Sucrose
Published at Poet Community
Sickly sweet
the swirl of today’s news
sitting on my empty
stomach. Syrupy
on my lips and on
the roof of my mouth.
An ideal that when tasted
does not blend so well,
overstaying its welcome.
Sucked through a straw,
then spat back out,
better left roadside alone.
No Confusion Intended
Published at Poet Community
Sorry to say, regretfully,
I am not the man I thought
I was, and neither (can I say) do you probably
think I am.
The bio is all wrong; sent
from the wrong file,
written with what seemed
(now does not seem)
a witty intent, scribbled
days or years ago when
all seemed to make sense.
Now the words do not line
up, I am not sure what I
meant, and (worst of all) I
never intended harm (but
then maybe the words are
as innocuous as I believed
them one day to be).
Sincerely,
or Respectfully.
A Home in the Area
Published at Poet Community
Yes, it’s down the street,
and you can even visit.
The attic holds the secrets
of grandmother’s past.
Who knew she wrote, and who
knew she had such a tongue
for slander?
Many of the photos have been
chopped to signal ancestral
breakdown.
Outside, a child is skipping.
Do not look closely, or you may
be taken back to the former
you. The one who used to sigh
and feel relief.
Patchwork Rainbow
Published at Poet Community
This moment is the one
where we know there is a connection point,
a constellation of experience.
One must simply connect the dots,
appreciating the nuances of shade.
No one can be put on pillars anymore,
the truth always comes out,
the messiah figure with the drug problem.
Today’s crime is an expression
of yesterday’s common practice
and the time words became crazy,
life coming in sudden manic motions,
can be traced back like heritage
to the unkind words of a father
or the sullen face of a stranger,
a harsh word wandering like a stray cat.
When the rainbow showed up, the stories
say it was a promise, but that was images
and eons ago. That was at least two
legends removed from certainty.
Now the main character in the story
has begun to suspect his plight as a picaresque
plot-plodding figment and he knows
the last page approaches,
a cliff on cleverly bound paper.
The narrative can no longer be trusted,
just like patchwork, like a quilt language,
or the way light moves faster, blending colors,
Joyce saying, Let’s do something new
Dulcinea
Published at Poems and Poetry Blog
She was crooked teeth and rottenness
masquerading as the promise of a lifetime
disguised as a bright bride
and you thought you saw all of her
When she spoke, her voice came with razors
pricking little insults
and be glad now she found another river
to float down, to be free of that sound
At the time, seeing her through dull eyes,
really seeing only windmills, a belief in love
for love’s sake before growing.