Poetry from Steven

Main-à-Dieu

I.

The Maritime epitome

leaks sensational exchanges

between moon magnets at play

Telephones open your eyes

Remember sweet nothings

stumbling shy and evasive on shore

and spraying its stones with cobalt kisses

‘ere tucking it in with the tides

II.

Without having consciously channeled

the Scottish mind for gesticulations

or affable sense of fashion

the hairs on my frame oscillate

in the unitary itch of a synthesis

Clouds shuffle in and shower me

with quaint accents

of Lambert and Connery

Dad’s origami of tape

in the Highlander VHS shell

A kind of magic

III.

Lock on and scoop up

the small islands swimming

like virtual pets in the jittery wilderness

of the ocean

Up the road the wharves exhale

eager to recast their splintered designs

on the ship-mother gut of Mira River

A blessing awaits its suitors

cruising in fresh paint

smoking Cape Islander uniforms

Water on water

recovers the fleet

to out-see the ragged red

floor denizens again

IV.

Old is alive

Small is endurable

Fishermen of a place old and small

are sponge toys under this sky’s

humdrum faucet drip

V.

Sample the pond in the womb of the meadow

Filter the fertile Atlantic stream for its insular

rock jewel

Let the screens show and suggest

that highlander fishermen still live here

Highlander could have been lived here

—–

BIRTH OF AN ALCHEMIST

Teacher there are toothless

piranhas

swimming in my math

I can see the gummy

little jaws scheming

to bogart the breath

of my righteous integers

One can only solemnize so much

the rash double-booking

of funeral and festival

No initiative need

be exhausted

on a self-serving verification

As a man of words

I implore you

to pad your own occupation with your wares

as I plunge a thumb and forefinger

into this obtuse order

of operations and unveil

a morsel of insurgent fusion

for my impressionable stomach

—–

LINGO DROUGHTS

I.

Notify the pillars of the patriation

Apply the secret knock

to your underground interpreter’s door

We are older than before

We have shed the preface training wheels

and are coming for the polish

of your most climactic chapter’s respect

II.

No unveiling revelation cloned itself

in self-assuring day planner pages

nor did debonair winks of rhetoric

attain attention for the eyes

while our secret sign language

seared a path through the brush

sapped of moisture’s ink by youth

infused lingo droughts

III.

We are what an appetite looks like

Invisibility made visible

with the couture of the inevitable

reincarnating as the natty trends

your acronyms cannot keep up with

—-

 

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