A flying carpet of
sugar maple leaves
unfurls along my road.
Just enough light to glimpse
silhouettes of yellow trees
against the dove grey sky.
Tenacious… one leaf
clings to the bough
after today’s wind storm.
Amazing how many stars
fit inside my windowpane.
We visited the graveyard often
Even though we knew no one
In the graves themselves
It was at the crest of a hill
As if to place the dead skyward
With my Polaroid camera, I would
Snap photos of the markers, hoping
And simultaneously not hoping
That in one of them there would be
The wisp or specter of a ghost
When the products popped out
There was always that moment
Of ethereal mystery as the image
Faded into firm being.
She’s on fire, again!
Amber lighting up her eyes
like hungry wolves out hunting.
Smiling has never been so easy,
natural or dizzying.
There’s a ‘Whoosh’
to every train of thought.
Hiccups and Stuttering
to her normally delicate speech.
An intoxicating invasion
is happening somewhere deep inside…
and it’s shudderingly conquering.
The smell of tulips
is absolutely everywhere,
it must be her dead Grandmother
passing on happy blessings.
She’s kissing teacups bold
without even meaning to
and no longer
counting single magpies only.
Dresses instead of trousers,
brave enough for hats,
emerald crushed velvet
and black-less colours.
Life’s safety bar
is still slightly in reach…
but no longer white-knuckled
and held by panicked breathing.
More at http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.
The way he says
get ready, gear up
makes me imagine
an internal clock
cog kicking against cog,
a furry creature
turning a wheel
at the center of him
smell of rubber
and onions
fueled by the gas
station cappuccino
and constant soda
streaming into him.
The invisibility of it is enough
The way it walks around with us,
Mingles, awaits us, warns us,
Statistically part of so many.
We know causes, list them,
Warn ourselves against them,
Even joke about them at times.
The inevitability seems ironic,
So many of our favorite things
Have come back to haunt us.
We raise the money each year,
Through the mail, over the phone.
We walk, we bike, we bake, and
Plan again for the next two years
And beyond, as far as the best
Of us can foresee or imagine.
It’s like looking at a timeline for
The Crusades, the Hundred Years
War, the Thirty Years War, WWI
WWII, on and on, they keep up,
Keep coming, the endless causes,
Treatments and temporary solutions.
I began by floating
above the dull earth, but
soon found that my ascent
was moving in the opposite
direction. A few words later,
an insult here or there,
placed like a hidden blade,
and I was finding my way
quickly to the terrestrial
realm from which I rose.
The neighbors were the same,
and their cooking smelled
somehow worse.
Their children still crowded
the streets like homeless
wanderers.
Now I am merely a heap,
a might-have-been soon
to become a must-have-been
and then a who-was-that.
You think he’d be more grateful.
Neither rich nor poor he’s
never wanted for anything.
He’s always had what he needs
but never had any gratitude
until the day his car broke down
in a poor neighborhood and he
got out of his car to wave the
tow truck down and gasped
at the poverty around him.
He’ll catch hell about this
the next time I shave.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.
Within flutter
migratory birds
on wings
winter’s sun
is peripatetic
and once more
love swoons.
I wear masks of time
as hills brood
on sealed coffins.
Landscape of frenetic days
linked to the demands of now,
and inside it she and me,
one a prowling wolf,
the other an astronomer probing space.
We cling to the present
with our sharp telescope
and our precision claws
until a branch snaps beside us
and she lunges from her lair,
spine flexed, teeth bare,
constellations decoding the moment
with their pack light.
I’m going to imagine
a better life for us
painting its bright bits
with neuron connections
finding the reality in
gray pallet, washed over
tones of the real world.