Love grown specific
will not compromise.
Every other offer
is a waste of time.
Useless to haggle
though the cost is high.
The investment’s worth
the demanding price.
Tag: Poetry
-
True Love
-
Valentine’s Day
The chapel bore witness as I vanquished
your greatest fear with vows, a ring, a kiss.
Our flock rejoiced as I stripped off the Miss
and exorcised your spinsterhood anguish.The Hilton Times Square heard you give reprieve
to me from crosses caught in junior high.
Inside you came deluges from a sky
denied a drizzle, thirsty for relief.The morning after, you discovered my
my fetish pornography. I inferred
no sense in your chatter, just hollow words
I’d learn to tolerate with alcohol.Man shan’t divide what God unites, unless
unfaithful, the only bond we possess. -
To Comprehend a Cloud
To comprehend a cloud creeping across the firmament-
too distant to touch, too slow to surmise-
cannot be done with impatient eyes, quick
to assume each cloud a static symbol
stroked with an identical brush onto a solid blue sky,
to deem their taste like cotton candy: sweet
but airy- Might suffice as milk but never as meat,
to declare them pretty scenery just to make you think.To comprehend a cloud requires a longer reach
than one can make from his seat. The mystery
of its composition requires he step outdoors,
stand on tiptoes with hands and mind willing
to stretch an impossible distance for a grasp at understanding.
It starts with a drop, then a drizzle before it pours,
drenches you with water and thunder to cool
your summers or chill your winters, but wake you either way.To comprehend a cloud is
to discover Heaven’s oceans.
Only gods walk on water, though fools try,
but the more patient will happily wade.
No hidden treasures hide within its depths except
the manna to sustain you in the wilderness.
The greedy dam it up a banquet for the maggots,
the foolish let it drain as something they’ve already seen,
the one who understands holds out a cup and drinks. -
Juggling
A single child I handle easily–
two-handedly–I never drop a beat–
bathe ’em and feed ’em with steady breathing–
but toss another job at me–I flinch–
cascading boulders showering me
leaves little time to think.
Instinct directs my strategy.Cross the baby out of hand
snatch a carton of milk
catch the kid before he balls
ready for the columns to fall
toss him to Doc to get his shots
then pacify him with lollipops
balancing him on one hand
the other scrubbing marker off the wall
feed ’em and bathe ’em and sometimes myself.
Though my grip will often slip
trying to fit him inside a box
I haven’t let him fall once. Not yet. -
Implosion
Day 30 of the 2012 April PAD Challenge on WritersDigest.com.
The apocalypse will come not through the front
expectedly with explosions; all eyes
deadbolt the path. It’ll sneak inside at night
a rusty door in the cellar and hide in the dust
from our half-hearted vigilance fatigued
off lamb and wine. It grows as a cuckoo, fat
on our spoils, expands beyond the borders with
an appetite to plunder everything,
deny refuge for nothing to exist.
Our houses grow, accommodating life
too big to fail. When limits break,
so will our peace. The mansions made won’t fit
the lives we want to live anymore, and
Heaven lacks vacancy for our vagrancies.
Its golden gates are needle’s eye in size
to what we enjoy at home. Damnation
will come as worlds collapse beneath our weight
and all the swine run themselves off the cliff.Day 27 of the 2012 April PAD Challenge on WritersDigest.com. -
The Trouble Is Caring
Day 27 of the 2012 April PAD Challenge on WritersDigest.com.
A martyr is murdered twice–
Crucifixion breaks flesh
but accusations pierce the chest.
Inquisitive eyes convict
the Golden Rule malevolent–
a childish fantasy–
financial plot to fleece the flock–
and those without a scheme
are lost inside a dream.
Reality demands a hardened heart.The serpent is preferred.
It kisses, bites, but doesn’t bleat.
It slithers but in shadow’s sheets
away from our gilded sleep.
And when it bites, it proves
the innocence of apathy–
the complacent never strike a soul
and thus deserve no criticism.
Immaculate hands, practically saints.
Don’t bother us with your morality. -
Vacuuming
My attempt at last Wednesday’s Poetry Prompt from Poetic Asides by WritersDigest.com.
Vacuum the dirt dragged through the door
crumbs from forgotten confections
sands voyaged from ventured shores
confetti flung at Christmas parties
ribbons ripped off holiday gifts
scraps uneaten by strayed dogs
wrappings left by wavering friends
strands off blonde slipped off her head
clippings from her cadenced hands
tags off treasured lingerie
tears off the tomes filled with your words
dust from flesh once dazzling your face.
Wrap it up. Scrap it in the trash.
Survey the scene: a serene living room.
But stains of wine, blood, and piss still remain. -
Racism Is Dead
Day 5 of the 2012 April PAD Challenge on WritersDigest.com.
“Racism is dead,” Stern said.
His African American
DJ mutters a yeah
as Stern connects with her people
like only a wealthy, white man can.The problem today is now class–
never mind the trough is black.
If anything, whites suffer more
these days. They can’t say nigger,
they can’t make racist jokes
(but comics diss whites all the time!)
and a white friend of a friend
lost his job to a black
under-qualified, lazy bum.I’d call to correct his claim
but my urban accent reeks
of ignorance no Master can dispel.
Doesn’t help I dress like a thug
in loose-fit jeans and Giants jersey.
Am I justified to complain
when white women cross the street
to avoid crossing me
or protest arrest for breaking in
to my own home when I sound
and look so suspicious? -
Sit-In at the Sycamore
Day 10 of the 2012 April PAD Challenge on WritersDigest.com.
The family encircles the ancient trunk
lost in the lobby of a five-star hotel.
Enclasped in hands armored in adamant,
they chant up strength as the protectors of peace
apply a pepper spray swab to their eyes.
Even the firmest hand loses its grip
as camera phones preserve the scene to share
with friends on Facebook and Twitter for a like. -
The Forest for the Tree
Day 10 of the 2012 April PAD Challenge on WritersDigest.com.
I missed the forest for a tree, they said,
so I stepped out to survey the whole scene.
The emerald ocean gleamed with such prospects
I blinked–lost sight of what made that tree unique.
Seemed I could lean against another tree
and carve my name into its flesh until
stripped bare, then climb a fresher one now bloomed
with daisies, leave when they started to wilt.
When Autumn came, I found the reason why
my oak stood tallest among trees. The gleam
enthralling me lost glamour, fading with
the summer, but she remained evergreen
no matter the distance of the sun. I now
wander the wilderness in search of her
jaded glow but only see browner plains.
Perhaps I already plucked her bare too.