Other Poems
The Ballerina

she smoothly swings a fluid leap
her satin dancing slippers brush the floorboards
of a resin-tacky retreat,

she pitter-patter slides the
essential sensual distant eyes
across her thin extended thighs—

wood splinters slowly inside her head;
she is adhered to this lilting life,
and someday her joints will creak




The Flower

I knew a flower, but not her name;
Sweet smelling as a summer day,
She was vibrantly bright, yet plain;
Wild in a pasture she lay.

A thousand others looked the same,
But I loved her more than all the rest;
I needed a sight, and saw her first;
She was vibrantly bright, yet plain.

Now look when you shake your smile and say
That "love is something more than that;"
It's a spark that lights itself aflame,
Sweet smelling as a summer day.

And day by day, and day by day,
She thought with me, heard all my songs
And watched my sleep and soothed my wrongs;
Wild in a pasture, we lay.

When as it must, the right time came,
The tinder burnt to feed the flame,
I plucked my flower and sang of pain;
I knew a flower but not her name.



Nursing Old Wounds


Are you ready for the snow to fall?
There must be more to love than this,
the long-term torture, short-term bliss
But am I ready for the snow to fall?
And now that we are long apart,
and still we nurse our broken hearts,
our conversations stilted, stark—
(the scars of love have left their mark—
[or have we ever loved at all?])
Are we ready for the snow to fall?



Sunrise

soon the sun shall rise
in this hollow sky
and finish this long
blank-eyed night
crushing a cricketish
ocean of shed leaves
and cicada shells
a distant watchman
swept by the chilling frost
whispers
"half of creation
is destruction"
shivers briskly
breathing and eating
cotton puffs
in the searing chill
crisps through unlit hulks
rusting on their manufactured feet

a freezing gust rushes
through the graffittied concrete
and straight rows of trees
the conflageration
of crinkling cellophane
is a drizzle
tempestuous in the hush

bright commuter lights
swing past, wash
a spooky black
old slapped-together log shack's
anachronistically
glittering glass;
the same sentry checks doors as
a bonging clang
rings seven
and the drizzle turns to snow
in the feeble half-light.

The clouds are now
silhouetted in the
grey-blue
and distant streetlights
die like lightning bugs
bedding down.
"Shed tears for old joy,"
whispers the grim wan sun
peering through its dismal veils
"I am the dawn
of a new day."