Twisted is the wood of the willow after wind
when her tresses are swept into rough caress
and her frame contorts to figure unknown
She knows not who to blame when she bows
The gale shaping her direction as she cowers
or she who bends obedient to his instruction.
Everything Is White in the Moonlight
Everything is white in the moonlight.
Where I stand is familiar—yet my eyes
continue to search for a silhouette left
unchanged; nighttime highlight, shame, has
left me unperceiving—
For even that which is tarnished brown and grey
when viewed under the tired yellow of day
Becomes lily-white in the moonlight;
and a garden of hard angles and shifting shadows
transformed to a pasture of paled luster. Why?—
the figures touched by the reflection of Her profile
are designed feathered—and made the target.
Myself On the Left, With You On Right
Myself on the left, with you on right
Forced onto the same trodden soil
Pushed into the same drenched wind
But I’ll step with my left foot first
And you start your pace with the right.
In a reflex as the path becomes mud
I’ll hold out my left hand and you your right
“Do you feel that?”
Yes, we feel the same thing
The same moisture on our skin, in our hair
But why is it then that while
this rain has corroded my porch
You smile that your garden has bloomed?
There exists no shortage of hyacinth here
Surely you’ll permit my taking this one bloom
Neither large nor vibrant, but if you can afford
to laugh at such a impressive storm
then you can afford to lose this tiny portion
of those weeds you call your happiness.
I doubt it matters much to you anyways
After all, when the two of us are together
it’s always you that’s right and me that’s left.
Contamination of Touch
Each instance I attempt to organize revisited is one frame
Nostalgic it could be said, reminiscence at blame
No detail have I left to find in this photograph of mine
The same names carved into the wall behind us
The same depth of breath, the same blemishes on our skin
I wonder, then, why those dimples look so unfamiliar
when days ago I could claim to have been their founder
Perchance it be I’ve no longer your face in perfect recall
but that countenance is not one I should forget; forgive me
let me recapture that visage through glossy remembrances
much have I traced our smiles with my fingertips that the ink
has erased in the swirls of my hands —ah, I fear
from features too polished have come crude wax models
your eyes, do they grow crueler by my touch? I knew them cold;
I recognize well that look, from first acquaintance
in later meetings was I greeted with a smile, but I wonder
had those ever reached your eyes?—they grow not crueler
in optimism did I fail to recognize the scorn in your laugh
Foolish, did I think those expressions happy before?
I must’ve remembered wrong, those sneers you wore.
Follow the Wisps
Follow the wisps of blue
to reach the disfigured veranda of stone
where phantom abstract slips from high
when the horned and the barred claim their distress
flames cast shadows cross skin of water
yet the light from the bright moonrise still dies.
Says the sun to the wind and the wind to the moon
“who is more powerful?”
No northern zephyr dares betray and forfeit.
Greet the night from beyond her gate
for ghostly protest hath no dictate.
You, Most Delightful Parasite
You, most delightful parasite, flaunt proudly your perfume
as the forged red thread woven absent consent
Thieve my creations self-molded through your roots
still my orchid latches to me and I to you; owe,
the pale lilac of your petals remain my only other tone
I’ll be warm adorned until you can survive on your own.
A Glittered Breath
A glittered breath of perfume awakens
few manifestations reverent
of tell-tale tries, of erasēd vows
Cry aversion without avail,
for a thought alive cannot feed on concept alone
nor a concept survive when cracked between past
And to mind cometh a longing of forgotten words
of forlorn faces
when slivers of white gold in the windows of souls
retain but some clarity under their polished sheen
And they blink, and they snarl, and they whisper:
“This is the truth, the only truth.”
Then truth, says I, is but a lie
and I tell you this:
I wish to know no lies,
I will see from no eyes than from one gilded bright.
There Lies Not an Empty Nest of Redbreasts
There lies not an empty nest of redbreasts
within the sullen resistant breath of the moors
Hark! call They; and the brush opens with their beaks—
Black leaves suffocate below the weight of silver quilt
As the earth shivers doth all the world still, and action
Prevail; sense, then—fear only,
when the collective cry ceases to play.
The Sparrows Outside Have Silenced
The sparrows outside have silenced their fawn
the seeds left scattered untouched from this dawn
for alas, a season ago were they last fed
The blades in the ground have wasted
the water offered leaving no dry thirst sated
no other blame; with soil dried three months past
Ah—‘tis a shame that all is asleep, Morpheus
but there exists nothing to be done now—concede one must
when the sparrows have stopped their song.
Abstraction is Always
Abstraction is always two floors above me;
ruled for climbing the first flight is language
perplexing, is it, that the means to ascend
hampered by reason, lie sole in impulse.
RGS Journal 