poetomachia

lying beneath the quiet clouds
steaming lightly away from directed thought
shadows at the edge the mind is light
freshly woven, lying lightly, within grasped

the thought to seize is enough to
put to flight, even unto itself a fabric
put to rest the desire to capture
control is the key by which this sewn

free by creation and intention
held by conception, shattered with holding life

shuffling through the morning rain
wax in pocket, something to protect
cover me, shield me from pain
braces twist to pull prevent reject

i walked in beneath his wings
and i dreamed the pain didn’t hurt anymore
there was a time when i thought
wings were all that was required to soar

sealed up tight behind plaster and lathe
safe from the rain and hurricane
i’m no poe, i’m no plath
casting about for rhyme crime or metaphor
worth a chuckle, maybe a laugh
bare my soul, fill my hole
carry words bound and float my raft

i travel these streets, these buses, trains
lunch in hand, and a child’s trainers
a notebook and broken pen, breast pocket
shy to express the thoughts of a no brainer

underpass full of talk, highway full of rumor
join us in our descent complete and profane
and all our words hollow as our hearts are made to feel
we can heal and grow far beyond simply maintain

It’s not about getting into heaven
It’s not about Holier than the next guy
It’s not about keeping the boss off my back

I’m waiting for the next piece to fall into place
Sometimes I try to shake it from the sky
But it’s not about that

every birthday present a broken promise

the cold air bites and gnaws at my breath
chilling my hands and numbing my toes
as if not journaling my troubles
will disappear, can I call them foes?

Tea leaves thwart those who court catastrophe,
designing futures where nothing will occur:
cross the gypsy’s palm and yawning she
will still predict no perils left to conquer.
Jeopardy is jejune now: naïve knight
finds ogres out-of-date and dragons unheard
of, while blasé princesses indict
tilts at terror as downright absurd.

The beast in Jamesian grove will never jump,
compelling hero’s dull career to crisis;
and when insouciant angels play God’s trump,
while bored arena crowds for once look eager,
hoping toward havoc, neither pleas nor prizes
shall coax from doom’s blank door lady or tiger.

consequence perception
foregone remembrance
granted to redress
jargon porcelain

I’ll tell you something.
I’m not one to lie,
but it might leave you feelin’ cold.
I’ve been a sinner
most of my life.
Dear God, have mercy on my soul.

You like the sunshine.
That’s not my way.
I need a hurricane
to wash my sins away.

I like the rain…
I like the rain washing over me.