Wednesday, September 23, 2009
I’m back to updating this site, and will soon publish a link on the main site page to it. For the time being, I’m transferring pieces from Deviant Art, backdating entries to roughly correspond to the publication date. It will be interesting to see how long this takes, as I’m testing the use of ecto again, and it will take me a little time to adjust. Not to mention that I will halt every so often from boredom…
Friday, September 4, 2009
neither rose nor summer’s day,
in seeing you i see you.
And at the end
I wonder whose face you saw
when you closed your eyes.
And at the end
I wonder if anything you said
was ever true.
And at the end
I wonder how much planned
or if you had fun.
And at the end
I wonder why I thought
maybe you would not be the same
At the end.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Skinny legs and a short, short skirt.
Balancing on your brand new heels
you twine your hair, lean in to flirt,
tell him you know just how it feels.
Balancing on your brand new heels,
hand on his shoulder, brush his cheek,
tell him you know just how he feels,
coyly hint that it’s him you seek.
Head on his shoulder, stroke his cheek
(see a boy over near the bar)
shyly hint that it’s him you seek,
softly ask where he’s parked his car.
Meet a boy over near the bar,
you twine your hair, lean in to flirt.
Your charming style will take you far:
skinny legs and a short, short skirt.
The girl on the swing soars and falls,
catches late, flies over the crowd.
All the women want to be her,
and all the men to be with her.
Steel rope arms cross and then unfold,
point apple hard breasts to the lights,
and all the men want to be with her.
All the women want to be her.
She stares past your shoulder, in your arms,
hears only the sigh of the crowd.
All the women want to be her,
and all the men want to be with her.
Angel eyes smile a dream of flight
never shared: she falls alone.
All the men want to be with her,
and all the women want to be her.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Should I flatter you with flowered phrases
plucked from the lines of a thousand love songs?
Should I prate lyrics about your graces,
mope wanly, say where the heart belongs?
Should I send flowers, buy chocolates, and drinks,
try the games of chance, win carnival toys?
Should I hurl myself toward maudlin brinks,
in short behave like all heat crazed boys?
Honest words are what I proffer, plain cut,
home spun, rough woven, worn down with use,
to no more effect than lake drowned stones.
Slience: keen edged careless words cleanly cut
hopes’ threads to fall back into disuse.
Again I ask, what harm in a heart of stone?
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Dying moth dancers beat against the light
as fat bass rhythms spill out of the bars,
faces raised in hope tumble through the night
Red eyed girls straighten their Friday night tights,
cradle broken heart songs splayed on guitars.
Dying moth dancers beat against the lights
Boy-men drunk on heat and rum lurch, fall, fight,
strut, cats in season, denim jaguars.
Dying moth dancers beat against the light
Wine tossed lovers drown in the other’s sight
fumble bad lies, press their bodies against cars.
Faces raised in hope tumble through the night.
Fragile dreams unfold, colored glass wings might
Spiral lovers gasped breaths up to the stars.
Dying moth dancers beat against the light
Faces raised in hope tumble through the night.
Don’t sing me songs of summer storms and sweat
Or of passionate dances in the rain.
Night time thunder makes me yearn to forget
The soft voice murmuring soft love’s refrain.
No soft winds tossing darling buds of May,
Give me robust humbling green giants
Upturning cars, peeling houses in play,
A tossed scatter of wind shredded pennants.
The winds don’t notice our tidy neat lives,
No god rides his lightning bridled steed through
Suburbs to tear husbands from their wives:
We make our own storms, drink our own bleak brew.
A storm is just rain and wind and lightning.
What we do to ourselves is more frightening.
Friday, September 12, 2008
This promised mask shows true promise’s face,
A gift unsought given with open heart.
The masque continues with an empty space,
This mask a way for you to dance your part.
Within the masque masked Harlequin prances,
dances with passion, makes the dance too hard,
madly grins, rolls the dice, takes his chances
hides a true heart behind motley facade.
From the wings sweet faced Columbine watches
slippered feet moving to the piper’s tune,
hoping for a motley fool who wishes
she’d dance beneath the bright inconstant moon.
Behind false faces our true faces hide
True masks reveal the unmasked truths inside.
Harlequin watches the rippling moon
drifting east downstream to paint the ocean,
breathes a Pierrot sigh, thinks that too soon
this face that mirrors face will fade again.
Harlequin whistles, strikes a cheerful pose,
smooths gaudy feather, adjusts jaunty hat,
twists a moonstruck dancing step as he goes
artlessly strolling callous as a cat.
Harlequin smoothes the over-studied note,
by streetlight wrapped in night pursues his task.
motley shoulders bent beneath lost love’s coat
preparing new scenes to change an old masque.
Again the oldest tale spins out its rhyme,
Can Harlequin regain his Columbine?