On Escher and Becoming

The weathered callused hand
Becoming
A yellow Ticonderoga number 2 pencil with tooth marks near the eraser
Becoming scratch patches in the textured paper
areas of light and dark
Twisting and
Becoming
Graphite dragons with just a hint of leer
in their sparkling eyes
Becoming a marching horde across the littered desk top
Each with one last enigmatic look before
Becoming interlocking sectors of light and dark
Becoming
An ancient number 2 pencil with no eraser
Becoming a younger hand

It all started with poetry

It all started with poetry
Yeah
Had to be poetry

Now look where its gone
I’ve lost all respect for Syntax
My grammar’s shot all to hell
Punctuation was never my forte
And ellipses. . . let’s not even go there
so many dangling phrases
(At least my participles are secured)

Let’s not even talk about spelling
Structure
Any kind of Authority . . .
(I’m every grammar nazi’s dream)

It all started with poetry
Who knows where it goes from here

summer’s night

On this granite precipice
On this summer’s night
Under this waxing moon

The silken wind climbs the hillside
Rubs its belly across the grey-green trees
Surges and ebbs against me
Rippling
Wrapping its fine velvet arms all around me

And yet it does not linger
Stretching . . .
reaching beyond me . . .
Running away
to dance with the green slade Sea

I stand
Lost in one thought
All my words are now but one word
And that word dances away
Dances as though caught in a river of trance
Running away to the Sea

the garden gate’s remark

Back along the ridge
down the half hidden path
murky and lined with the weeds of regret

Someone’s house in the woods
Someone’s past life lost in loneliness

The roof caved in
the front door missing
a broken face
a mouth of the past
the window agape

a tattered tongue of curtain
ripped and ragged
flicking in and out
over broken teeth of glass
speechless

Bang
the garden gate’s remark
to the passing summer wind

Time As A Journey

All this time
my love for you
has been my anvil
my heart
a pounding hammer

Here take this thing
this shiny silver thing
this fragment of poetry
and if you can
hold it to your heart
in the times when you are sad

I wait here
in this place called the past
until you grow tired of this Time thing
and cast it off as a silly notion

When I liked to swim after dark

I turn around in an empty room
and face the window
The window where the sun is setting
Your dark blue eyes deeper and darker
than the sky now rich with stars
Add to the lines in my hand
Rippling the lake in the distance

I have this picture of you
folded in my billfold
Cracked
broken
shattered
Old photos are so . .
fragile

There was a time
When I liked to swim after dark
Now there is something luminescent in the waters
Somewhere below the silvery surface of consciousness
Leviathans stir the deep waters
The movement of their mass
ripples and breaks the sky into a mosaic of
life moments and memories

And the cicadas whirred

I was opening my hand in darkness
Opening and closing my hand
Thinking about all the things we did
Things we thought about
things we’d never do
And the cicadas whirred . . .

After dinner we broke out the recliners
In the dimming light, tiny rivers of lightning
coursed the belly of the clouds
snaking toward the setting sun
Forking like the veins and arteries
the roots of my heart

I felt your hand on my heart
your smile was not pretty

And the cicadas whirred . . .