Fractus

I see only
fractals of you
tempted
temptation
tempting
three sides of a triangle
the geometry of settling
into the shapes
that just
won’t
fit
but could
with a new
rule.

Unbalanced
equation
and stranded vowels
variables
in the alphabet soup
that is cipher
that is radius
that is the distance
to the heart
of a half life
Mobius
loop.

The shortest distance
between two hearts
is a straight shot
if you can shoot
or are loaded
or are lucky-
relative velocity
not withstanding-
the vicissitudes
the venal
the vacillation
between Eros
and erstwhile entropy.

Waiting to be...

Passive
borrowed
Mayan
bought
blue
plum
asked
reflexive
asked
ground
right
straight
open
aggressive.

Betwixt and Between- Fleurdeliser

On these wet and heaving streets
still slick with the film of receding tides
still covered with the air of decayed history
and composted potential
of a foundered fleur-de-lis...

Here in the smoky strains
of a Blue Monk meeting
the Public Enemy number one;
in the clash of comedy and tragedy
in the collision of safety with free-falling
hangs Spanish moss
from the ancient arm
of an Oak
caught betwixt and between
languishing in the liminal
among both earth
and sky.

Here, in the humid strains
of a street clothes nun
fighting for the Holy Angels
is a delta blues moan
for one more kiss
of Amazing Grace.

Here where love
is an act of defiance
where life is against the odds
where passion is in opposition
to the gilded monarch
of mastery...

Between my shoulders I am marked
my path long lost, no longer my own
on the Rue Désirée
in rites of passage
among forests of Lilies
and love
and Live Oaks.

Sober Vows

Remorse-
so much simpler
than regret.

The question is about sobriety
he shrieks
“Can we not be sober?”

But drunkenness
is love
unrequited
unfulfilled
or taken
consumed
shot
after shot
after shot
until the spinning
is prelude
to nothingness.

She will. I will.
Colliding crystal
vows.

Pylon

another spasm
Christmas cards unaddressed
late winter guilt

aromatic earth
fence posts rising like lilies
spring pastures

Screen Lace

through a looking glass
shatter cracked histories
seem familiar

Quiver- A Valentine

Like a pack of wolves
a pack of lies
swarms a gut pile
bile and flies
blankets the entrails
canine lust
candid carnage
lupus trust
and Cupid’s lost
an arrow.

She’ll howl
she’ll howl
like Pollack’s beast
simmering growls
relentless feasts
with a carnal drive
her desires must thrive
in deserts of
decorum
and decency.

But the arrow’s dulled
The shaft is bent
True no more
than true intent
to maim and plunder
from shadow lands...
and howl
and howl
for Cupid’s damned.

Diamond Sighs

Found it.
Your path of silence.
Again. Always.
Salient.

You sprinkled it thoughtfully
crumbs for the lost
diamonds, glittering
and audible.

They sigh...diamond sighs.
High pitched and thrilling
Sweet and sharp and brilliant.
Ancient, forever lasting
crystallized moments
of the purest angel time.

There was such a diamond.
A dawning realization,
not of compressed carbon
but of confessed innocence
and its lassitude
and its larceny
and its loss.

That diamond sighs for you.
I felt its razor sharp edge
for these many years...
in the background,
in the rain,
or in my dreams as now.
A haunting diamond sigh.

But it is not tragic,
in the way a diamond is not tragic.
It is a diamond.
It is
and ever will be.
And it sighs
sighs
sighs
for you.

Tree Trimming

A venerable vignette
a virtual return
to new endings
old beginnings
and the
phosphorescent
pulse
of a glow worm.

An incandescent retreat
a coup against the cheat
the neon
the LED
and the
trite.

In the innocence of hushed
tones
of lush creeks
and blushed
poems
and cheeks of a
child
thrice blessed

is a Christmas for me
is a light out to sea
blinking red
and green
for the distressed.

And the prow maiden
will dip
through the fray and the foam
and the seeker
will sow
in the clay and the loam
but the potter
will turn
not for me.
Not for me.

Two Towers metaphor

Hudson river abandoned pier.

Dreamed of You Vaguely

I dreamed of you vaguely last night.
There was no beginning
middle or end of a story
or argument
or line.
Just your arrival
or mine
and a simple feeling
of serenity
and the distant
distant
distant
dread of waking
without the satisfaction
of the answer to
questions
like how are you?

Liberty

Veteran's Day

My clay mug is warm
hand-fired artisan
artifact
announcing the contented
contents
pretense
of a middle class
daze.

Mocha colored
sugared
and milked
of all that bravado
and hard bitten life.
Sweetened
not cold
not black.

Guilt is sparse
parsed like powders
of saccharin
of simulacrum
substitutes
for mourning the minefield
of patriotism
paternalism
of patsies and privates
and platoon after platoon
of pretenders
in a drama
not
their own.

Dust on my bars
a tan on my scars
and a tentative air
of having been there
is all bullshit
when the news
turns from veterans
to empty shoes
and all I have
is training
and a photograph
of a leg*.

* A "Leg" is a slang term for a non-airborne qualified soldier.

Dreams

Sweet dreams.
Lovable toy to sleep with.
Your parents and God and sisters
love you.
You feel safe
because you are.

written by Victoria, my 7 year old daughter, who says she wants to be a poet when she grows up...from the mouths of babes.

To Be In Clover

Never thought the seeding would take
that the finest tiny grains
would find their way to salvation
to germination
to a burst of inspiration
after being cast on such sterile
stony ground.

Thought it would be over, was over
after the black frost of October
of departure
and the end of crimson blossoms
four leaf clovers
or the specter
of relief.

But among the dew matted fallen leaves
among the shocks and tied up sheaves
a tiny meadow has emerged
a patch of green not yet interred
and the prospect of my own fixation
and the distance of sanctification
are altered by the legume
grafted by her rune
and fallowed
by the liming
of her love.

Victoria

Victorious finally...
an almost Rembrandt day
where if my brow is furrowed
the source is significant
and truly
every decision
matters
supremely.

My victory finely,
in the Albinoni adagio way,
in subtle shades of the pure
and pink and precious
first fruit plucked
from a weeping tree,
ripened
reluctantly
reverently.

When,Victoria, you find me
apostate and incapable of prayer
remind me,
in your angelic muse kind of way,
of the lavender life,
of first fruit fervor
and of the ordinary happiness
of today.

Written in October 2000, on the birth of my daughter Victoria. Posted today in celebration of her 7th year.

Two Bridges