The Scent in My Palm Bliss in the morning hourwhen a nose touches downinto a hand, soothing tremblesfrom aromas of a nightmarethe tinge of something smallinvestigated by the curiousman searching for a homeincense of a sweaty palmfound deodorant debrisor wrinkles on a bedsheetthe air from a windowpanethe static scent of subtle rain.
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The Last Waltz The little bird flees a Main Coon’s gaze.He kicks off the ground and rides the gust of a happy wind.Takes off, sweeps along the road then up, up through trees.Branches bent, adorned with leaves picked off one by one.The sky hosts a show of swans, an arrow-formed warning.The little bird settles on
My Father Plays The Morning A mild chill, flows through the spine like a stick holdinga puppet upright. The morning folds into itselfthrough the crack of a window, a symphony of carsrush through rainy roads, a steady hum sloshing –stress in the air. Floorboards squeak softly, footsteps ofa fathers workaholic coffee filling. Back and forthback
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I Stopped Singing There are soundsI’ve stopped singing.They ring away,over there, way over there.Chiming bellscackling fires – fumes.Library cards to pointed silencebestowed upon my throat.Good luck is the piano,cold fingers, glissando noteafter note, after note.
Radio Silence When my grandfather passed, I sleptevery night, waiting for the dream. Tick, ticka mantle clock counts the night.He sits in silence, laying out a game of solitaire.He knows I’m waiting for a seat. We have a conversation about his lifeI was happy, I woke up.I was happy.It was death done right.When you passed,
Dustbin Bag A man cracks her upthey hold hands forthe first timeShe tells me about the mountain grassbeneath their feetSometimes we singin the car beforebitter silence hitsA fruitful spacegone fickle from thewords I didn’t speakI, a rag old and usedto cleaning up hermess I stress herBecome ancient nowwaiting in a dustbin bagto be taken out.
Bottled How nice a bottle can become.Unchanged by its environmentwith bubbles fixed preserved.Sticking itself to the one job wemade it for – cheering the people,for you and for me. For hordes of humans, for hundreds of yearsin the sea, for humid days hiddenon a forgotten shelf holding onto the thirst of a heat struck day.
The Dusty Driver A dusty man walks slowlypast red traffic lights wherea youngster has halted hisdirty motorcycle a red finishgone brown from sand kickedup over two people and the olddriver who enjoys a Sundaysemi-walk next to the highway.
A Michelangelo Fix your mouth you saidback then when I caught youoff guard by mirroring yours.Today, I see the soft beige a rounded smile in my periphery. I love youjust like then but quieter now. Likebread rising under a tea towel, I extend it with tendernesskeeping out a tasteful eye ofadmiration, keeping myself astray. Do
Dire straits Heat waves rise with the morning sun on its horizon, where the road meets the sky, and I walk and I walk and I stumble as I walk away from the nightmare of the scene. The sun now casting light on what the moon could not illuminate last night. The horror of a