Night

I’ve done enough for
Now
Flashed to the canyon
Caves
Made of purpose, left
Long
Imagined as homeless
Liked
Day to light liveliness
Packed
From my back of life
Shone
Alone and shadowed
Solely
By my one candle lit
As if
It’s for a one and only

At Sunset

She wishes to be in pink and sky. Remembering when the jewelry party lady placed gaudy gold coins on her ears. As a sister’s friend was adorned in lilac crystal drips. It sticks years later. Fated with that fair and freckled hair color number cut from burger chain braids. Made out of the rustic fabric her mom picked and stitched. It matched. Hatched as that orange tyrannosaurs sans sibling wings.

Trying to be spring in fall. All made pastel like a baby doll playing in the dirt. Colored khaki, mucky, mustard on her chin. Grinning at bark, and the shades of squirrels. Girls, she’s got the curls, but bows get in the way. Granite and slate. Charcoal stains left like lead astray. Ashes from a flick of brick. She can red. Up like the French do. Hued in that sienna filter. Lifting a finger for another napkin to scratch on.

Beyond pine, drab, olive branched into. Reached through cerulean, sapphire nights. Right as azure turns to soft fushia blushes. Clutched like sixty four melted shades. Made by daydreams. She’s seen in bland yoga clothes from the continental divide. Offwhite, peagreen, mud. Stuck out against her powdered skies. Alive and laced beneath the tan.
The wind knows who I am.

To Souvenirs

The Chat Noir poster
tray and tin is displayed
against the desk next to
a pen inscribed by name.
The rest, the same placed
pastis/absinthe glass at
the sink, leftover French
bread ready for basil pesto
or cubed croutons on high
humidity wilted nights with
music playing somewhere.
There the Seine sings in blue

Left Behind

I said I want to go back.
They don’t understand.
And that makes me feel
childish. Leaving a cherished
stuffed animal by the swing.
Seeing doe eyes. Eye to eye.
Deep inside. And I’m lost.
Maybe something should
have been left. Like ashes of
the future. And as all the stuff
is packed away they seem as
sad and out of place as I am

In Stone

I cried in my
Aloneness
And as just
As fast, had
To stop, my
Knees, mean
While, and
Appreciate
What’s made
Before me

Erases, wipes
Like mist in
A mountain
Corner’s eye
Dripped dry
Beside my
Printless sigh
As nothing’s
Mornings to
Nightless sky

High, and in
To touchable
Arms wide as
Statue’d, still,
Glorified, will
Beyond reach
Each pain, I’ve
Gained, traced
In granite It’s
Graced again

There

Flipping through my
stacks of postcards
that say, “Wish I was there”

They haven’t made
it anywhere, but from
all those gift shop racks

Back, admired, as
if leaving prints over
glittery barren beaches

Reaching out, from
the glossy cardboard to
find a stick to write with

Defined

B57

It’s confusing. Stretched from professional. Confessional poet. So much so, I look up the definition:
“a person who writes poems”….
“a person possessing special powers of imagination or expression.” Yeah.
Put a P on my chest. Yet, best I believe, merely diary. Writing as ashamed. Merely, just. A stranger saying his life story waiting for a bus, eating chocolates out of the box. A feather at the end is poetic. And so is love.
And I wonder what verse will express as I’m standing on my summit in two weeks. Merely, just breathing. Feeling, not imagining, but receiving. Nor for the first time. Revised, multiplied in meaning as someone who climbs to find poetry

Of 2

I can babble on and on
as if they understand,
and think about when
the little one was, and
did too. We conversed,
responding as equals.
Inflection, tone, eye to
eye expressions as true
as speaking like a poem.