what we become

You recall the vine's infantile form,
fresh and newfangled,
tendrils unfolding along the virgin fence,
running the span with fluency,
capsules flush and full with new life-
frantic and aflame with fortuity-
to conceive and flower in fruition
a vernal dance of kith and kin.
You recognize same vine in dotage,
brown and bedraggled,
persisting upon the fenceline,
pods emptied of seed long ago
feeble and friable-
in wait for winter frost to set them free-
to tumble on the frozen soil
and putrefy in their dissolution.
But old vines will not crumble,
tension fastened in stiff tendrils-
they tarry as fossils,
as admonitions to future's sprouts:
this is your finality.

a look at the dead

On my mantle, 'side my bed
sit the portraits of the dead.
In soundless seconds from the past,
afore the smudged and fragile glass,
I am looking at the dead.

Watch the epoch of a life,
nuptials sweet, assurance rife;
celebrations, jubilees
inert smiles and faded glee,
catch me spying on the dead.

Ethereal moment, childhood spark
ever stagnant, halcyon hark
And in the sanguine, nebulous gleam
with unambiguous esteem
I see the dead peer into me.

On a mantle, 'side a bed
sit the portraits of the dead.
In frozen moments from the past,
behind the thin and dusty glass,
see me standing with the dead.

* * *
Written on Samhain 2017.

alkali soil & raw flesh

Encased 'neath skeleton chalk rock,

crooked with crags pressing into my sides

gnawing jagged scars deep in naked skin

but I’m comforted by the pain and then

molasses warmth creeps into my muscles

legs at first, then trunk and arms

the numbness seeps, seducing with charms

and I lose the memory of living in a body,

I’m a packed up heap in a dried-out hole

no moisture here to tickle my lips

nor to guzzle, chug, even halfheartedly sip

parched dusty desert terrain squeezing

out memory, sense and mission to maintain.

Alkali soil and raw flesh in chemical collision-

I reach out to stretch with arms restrained

but I only eke a fraction of an inch

before my body starts to jar, spasm and wrench

then sags, slumps and gives way to nature,

a sacrifice to the noonday sun

and the hungry whimsy of nighttime creatures.

vertigo lightning

Mixed sorrow and fear,
never laughing o'er the night.
Circling above my wooden terrace
clouds trace moon away from sight,
I shudder, arms drawn near.

Skulk place-to-place, then hide
your face in billowing wonder.
Skyward searches find you missing,
ears they hear only your thunder,
when comes midnight and I should be inside.

Billowous clouds, like armies marching
through the battlefields above
fill the wind with biting teeth
and the startling brightness of
death that from heaven comes arching.

Wind shushes hope from mind,
wild twirling, branches fall.
Snatching leaves early from haven,
while the ghosts of brothers call,
and dual charges grow in kind.

Engross me in willow and oak-
do not suffer my body rain,
descending acid from distant reaches
of a barren lifeless plain
with frigid fires and cadaver smoke.

Storm will take me in my slumber
sooth my wounds with electric silk
for my comfort has been neglected
the very lifeblood of my ilk
spilled in some unwitting blunder.
 
Swallow fear and then my tongue
healing agony from flame
salvation lies in execution
lascivious licks of crackling pain,
from my body, affliction wrung.

hug her up goodbye

Hard to write, harder to edit, hardest to watch. Circa 2006. To Edna & Martha, who I watched into decline.

* * *

Self-baked lipstick- cake-dried flesh
marred and brown, polluted,
thin-skinned and bound in mystery-

a witness strong, to steel you firm-
raw hands that reach, desperate,
convinced of some nobility-

I view you lying, covers tossed-
waning moon, sin-scarred voice
in whispered rasp, a victory-

a mark of stark lucidity -
a purpose found- each exhaust
contrasts your lithe fragility-

each smile the last that I might see-
thoughts confound, stealing grace,
profound depths of docility-

sliver of light from closing door
dances past cross pebbled drive-
catch breath at night's agility-

a salty taste- flow starts slowly,
glancing back, a mother's face-
the theft of rude debility.