love letters

I want to

move my fingers

over your

smooth grammar

caress your

long vowels

wrap myself

in your

strong syntax

pull your

discourse

to my breast

fold you up

tuck you

in the pocket

of my heart

uncrease you

in the dark

decode you

over and over

again.

Red Car

It was a blue car,

But in my mind it was red,

And in the light your face

Was blue then white then red.

Somewhere to the side

A giant boy, his stomach,

Shining white and red,

Grinned in the neon light,

And even then I thought

How very ludicrous,

How simply funny

That your face flashed

White then blue then red

And the car flashed blue then red

Beneath the smile

Of a red and white boy

And the blue and white faces

Moving in the neon night

And the changing flashes

Of the pulsing light

That was blue then white

Then red.

Morning Sail

On either side

We smooth the waves,

In concert,

Billowing the sails

And tacking west then east,

Bearing for the strait.

It is! It is!

There’s nothing to be had

In pointing fingers.

But I wonder if like me

You wish that you

Could cross the gulf

To reach the other side.

Nevermore

If you read here regularly, you know I rarely post prose fiction. Suddenly, at the last minute, though, I caught the fever from Clarity of Night and entered this piece in Jason's 250 word flash fiction contest that uses the picture above as the prompt. I'm posting it here just because...

Nevermore

The search has gone on for days now. It’s a story made for the media – famous poet, lover of famous poet, disappears into thin air. At first, she used the cameras to plead for someone to come forth. Now, she avoids them as best she can. She’s a prisoner in her own home, fearful of coming outside lest they thrust a microphone in her face and shout for a quote to tell what she might or might not know.

And all along, she’s waiting for someone to just look up. Sometimes she wants to shout, “Can’t you see it? The damn thing’s right above your heads!” But they don’t test the sky for answers.

They think they’ll find him in the river. They suspect he wanted to imitate the one whose works he spent his life defining. Well, they burned his heart on a beach, and this black heart is swinging through the sky.

It’s funny they haven’t thought of the man she’s spent her life defining.

She thinks by now it resembles nothing so much as the silhouette of a huge bird, its large black form lifted on the breeze, swinging loose above her. And just at midnight when she feels her weakest, she thinks she hears it tap, tap, tapping.

She's grown weary of her demon lover, swinging through the sky above her, rapping on her chamber door, urging her to tell her story.

Quoth the lady, “Nevermore.”

winter tarry

Small creatures
shoulder stones
of sundered sky;

even Atlas could not try

the weight they carry,

nor Zeus himself

nudge Gaia’s fertile thigh

to set in flight

their huddled winter tarry.

Danse Carlos

You still, Carlos,

Gone to dreams,

Command me

To my toes

In upstairs rooms.

But try as I might

I find nothing much

Left for your admiring.

I am all over limbs

And breasts

That fall beneath the weight

Of long past need.

Yet when I lift my dress

And croon your joyous song,

Can you hear with me

Echoes of your singing?

Can you see me dance

When everyone is sleeping?

Who is to there to say

You would not love me still?

I lift my arms and twirl

Beyond the silken mists,

I dance and sing your song

In the light of your strong will.

With loving gratitude to my friend Bob, who gifted me with William Carlos Williams all over again.