Quatern

A Quatern

His song sailed through the garden's drawn
of Shakespeare dawn and painter's eye,
oared with well formed arms to follow
fated rivers of the hallow.

On echo of a steady wind
his song sailed through the garden's drawn
of pastel hues to journey just
into the light that played his name...

and in the deepest forest green
where reservoir of trumpet crow,
his song sailed through the garden's drawn
and tales forever fixed in stone.

Across the planes of cosmic sea,
and fruited vines of mystery,
where peace and war amalgamate,
his song sailed through the garden's drawn.

Old Dreams

Old Dreams

He returned in daylight hours
after the dream -
a reminder of the night
searching red clay caves
safe from hostile skies.
He came back,
and I returned awake
to where he stood watching,
propped against a wall
of foreign architecture.
He spoke with an accent,
but never in a dream.
I looked back for him,
as though reality could enter.
His image could only remind me
of something familiar.
He became a Picasso
An Old Guitarist,
now sitting to play
where his voice left off.
where red changed to blue
where life and death split
during the night.
I will paint again
when I can claim confidence,
and we will serenade together
the red clay songs
with a blue guitar.

I Wake

I Wake

I wake to the cell phone alarm.
I know it's morning by the grey mist that fills the window square.
I think about where I work today,
think about growing older, roll over,
and if I'll ever replace this old mattress.
I remember unfinished details of a Saturday appointment,
and an x-husband I wish I'd never met,
in the time when life could have moved past
this void that calls such necessity of fifty.

I wonder what it is that leaves me in a state of mystery?
what it is that returns throughout the days
in clients voices, in unexpected expressions
that light the soul of everyday occurrence.
I feel sickened by uncertainty, mad by madness,
but happy at the same time, that I am
Inflicted by the deadened ends of hope
that sent me searching out angels,
rolling in the paint of miracles.

When I don't want to scream, I love this.
I love this euphoric dream, the rotted phantom
that promised to be my prince, and never came
just left me staring in the eyes of other victims
that cringe with symptoms of psychopathic fear.
I never got to understand, and now -
I don't want to leave this pain
because it's blooming, and I'm a child in the garden
picking flowers for my mother to draw.

I'm standing in front of the mirror
looking at my eyes. I wonder how fifty I look,
what I'll look like in another ten years.
I run a brush through my hair,
line my eyes, so at least - I look awake.
The smell of coffee warms the kitchen
sends it's last perk and spit before the alarm.
I open the cupboard and choose a cup.

The Guest

The Guest

A steaming kettle
screams about the race
to answer the call
and seep a Tetley
fingered tightly by a tag.

The fire burns
behind glass doors
like roses in a vase
of a chilled window.

Water falls from kettle raised
to fill a golden flight
of butterflies on bone china
set with care before an empty chair
and ironed linen.

The guest arrives,
returning from caves,
grazed by a bullet, and
mended with wood pulp paste.

Leaves float zig zags
through the glass,
flakes of ash that fold
to gently blot the lips,
that puff beneath an inquisitive stare.

6/14/2010