The Blower's Daughter


I have been told that I am fair.

In a thatched place, I hide
the dearest things.
The dream holders, the catchers
of never to be.

Words that I softly intone
over the breakers in the
apricot streamings of morn. 
Walking through emerald
grasses in search of remnants
of our eiderdown.

Bearing your hymnal.

'...hair of hyacinth and honey,
           eyes, 
                 mint
         rimmed,
              star speckled amber...
 ...body, 
          a sylvan silhouette...
...touch, the sigh 
                    of the
     warm wind goddess...'

I could read these to the glissando notes
of my father, for his music, all know,
outrivals Pan.

But though he plays ardently 
for uncharted lovers, he will
not let me hear or feel or love
but he.

So I stand midst this field
of effulgent despair,
feeling ghost caress in all I want
and all that will ever not be.




Glastonbury Thorn



It might be spring; perhaps, winter 

Automated shufflings 

Jarring alarms, excessive 

Caffeination and time 

                       precisely 

                               meted.  

Perfecting routines and 

a life devoid of expectations 

A time to do, not be. 

  

Surprises are not welcome.  

Newspapers, a vital ritual  

For obliterating Now.  

  

Who are you then? 

Excessively cheerful in greeting 

As if my presence mattered. 



Obviously blooming when I pass, 

Despite my imperious muster. 

Do you not realize 'extraordinary' 

Is crude and disrespectful?  

  

...and that I always run 

from miracles.  




September


 
In perfect formation

   The migration of geese

      Underscores all the losses to come

     And the lush alone

Of left behind.

 



Pocket Watch

 

Reeling the chain

You stare at my face

Expecting Surety

Demanding Clarity.

 

Draping fobs

To enhance

       Whatever it is,

                    I am.

Weighted in dank 

                      trouser 

                           folds.

Rubbing my silver back

The ache steeps --

                                    

Brilliantly

Bedazzling.




Stainless Steel

 

It's a scorcher.

 

You take me up

In those thick

Wanton hands.

And turn the flame up

 

High.

 

Searing me from the inside out

Deftly charring semblant guts.

 

Another day, another immolation.

Habit has ingrained our course.

 

I put my suitcase back

On 

   Rack

Scour off the damage.

Anticipating ravage.

 

Gleaming again, I wait to pounce.

 

The only me you will ever see.





Guest Lecturer at Skyline High 

 

Pleated nocturnes

Scarred, abraded

              carbon

                   floor 

                         boards

Fluorescent slits 

in graphite heights

 

Waiting to pontificate

On the do's 

          and don'ts of poesy

for oozing 10th grade ennui ~

                                   

I savor.

 

This Black Box theatre

Three quarter sized

practice play place

O!

Once amidst a vacant time, 

A baby, blonde skinned thespian 

Cleaved to such sensorial displace.

 

Echoes of sophomoric massacres

Of Shakespearean miasma

Upholstered basins of parental flame

Ghost petals of teary-eyed soubrette bouquets.

 

...it seems that much shelved

                                    Bric-a-brac

Bestrews 

this perfectly planned today.