Darkest daylight

Even in the daylight, you see, I’m haunted by shadows.
They follow me, remind me, tell me another dark secret
just as a hot body promises with perfume to be a flower.
I stumble under this weight, even at noon with the sun on my bald spot like a crown,
trying to disguise things by making them shiny.
Trying to make this foolish person laugh when there’s nothing really funny.
Trying to make sounds that will echo in the dark and, at that time
I will know them alone by their real names.

Dark fingers can be seen at the corner of things holding on, waiting,
dreaming of the sadness and surprise day will know,
will know soon enough, will stager unable to cope with.
These are the dark fingers we feel inside when, on a hot day we suddenly go cold.
This is the darkness we know as inevitable as that parallel universe
when death closes our eyes and the only light, albeit bright,
will come from dreams as the light we have wrapped as a package
in this profoundly dark and impenetrable paper
is the only light that can be seen,
can be found anywhere in that permanently dark room.

There are no corners in that room, no walls and I wonder if the day
with it’s shapes and turns and rooms and windows
has any idea of what seamlessness the dark contains.
The dark contains the noisy, shiny day as keys clatter in my pocket –
can the day contain the dark
or is the universe grown too large to tolerate such a travesty?

you

you are always who i wanted
you of the long stair
thousand houses of a thousand cities
teaching chameleons disposition

teaching me not to blink
but I must
and in that moment you are gone
leaving hurting eyes that are red and dry

i must climb the stairs
or return to the street
and so i climb
praying

that je ne sais quoi trace of perfume
that empty air still following you across a lifetime of a thousand rooms

city

the door that was the doctor
opened on the stars
the neon above the entrance
was hotter than a five course meal
her eyes like wine to wash the night away
and everything was exactly an answer -
no questions allowed –
don’t even think about it –
just say yes
and stumble on the bluish shadows
raised on the crumbling sidewalk
cracks and chunks
that lead to everywhere
like a roadmap for a modern pirate
rolling dice for her life
because that’s all that’s left
just this map
these informative shadows
just this night with its neon black holes
and darker yet my desire
burning holes
in solid hearts
so lonely and strangely still

bird

hope hop tune
claws along the sidewalk
last chance bargain -
give me something
or give me death
passionate question
indifferent answer
good this time
a senior not a cat

need finds need
get in to jail free card
when life outside
has not been good -
place to go

home needed a song
good name – lucky


This little experimental sonnet is a 55 word poem, an idea coined by the inventive mind of English August. I still enjoy the form. The story is a true one I read about on a post called encounters (22 June 07) about a walk around Seattle a short while ago. I read it on her blog at: http://owlrainfeathers.blogspot.com/ .

Summer

With his own hands
He fitted the wood
Sanding, shaping, carving
But there’s much he cannot touch
The day cannot be carried in his hands
He cannot pick up love
He may hold the thing he created
But he cannot touch the beauty of it

With my ears, eyes, skin and mind
I have written this poem
It is like a box to carry beauty
I cannot own that beauty
I can only admire it
I cannot even give it away

So while there is some sun yet
Let us go into evening’s gentle breezes
Let life caress us with summer’s gentle mood
And when the night comes
Like that graceful dark cat
We’ll let it snuggle between our bellies
And purr contentedly

painting

he was afraid that you would know
he had always been himself
like a secret
that he had seen darkness
as it brooded across his mind
yes he was afraid of being
the wrong kind of human
some something –
too much of another view
of what was wrong

although he could understand why
he was perplexed
this so rested on him

every rebuff hurt so
he had to build an island
of color to hide in
waiting to be discovered
as having gone
to somewhere only
his rules applied

sleepless

charge the day with harboring a fugitive
noise sits- quietly hidden by silence
if your chair offends you call it a throne
gain a gift for naming- create reality

noise sits- quietly hidden by silence
worship power you don’t create
gain a gift for naming- create reality
i put my hand up waiting for God to call on me

worship power you don’t create
who is dawn’s mistress
i put my hand up waiting for God to call on me
did she just come or just leave

who is dawn’s mistress
perfume, cologne, satin and silk
did she just come or just leave
spider’s web of smell and touch

perfume, cologne, satin and silk
hope floats to perjure fate
spider’s web of smell and touch
we argue delicately into the night

ecclesiastes

true swing
slow debate -
when wow
is slower than an hour
and the pigs are home
before you know it
smelling of truffles
and sounding of small talk

let and live, pigs say -
when asked about physics
an answer today
is a question tomorrow
so why worry

who

the dog is a nose
not one like a cat
or monkey - not long
like a horse - though
longer seems to be
a specialty
and cold and wet too

mouse says
that makes you wonder
about a lot of things
like why does chicken
taste like everything
and a hearse is always
spread before you
like a shadow
with only death
sticking far enough
above the ground
to create it

how do you know me
only by this shadow
that creeps across
this page - this ink
these startled ramblings
woken from their
murky sleep
and driven by
someone pretending
to be their shepherd
hoping to be their helper
praying they will save me
from being myself
from being something
we both know
in darkness as
precisely an alias