DON'T YOU JUST

Don't you just
love days
that flower
full of song
and lack regret?
The ones where
you awaken,
as if
still dreaming,
inexplicably
delighted?
You stay
still,
hold your
breath,
listen
hard before
you ease
like Sol into
the shining sky.

No words
can portray
days like these,
none adequately
explain
the gift
of them,
a present you
construe
ephemeral.

Wonder
how to
transform
into something
permanent.
Know
the folly of
trying to
objectify
or water
flowers unreal;
the wilting
of dreams
other
than lovely.

UNDER THREAT OF DREAMS

Under threat of dreams destroyed
or another run of terrible times
I am going back through my memories,
skipping over the ones that are hard
to think about now
Letting them dissolve in mists of scarlet
Trying instead to touch those that mean
the most, the ones that jump forward,
chiming clear as a church bell
on a Sunday morning
It's not enough to try and remember
the kiss of a child crossed with the tears
of yesteryear
Group it all together and maybe, just maybe
I'll have more left than expected.

DAYS

Mornings are
worst;
she can't sell
herself first gear
before the sun's
full up and has
a theory
that coffee,
fresh ground
doesn't kick
in until after
noon.

Her buddy from
the back lane
sneaks through
the trees there,
past the
elementary
school's yard
then her's,
crowded with
a stealth
of demons.

He catches
her unaware
even though
she knows
he's coming.
He always
comes,
but still has
the ability
to scare
the bejesus
out of her,
and leave
her trembling
long after.

ON THE CUSP OF RECALL

The woman holds
a basket woven from
spiders-web silk.
It's filled
with traditions
forgotten,
and she wanders
through
the sleeping city
trying to remember
the architecture
of love,
the customs
that combine
to make a life.
She feels close
to grasping
the notion,
but before
her mind
can get a fix—
it separates
and she is
left tremulous
with despair.

AN ASSEMBLING OF POEMS

Alarming poems,
thirsty for gossip,
slink from Dante's
storm drains
Creep through
streets, dark
with secrets,
to where poets
famous, and not,
gather in salons.

They meet
to speak,
their tongues
bathed in bronze
cognac, keen
as razors.
Pretend to think
loftily, mouth
ideas of import.