancy within;
important to us because of their
for more of the same charming fabrications.
Our worthless glory
in which we adorn our heads,
is molded and melts,
even easier, than in ages past.
Practices of the Squash
The scarecrow stands in the pumpkin patch
as the hollow gourds bow in adoration;
wilting in the stillness of the field.
They fashioned him from a tree
and adorned him with silver and gold,
fastening him with hammer and nails
so he would not falter,
as the sunken squash sit on the ground,
with the fear of their faith.
He cannot speak; he must be carried
because he cannot walk.
He can do no harm nor good,
and yet the produce quiver
at the thought that he created them;
tangled vines twisted in community.
The wise crows flourish in the sky
and alight on his crown,
I was most ungrateful for the sunrise,
its intruding streaks through dusty glass,
as enchantment’s dream was still before my sight.
I fancied her in bed last evening,
beneath the city’s neon rainbows,
and was glad, because I was unaware
of midnight’s darkness.
I long for slumber’s surreal vision,
and leave my blinds tightly folded,
wishing to gather wool’s twilight romance,
and cuddle with my daydream, as though evening.
Built From a Memory
Family was an old residence
that my dad and his brothers
tore down to build theirs.
Now only a memory covered
by an overgrown city;
the fruit of progress.
Where was it? Three generations
drive the sprawl,
while the rest of humanity
looks for direction.
It was built, like so many were
back then, out of boards
of irregular lengths that he
and his brothers had to sort
and organize in order
to construct their home.
Not like the rest of the city,
planned out and fabricated from silicon.
It was right about in the middle
of that intersection;
the present crosses our history
at the stoplight
where the cats roam the suburb
miles across from the pruneyard,
it too now scraping the sky.
I’ve had no lover
so I’ve courted my dreams,
asking the man in the moon
for a night with his daughters.
His illumination glares between us,
dimming eve’s twilight,
as one by one they appear
in the distance, just out of reach.
An insanely jealous smile fixed on his face,
he stares at me night after night
hoping I would abandon this idea
for the more tangible realities of the day.
So in my sleep,
I imagine the night when he would not rise,
and gradually they would fall
in stunning radiance towards my world,
as if I could touch, their brilliance.
Nightfall breathes over the face of the deep,
and he stirs, rising and falling,
yearning to make love with the moon.
She woos him with her waning smile
and he longs to traverse the expanse,
as she offers him tranquility,
then mocks him merrily in insanity.
Surging upon his bounds,
he advances then recedes,
pondering the pull of himself
by her gravity;
his efforts distorting her stare
in his memory.
Her light soon sinking in his reflection.
Lampyrid Colliding in A Jar
Memory’s random movement back and forth
contained in fears to be transparent,
days have covered times with mundane dust.
Lightning flickers faint,
confounded and contending with obscure abandonment;
obviously reflecting on the glassy surface of this containment.
Captured in my head;
lid barely twisted so as not to be left ajar,
lightning flashes with its tired wings
flying at fate.
This trial leaves the impression of the proof,
as I’m choosing to believe the unbelievable truth.
After Last Call
Life wandered and stumbled until it lost its way,
like a drunk meandering through a night he wants to forget.
No longer remembering flashbacks unless they hang over his head,
like blinding neon piercing his pain behind his eyes.
He sits, now the dust of death, covering this bar of shallow relationships,
also left behind after last call; a payphone in the hall
used to call a cab
to a room where memories linger between disconcerted sheets,
longing to be discarded in grief’s observance of neglect.
Obscure midnight shadows stretch down a street
to a place of nowhere.
An Amber Reflection
To Lisa Free
Silky smooth ribbons of black frame crystals of hot coffee,
gazing at me in memories now warmed
over like sweet pies from our holidays.
Chestnuts warm with desire, restless with fire,
that I would behold with like satisfaction,
tonight gazing at me in this reflection;
a faded dream in evening’s shadow,
her vision glancing in obscurity’s pain.
Deep and dark, the bitterness of this addiction lingers,
now cold and dry; a stain left on cotton.
It is this amber which causes this thirst
that I can never quench.