Melange 2

Green Wheelbarrow

In this season of multiplying cells,
I have become my father;

shoulders bent to the bar, handles,
greased with sweat, slippery grip.

He revered the earth and your beauty;
stowed fears in the shed of our youth.

So, twist the three wheeled bearer
along a path you bore me, sinews taut

from birth.

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Bloat

Exude her song, an emollient for worldly woes;
corpus of work ground out of fractured dreams.

Decay and gas, each maggot, alas strips
flesh for its own semaine; herein the same,

mans desire, to gnaw on flawed brilliance.
Bathe in solicitous choral tone, then,
print it quick, before it's gone.

Hum her tune, it plumps our skin.
We live within a crowd sourced comfort;
her music, and we, go on.

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Strung

He offers a serpentine necklace,
beads of concave thought.

Should I reflect in the mirror shine,
nestle in the cusp of his hollow.

Vexed, I trace sallow folds
of my jaw line; no,

they will not suit.

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This is now

Warm, those days of inner peace,
when I forget to mourn
all that I cannot remember,

all that is lost, due cost of age
and undue ailment.

I wash your face with my tears,
bless your heart and beg you

not to reach for a person, long gone.

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Drill Practice

Fin sharp, submersible subversions
frisk the hooves of white horses;

frothing herds crest a roll,
swarm on the beat of surf thunder,

while we circle, dipdive,
occasionally, show teeth.

Coastlines erode, while we wait.

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edited 02.01.12