She wants a docile beast.

A weary-eyed miner to keep on a leash.

She wants to stroke his beard like the wind moving it’s invisible hands over high summer’s cornfields. To plow her fingers through the pastures of his heaving chest. And search his inevitable forest with her undoing glare, to find the spot so bare. She will plant her kisses there.

She wants to make him pant. And sweat. He will be like a paintbrush daubing his memoirs in a glaze. His bristles, etching an epitaph of roses on her parchment.

She will entangle herself in those tiny vines, and like animals, let nature become their conscience.

Published in: on July 28, 2010 at 11:33 am  Comments (6)  
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The Beckoning

I step outside tonight

to find the source of the beckoning.

I creep among the garden roses,

mere frosted rubies,

on spotlight beneath the ripe moon

with today’s raindrops now iced.

The air is quiet, cold and still,

but those back lit popcorn clouds

are afloat and fast drifting

like a leaf in a stream.

I close my peacoat tighter

around my gown

and wish I had worn shoes.

My head pirouettes to behold

all the bewilderment

within this mystical sphere.

On the garden path

glowing pebbles like fluorescent olives

unfold before me, in strands like pearls.

I follow them

to pacify my quixotic curiosity.

That curiosity is a growing tumor

squelching the Siberian tingle in my gelid toes.


With every step,

another gathered pebble is cupped in hand

until there are no more.

My anticipant eyes climb

to meet a tree spattered with the glowing green orbs,

the trunk,  a chair,

begging me to sit.

My clasped hands tickle, tremble and quake

until the green,

it sprouts wings,

spreading my fingers,

and with the illuminated specks from above,

dissipates like fireflies into the enchanted heavens.

Published in: on July 24, 2010 at 12:48 am  Comments (4)  
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Silent Night

When the neighborhood rests
snug in their stucco nests
and the air conditioners hum
competing with the crickets
and the moon is slung low
in the midnight horizon
you will find me
all agaze and in revel
of the peace and the still
The porch is the precipice on the edge
of my sweet silent world,
infinite swirls of tranquility
the air that surrounds me
breathe wide and smooth
I’ll have a slow dance with my cigarette
let the mosquitoes get their appetites whet
and linger in my mecca
until exhaustion grabs me
with its imperious undertow
and stuffs me headlong
into quaint pockets of dizzy dreams
Published in: on July 2, 2010 at 1:08 am  Comments (6)  
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