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The Edge

I stepped too close,
found myself looking into a dark hole
that held my future
which looked like nothing.

The edge of that abyss
that is called depression
is exhausting
sickening
terrifying
and compelling.

When hope feels as hard to find
a shards of glass in moving water,
and light is as faint as the echo
of a match blown out,
that edge crawls with seductive whispers,
promising ease.

Never forget that depression lies.

A Frozen Spring

First a winter that would not cool, and now a spring that will not warm.

Snow flies thick as fruit flies on old bananas in summer,
Heavy flakes full of the icy tears of angels crying for the lush heat of heaven.

The cold crushes spirits, makes us walk with heads bowed
not in prayer, but in submission, or perhaps penitence,
as we watch our world disappear in a swirl of unforgiving white.

I am still, crumpled in despair by a garden
never to bloom or so it feels,
the only heat that of my blood as it pulses slower, slower,
slower
through my fading body.

 

(Note to readers: Even though National Poetry Writing Month officially ended yesterday, I realized that I am seven poems short, so I am going to make up for the missing verses. Besides, I’m really enjoying writing poems again.)

Surreality

The shadows surround each parked car,
glooming up,
swallowing hoods and fenders,
lurking in front of darkened headlights,
stealing away as my eye
catches their evil.

Innocent bunnies
bare fangs
and have a Mexican stand-off
in the middle of the street,
dashing off angrily in opposite directions
when I approach.

A dog barks deeply
the sound lingering
in my backyard,
spreading out thickly through the
cool, damp, air.

I do not have a dog.

It is snowing in May.

I tremble from exhaustion,
fumble with the light switches
curl up in a soft bed
and live inside my dreams.

Across The Bar

At a certain time of afternoon,
The sun spills across the tops of the mountains
peeking out beneath a layer of cool woolen clouds,
Bathing lucky in souls in rapt light
Turning the ordinary into gold
And each of us – briefly -
into Midas.

On Regrets

I once gave you a two-headed coin
to protect you from fates that hurt you.

Now, you choose to hurt me with your words,
again
And I am thrown into the River Styx,
again.

I do not want to be here,
again,
trying to breathe.

I hope the ferryman
will accept that coin as payment.

Please ask him to take care
not hit me with his oars
as you pass by
for I have been hurt
enough.

The Fiddlehead Ferns of Fate

The passionate young man in overalls
has aged gracefully.
He tends his garden as he tends his children,
lovingly and in such a way
that each progeny,
be it flesh and blood
or root and leaf,
knows that it is treasured.

The wildness of soul is –

For now –

Expressed in a mystical empathy with beautiful beasts
and in decadent desserts.

He has danced in the pouring rain
and judged the quality of absinthe in a dim cafe
and always remembered a single promise.

A man of such heart
deserves
the cool and wonderous touch of fate
found in another’s hand to hold
as he passes through
this sun-dappled world.

I hope
he finds it
somewhere admist the ferns.

A Writer’s Spring

In a different realm,
the road to the future is paved with words.

They spiral before me on a natural path,
scrolling and spilling.

Spirits tell me
Some words will be kicked aside
and some will be embraced,
but just now,
no one knows which will
be which.

It is finally time
to take pen in hand
And turn
down the path
toward a writer’s spring.

 

Under A False Sky

The gondoliers drift idly by
Singing sotto voice for the tourists
As they ply their poles and their trades
Through the blue waters of the canal.

In the square, statues come to life,
If you watch with care,
And buskers play and sing for coins
With carefree abandon.

A wandering wench sells masques
To help you partake in the pleasures of the city
In safe anonymity.

And the sky changes from cerulean blue
To rose-tinted,
Blending with muted gold
Drifting into midnight blue
As the square lights brighten to the darkness.

You can almost forget
where you are.

Almost.

Life With Writer

It must be hard to live with
a writer.
We are always
having a thought
that must be written down
and so,
our eternal quest for a slip of paper
a smartphone notepad
a pen from which we can squeeze
the last drop of ink
if we think
hard enough.
Our poor partners,
always solicitously enquiring
if we are all right,
if something is bothering us,
concerned if perhaps
we are upset,
forgetting
that when we
gaze out the window at the rain
we are not
melancholy –

well, perhaps a bit melancholy,
but it suits our souls –

we are just
making lyrical turns of phrase
from the droplets
weeping down the glass panes.
Just comfortably spinning yarns
and playing with words
and listening to the dance of the world,
hoping that we can remember the sound of soft wind
long enough to make note of it
somewhere that will last.

 

In A World of Shadows and Reflections

The man exists only
on the other side of the revolving door –
except revolving doors
by definition
have no sides.

Twin doves coo
in a white birch tree, barren of leaves –
but in a twist of head and fate,
I tread on ravens,
stark in dead limbs.

Whispers caress the shell curl
of a sleeping ear –
as an explosion of imaginary sound
awakens the dreamer,
disturbed by the dream.

A constant and complacent companion
conspicuous in her absence –
paints black pictures on sunstruck walls,
but lives a secret life
between death and darkness.

July 2014
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