Dream Smoke

“Death at the Helm” by Edvard Munch

 

the door is unbarred

but you know

you’re not welcome here

turn away now

find some other old man

someone ready

to take the cold bones

of your hand

heed the gesture you make

with that scythe

to follow you into the ends

of the night

set your black cowl and cloak

for another soul

mine isn’t ready for hell

I have yet to

acquire any fear or regret

without them

your powers are thwarted

so leave now

abandon my doorstep before

I grab hold of

your moldering shadow and

make of you

nothing but figment illusory

dream smoke

 

 

From my book Ephemera

Pellucid

“The Crow Tree” by Isabella Shores

whoever called

fight or flight

impulse

instinctive

misunderstands

fear it’s not

neurochemistry

rather it’s mind

overwhelmed

by sixth sense

that alerts

from a burn

in the belly

or the bite

of a cold

that shivers

the soul

 

 

From my book Pieces of Wine

Pathétique

“Tormented” by Helena Wierzbicki

 

in a secret black box
with tarnished lead locks

sit wings that I ripped
from faeries who slipped

through fencing I built
from splinters of guilt

no room in my mind
for tiny unkind

impish creatures
whose features

would mock and remind
of crimes I resigned

to bury down deep
inside wrinkles of sleep

I pierced them like thrips
with ragwort stem tips

then chewed them to mash
in a mouthful of ash

and set down my head
near the foot of the bed

on the secret black box
with tarnished lead locks

 

 

From my books Range of Motion and Legacies (vol. 1)

Storm Damage

“Long Time” by Emil Nolde

 

rain scours intaglio sorrows

wind speaks nameless fears

lightning burns bereft hearts

thunder cracks open doom

 

 

From my book Pieces of Wine

Never

“It Could Be My Imagination” by Thomas Fedro

 

courage
never speaks
but to fear

fear
never more
than of pain

pain
never quite
as imagined

imagination
never fails
our humanity

 

 

From my book Ephemera

Dominion

 

“Autumn Evening” by Emil Nolde

 
unafraid

I walked among storms

standing bold

to the wind

until menacing thunder

asserted itself

December Nights

Image from Pinterest – Artist Unknown

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

diminishing days

will succumb to

starvation of light

under insolent press

of insurrect midnights

slow purpling hours

who crawl among

fears of an anxious

sparse leaflessness

naked and shivered

demoralized landscapes

in grief for green

summer of memory

suffer the coldness of

deep-breathing darkness

that penetrates limbs

stills the sap-flow

in desolate heartwood

arboreal dreams

chilled and finished

by icy insensitive

slander of seasons

finality comes in its turn

bleak and barren

to each living tree

to each forest

who wonder throughout

these long lingering nights

if they’ve known

their last spring

if they’ve seen

their last sun

 

Conception

Embryological Study by Leonardo da Vinci

courage is fathered

in a rank wretched bed

where masculine fear

lies down with his gorgon

in a choking embrace

expelling her peril

till foul becomes fair

and soiled linen creases

unfold in bright riots

of fortified flowers

that girdle the breast

with petals of armor

and freshen the beard

with fragrance of dignity

cleansing the air

for the first natal breath

of the manchild valor

now growing proud wings

in the belly where fear

hid his auspicious seed

 

 

(originally posted April 2013)

Conscience

“Sphinx” by Lou Bermingham

 

like the stern couchant sphinx

whose stone leonine paws

left no prints in the sands

or the muds of the Nile

you sit watchful with secretive

maddening patience

knowing the sinks that

hide tombs of the pharaohs

and all my unuttered

raw motives and fears

just watching and waiting

for sands to give way

exposing the meal

you will hungrily make

of my weaknesses

 

 

(originally posted April 2013)

Solitude of the Crowd

 

“Venetian Doorway” by Mari French

 

looms a doorway

that leads unto where

no one certainly knows

to approach it

requires blind faith in

the secular scripture

of unconscious memory

history fallen to scythes

it requires that faith

or the motherless hope

that the scarified legs

who have pushed upon paths

through past portals

to demophobe suffering

this time will somehow

safe carry away from

the clamoring silence

of unliving voices unnerving

insistent with praise

for the terrified solitude

dead in the midst

of the crowd