The Bruised Bride

It's the way his hand falls,
                                      catching the light
                                 almost cutting in.
Rapid flashes uperceptable of light shadow light
As his hand moves in front of the desk lamp.
It's the light of a train skittering through a tunnel

dark light dark

His eyes don't move but stay steady and enraged

dark dark dark

It's when the hand lands
                                    then it stops flickering
and suddenly
                                                                  everything is clear
and hazy.

Grief

I see the shadow of the rain as its about to fall,
Gray ribbons in the air like northern lights
Strewn over my vision a mantle of my self-deception.
There are no golden fields or glassy lakes that I see,
Flashing by in half-manifested reality,
The starry starry night gone past tranquil to empty pale,
And all I see is the shadow of the rain.

Returns

No definitions and no strings

An instrumental duet between drummer and flautist:

Steady unbreaking and blending tone

filled with varying change.

Young and sometimes still childish the

curling melody believes herself free

but comes back again to the steady rhythms.

No demands and few questions

Just the lazy falconer holding his arm out and up:

Unthinking and generally calm
weighed against her skyborn temperment.
Wheeling she might stray far from him
but she knows and so does he
his arm is home unthinkingly.

Gutless Generation

TV blaring video games firing guns

and automobiles,

Cacaphony of clamors and lost coins rambling

Drowning out sermons of book or parent.

Runaway junkie daughter parked on

her corner of street,

Selling wares only the rich can keep;

But Joe Blo'll pay the eleven minutes

and she'll get her fix eventually.

Teenage bumblers hop on a bus:

Theirs is a different part of town

with shopping malls.

Shiny cars line the streets and behind

silver glass dolls display wares only they will wear but everyone buys.

The church is dead and God needs a megaphone,

Responsible adults need shotguns 

to get anywhere with the rotten core of society these days.

Ophelia Drowned

Ophelia drowned was beautiful still,
With frail palor and silken skin,
Flower guardians to shepherd her way
From ebb to flow from tide to day.
We drowned her and nothing's the same,
Lost our cause to falling tears,
Blinding aims have slain our goddess,
Doused the stars of fire
Brought the world to silence
Kills his love undoubtable,
Too much water we wept for ourselves
And for our flaws Ophelia's drown'd.

Judgement

Poetry is sometimes lost in its making,

Words lose their meanings inevitably in the despair.

Even the most plain speech fails to matter,

When all I see in your eyes,

                                  smiling so calmly,

Is the flash of the sword behind me.

First

He is coffee's aftermath,
The drowning colours of caffeine and smoke.
Butterflies storming
Washing off the desire of a bulletproof vest.
Run fingers through dark hair
Catching fragile in silk cement applied that morning.
He is the beauty of the Tarot deck.
Kiss the night of woven fingers
Beyond the violetly soft JD and coke.