Monday, February 25, 2013

The trees stand in cold repose,
weathering winter's irrational moods.
Most of them have grown, and lost, branches low down along their trunks
branches borne in the springtime
in the bright light and perfume of arboreal ardor.
But now scars in the shape of watchful eyes have taken their place,
and the newest branches grow higher and stronger,
with their fibers intertwined more deeply with the pith of the stem.
The tree behind my dwelling stands a little apart
no scars, but the first branch, the lonely branch,
grows higher along the trunk.
Let us hope it stands strong in the breezes of contemplative summers.

Monday, February 18, 2013

The day has not begun for people yet.
Yet the sun stretches,
sweeps the floor with his fingertips,
disturbs lazy dust motes that hang around the shelves.
He lets himself in through the ebony-framed window panes,
and lays himself down on the mahogany desk
smiling and soaking in the smell of history.
The sandalwood elephant, with a chip in its left tusk,
no doubt the result of some heady attempt at writing down his own epic tale,
is amused.
He converses with the sun through a staring contest for two,
and lets his mind wander through the silent, frozen paths
of the forest painted in oils.
He can hear his own tail swishing along in the warmth of the canvas memories
and the birds sing with sweet abandon.

Thursday, February 14, 2013

Holding hands and dancing in a circle,
the children laughing all the while
the hidden smirks
the broken promises
and casting the first stone with ease;
tease
then release into the confusion
a rite of passage off the platform
before you could form your own worldview
true to the moment and sore to the point of no return
falling to the ground and cracking the spine
of a book that's been read twice from a dusty old shelf on the library.
The litany of brahmanical priests leading me from sunrise
and dropping me into the crazed cacophony of individuality,
I cannot chart these waters with somebody else's broken moral compass,
and with the astrolabe that emerged from the lips of Venus,
nor by the sun that burns my lost chakras.
I put up a feather bed on the balance tip of a crescent moon
and rock till the day begins.

Thursday, February 07, 2013

et in Elsinore ego

The wind with wide sweeping arms
cradles the weary on the great open plain.
The tired eyes fix upon the crashing columns of basalt
and their trembling hands
wipe the tears of regret and shame with a dirty sleeve.
Having lost a million brothers,
and two million sisters
since yesterday
they can only break camp, and,
hoisting their belongings on a shoulder,
bear further into the realm of sunlight that the future grants.

Monday, February 04, 2013

Otis sings the blues

The taste of the same old pain
singing the sweet refrain
of the sun
ceding to the morning rain.

The drum rolls of thunder remain
echoing through the halls of the day
and I sink deep
into the black satin sheets of dismay.