Two Girls
I.
With sticky shoes and white-fire hair,
she briskly claps down the tileway.
She’s got somewhere to be,
but takes her time to stoke the flame
and rattle the poker jewels,
which sparkle like trickling acid rain.
Her mystery bag,
all leather and paisley,
holds chaos and memories,
secret worlds she’s devoured
in shady afternoon hours
such as these.
Dressed to kill,
she parades on.
II.
Her sticky heels were wet with juice
once, perhaps yesterday;
she’s been tired,
too busy to bother with the leftover marks
of midwife in world birth.
She sips nectar as she goes
and sweeps the floor with her comfortably spacious cargos,
a dozen pockets filled with strings and stardust,
nectaries and wild-honey jars.
She exhales as she floats casually
to the next birth.
Traffic Light
with one steel foot
and three insect eyes,
the Guardian still leans and blinks
above the crossroad,
ever multitasking:
keeping balance,
saving lives.
Fire Hydrant
A little red man
with a little red plan—
he waits,
in chains,
for his fiery freedom
and a chance to blow his top.
Dew
Securely glued to a ceiling-blade
and fortified by green pillars,
this gleaming orb of clarity
is a tiny house too clean for ants or specks.
It only serves as a morning home
for the simplest souls—
the microbe swimmer stars—
all blind, but honest.
The Sky
a watercolor painting
swept with fleece and water
by the one Perfect Artist—
embracing the ceiling
of our marble Sistine planet
to inspire us
and make us wonder.
The Artist, with his golden brush,
continues his flawless revisions;
He changes the source of light,
the composition of hue.
He edits it from dawn to dawn
to catch our fortunate eyes,
as if to say,
“Look at what I painted for you.”
I Wandered Among the Gravestones on Memorial Day
I wandered among the gravestones on Memorial Day,
alone and pensive,
lost in a peaceful stone garden of names.
I watched footsteps,
saw the blooms and the banners.
I read the names of those who lied there.
“Delilah,
childhood sweetheart and beloved wife—
1909-1989.”
Beside her lay her husband, Frank.
1909-1999.
He survived ten years without her
after a lifetime of pure love,
of sharing the world
and every joy in it.
Could he even live one day
in those ten long years?
I had no reason to mourn.
No one had died.
I was a foreign spirit,
drifting, watching,
and imagining.
“Baby Thomas:
Until we meet again.
August 3-10, 1937.”
A girl clutched her dying newborn,
his fated face spotted with raindrops
and hers a tapestry of despair
as together they wailed.
The father stood apart,
slammed the wall,
and choked on his heart.
They buried their son
seven days after his birth,
but how long did they live?
I continued my wanderings
and stopped at
“Lily.”
“My perfect bride, I shall wait for you.”
The husband’s name was carved,
but his end was yet to come.
On her side,
the earth was just beginning to sprout again.
Somewhere, he lived.
Somewhere, he was crying yet.
Somewhere, he was learning to live without her,
after just loving to live with her.
Somewhere,
a man was already dead.
Suddenly I saw—
through the calm peace of May,
an autumn flash, the ivory eye
and her wretched tears pouring
on the shoulders of a lonely man,
crouched and trembling in the garden—
“Rachel.
My perfect bride, I shall wait for you.”
He lifted his weary head.
Though his face was blinded by water
and twisted with fire,
I knew him.
I turned from Lily’s grave,
choking as he had.
I walked,
afraid and unsure.
Was it prophecy?
Was it imagination?
I blinded myself to the image,
but branded words left their scar:
Someday,
I will lose her.
My wandering done, I passed from the stones,
yet what I learned would never leave:
Someday,
the flowers will bear my signature on Memorial Day.
Someday,
long before I join my cold bride in the enriched soil,
we will die together.
Profits
I: Where They Come From
A gallon will cost you four bucks
and a finger.
For a hand, you can fill up—
a thirty dollar savings!
II: Where They Go
Ah, yes.
Another day,
another hand-painted Mustang convertible.
Sonnet 21
I’m sitting here—and have been for some time,
just staring at my monitor in doubt—
upon this chair, and thinking of a rhyme
to somehow get my swelling feelings out.
I see you in my mind, and could describe
your every feature, but that wouldn’t do.
Such writing has been done a hundred times,
and still it wouldn’t grasp my thoughts of you.
But I can’t stop, or I’ll become moody.
Besides, how could I waste this crucial hour
while somewhere far away, your rich beauty
continues like an ever-blooming flower?
See, there I go again with imagery!
Another verse, another tragedy…
Sonnet 19
The devil wants me dead; I half agree.
My childhood fades with every rising sun,
and I am told my life will always be
the torture I now face: I want to run
until my lungs explode with atmosphere;
my traitor home has turned, for I soon leave
and never will return; I long to hear
the truth about forever and believe
in what is held for proving it; and sleep,
it leads me like a lover to my bed,
yet there is only glass for broken feet
and dragon years to slay before I rest.
Each use of time is wasting it away.
If this is life, then may I die today.
Sonnet 18
It will be nice to leave this lonely place.
By name alone are we a family.
There’s always anger brooding in your face;
you try, but you can’t keep the truth from me.
You tried to teach me love, but I can tell
by your example, you have no idea.
Why would you rather suffer than excel?
He claims to care, but abhors your career,
one last remaining love yet to beat out.
Because he pays the mortgage, is that it?
Some things are more important than the house,
but that’s just one more thing you won’t admit.
So I walk down, sit at my desk, and write
while from behind closed doors, I hear you fight.
