Stretto

Our fingers meet at point,
                          assemble, form, and bind.
And our voices touch, creating words and warmth from way of sight,
                                                                                       gain strength on soil that has scarce met rain
but now blessed by
                                    bloom,
we taste awe and
if
I close my eyes, I can see your kindred secret fear.
                  Your limbs are doe eyed, grasping roots,
                                 steadied only by my nimble rise.
Now woven,
                                    each separate
                                                     turn returns to theme,
                                                                        overlapping borders.
Tear down the last of my
        defenses,
my fruitless imitations of excuse.
          Erode with captivation my constitution of
          exclusion.
My length rode in on stipulation but here in dell of derivation,
source
                 of vegetation,
                                  I find I'm more inclined to linger.
Inside chimerical divulgement, delicious verse, verbs are vows of sorts,
                                         so I bow now, less uncertain than before,
                                                beneath this fiery blush of budding.
                                                                             Scrawl the script and I
                                                                                    will supervene.
Shape my shadows, and rearrange the memories of my cells, one by one, to free me.
Readjust each feeble freshness I imagine
with
                                                                cease of wind
and in this brush,with driven valuation, pops of color will reemerge,
a fashioned replica of flourish, now revisited.

The Sunday Whirl


                                                     

song of night

Together,
we are song of night,
                      inflection of
                                   fear
matching pitch of pleasure,
melody weaving need - a living thing. A longing
           waiting
for a time,
      a rhyme, for the power of day to
leave
and belief to level.  Desire gasps
      beneath the suffocation of all that is granted and all
that is
                                          found,
and the tune
graciously
gathers the lost while the tempo
gathers speed.
                        We are the lost, and the beat pounding is
                                           sounding like the voices of settling
repetition and my ears burn warm.  Curved by
                                                         void, I flow and every no I've known is
                                                              drowned out by the interlacing of sensation throbbing
               
                                                                     triumphant.
                                                                        I am halved, mind running,
                                                                                                                          gone and mad but
body here, though barely, becoming
                                        craft.
 I am skin coated dust,
patterned currency and you
the specialty, circling my weight, my instinct, my thirst.
                You hold my disquiet bent like a long,
long held
                                                    note.  The key floats above, sharp, but though I
                                                                                              strain, I can't make it out.  I don't know you.  I am
tearing beyond repair in the air in this room.  I am parabolic
   and you labor for another turn.  You are driven by
sight and I am needing now to listen,
pair
pain with pain and still play on.
 Above my shape, choose wisely to compose the score.
         Elevated, feign mastery, elegance.  Ease
                               me into
                                      not what you think but into what I feel.  Show me how
                                         to grip
and guide between surrender,
mesh with absence so the night is filled with
music.  We are the same, and I need to hear your
                                              name.  Thrum but low so I can taste
                                                          the rain.

The Sunday Whirl 
                   

He

He arranges neatly each item.  His possessions.  Obsessively.
                Squarely.
With wonted urge for leaving and a pride in lack;
wanderlust greater than desire for her
                                                                                       flesh.
So, he pockets wallet,
secures beneath adam's
                         apple,
the bowtie she called stupid,
in
 the pocket opposite, places
         pocket knife,
             cherished but unused.
In another pocket, this on shirt, he positions pen.  He is nothing if not prepared.  Lastly, glasses,
                                      so he can see.  See
the courage in her
 he's never owned nor known.  Tall, erect, unchanging, he
     stands,
surveys woman and her home. Her
                              heartbeat deafens - or is that his? She
                                     bleeds color and her house is
                                            stained.
Her frame moves, forms to fit, then
           moves again.
Her flux unlike his.
                        She is not restless but free.
                        Self-luminous and
                                              alluring.
He almost reaches out.  She flickers -
reality-
he stops. Turns from her burning flush, (She is sharp and shimmering.  He is shadowed.)
winces at the
hanging illustration he
has always hated.
                    The likeness that emasculates,
                    the tantalizing blues,
                             inviting blacks.
She, violaceous as these, voluminous, visible,
open,
                           tinged in too sultry sapphire, thirsty and in bloom.
                                                               Her
                                                               hues intrigued, now they
                                                                            glare and question.
All he has
is his.
      So, he pockets, now,
mock of power,
straightens what he can purport is wisdom,
                                                       departs with practiced lie.

Write at the Merge

Preoccupation

The last verse of a poem becomes a mourning song
        and the golden leaved trees in a forever
                                                     fall
                                                       accompany
                                                       and lull
and bind
with precious strings,
                              so many small deaths.

The link of a friendship, once - a replaying
                                                                  note
and our fingers untwine, release, simply to scale this instrument of passing.

In time becomes in tempo
as if overnight
and in place becomes a pulse; stretch of second chance -
a stanza translating back to ode, and if either
melody or epic might speak to you, I'd sing or
write.

Your conscience is mine, slopping sloppy, blurred
and sick.
This gift of imperfection detected through all the
words you can not say.
So, the mistakes we made
                          together,
but now alone I'm finding rest
and this
peace,
   a gift I would compose
           if only I
     could find the form that in any hour past would lift.

The Sunday Whirl
                                     
                                                                         

Here

Maybe I could lie,
                                                                                          sing a cradle song of dedication.
God knows, the mother side of me can feel your absence hanging on my hip,
but, baby,
                                                                         you'd make out contradiction in my tune and in my
          tone and in my lilt, so I guess it's clear, today, I'm writing not a lullaby but swan song,
                 and ungraceful as it is,
                     this
                        is what I'm bending to.

We're here again at deadlock, pressure building quickly and the climb it takes
            to curb the cries is far too high.
                             I've got miles still to travel,
here on level ground and I'm keeping now to path of daylight,
                                 dusty but holding view
cause the road at night is full of wanderer's and no one's playing cool.

Listen, can you hear my name in the void?

The trees are swaying, much like you, but their branches call me home.

I've
   evaded long the longing, killed the fear by numbing, coped by taking orders from those with foreign tongue; men in dapper dress
                          and evil on their lips.  I've poured my heart out to
                                            the weak and tasted my own defeat in poisoned kiss.  I've payed with purity, and sold my mind for one more chance then prayed for soul return. I've taken more than I can give and now I'm finally choosing freedom and the truth.  So, standing at the push and shove it's strain of protest prompting, and the might of all that's finally right that moves me on.  

The Sunday Whirl