An Eppiphany

It was an offering of Agnus Die,

a love of lamb gone to laughter.

The sharing of a last supper,

a rabbit who held the fast

of a petting, in stoic silhouette

under the table.

The light of a feign shone

clear as a candle,

waxen point of an alchemist boil-

disseminating gentle bubbles of hubris.

A symbol shone bright as a shield

of remembrance, diamonds gleamed shyly

from eternity.... eight up-righted

from a bottle of broken glass ... green

as the color of healing demise.

Two bubbles teetered from a prism of light,

a curtain of orange sarcophagus liquid

of a laid to rest Psyche. Cupid slinging arrows

to the partaking of body and blood...

and the wafting of apple-nut muffin...

Aphrodite was lost upon a sea of reign.

He beats his rose colored window

in a tantrum of arrogance,

as she in bucolic fragrance

of milk and manure feeds her lambs,

while his sword protrudes cold and hard

from clarent waters to a stone hearted lair.

Falling Softly

In the chilled blanket of an ever darkening night

still cricketed with pale murmurs of pleading chirp,

a swarm of rustling lives beyond the misty leave

of a wispy ghostly breath... I listen stilly

to the eerie sound of an unseen screech-,

owl wooing and trilling into a falling kiss.

Leaves by day tipped in colors, grave and orange,

of jams, preserves, and marmalades

now settle for slumber at an early dusk.

The drowsy colors of imagination

are asleep and drifting skyward

into the black, and white, and gray

of a nightly settle.

The Moon, in golden yellow,

her pesky arc is the lamplight,

shedding her gauzy mercy

upon the sleeping calamity of colorful lids-

just before they're dying.

Flower Girl

The frosty memory of an opaque invitation,

the bars from a moot paned past

sang in strangled cords

leading to a webbed site seek-

the park, the rain, and other things-

words not found in a memory's title search,

but recognized as true, from the words of import

surrounding bovine images of aging glances.

The sharing of a fragrant puff of past

delivered as gently as the passing of food

from a mother bird's mouth

to the sigh of an open kiss,

tasting of moss from a darkened cellar.

And then the thought of O'Briens,

the ramshackle tavern visitation

where pig tails, and hopscotch

and cotton mouthed briefs

were readily tainted

from the stained glass window

of a lip glossed swallow.

Victorious is a Feminine Word

They swill, and spit, and run

for bravado,

to the heights of acclaim

of everyone's desire...

a kicked ball of father,

mother, community, and

the voyeuristic world

of a televised match.

Simmer on a playing field

of pinny, too demure

for a tackle, we were

taught to succumb,

and a Succubus was born.

In the afternoon math

of the locker room chatter,

a slut became the victor...

as the showered men of soap

wore rope, as their greatest rage.

The Tuna Sandwich

She nervously nibbled a crust

of the whitefish mountain of

diner sandwich,

as he looked on

with a sultan's glower

over her innocence,

and a bit of lettuce in her teeth.

The napkin became her fan,

as her eyes lowered.

Fast forward 35 years...

Alone after the sultry glow

of his innocent eyes,

she devoured her whitefish sub,

licking fingers,

catching fragments in her palm

and then popping them

into her mouth.

Only when she felt

the dripping juice

of milky nectar,

did she wipe her mouth clean...

a coquette's fan was not essential.

Swimming in Seaweed

The ocean beckoned

in rolling wave

of rippled tongue,

foaming at the mouth

to the parch

of a hungry shore.

"Too cold," he said,

from the mouth of Jersey,

"not fit for swimming...

those oceans of the Pacific."

Hah.. I thought, while

stepping into my

shrunken shadow,

as the curling nip

of a dappled lick

lapped my toes.

A cool, clear stride into

the shallow, with the

burnish of orange plaited

bamboo, and nippled puck

of green flapping appendage

lurked as a scrimshaw

pattern etched on bone.

I plucked the vilified tangles

of eww, and waved the slimy

waxen fronds overhead

to a voo-doo beat

of the drums

of sacred drone.

Then gliding as a feckless

and freckled purpose,

kicking in twisted

dance, waves frolicked...

then lifted me to

greater heights of jump

than could be

rendered on the grainy patch

of a sun kissed beach.

I Have Seen Mountains

They stand in sloping mounds and points,

undaunted by the floating of clouds, mists,

flocks, and darkened torrents...

Whitened and glistening of sugar, coated

twinkles in the honey kissed shade of the sun,

or dark and loamy lurking across a desolate landscape,

the majestic mystique of barons and baronesses

watching sheep graze scrub on the fragmented

land of ancient peasants and listless fairies.

Gliding down a blue ridge of brontosaurus back

under a darkening skyline with a setting sun

as a spotlight on a fading day of yesterdays dream.

They rise illuminated and unfettered by the wily jumping

of creatures of the night below or the creeping of headlights

under their incline of caution, the descent of terror

rides with the pump of the pedal.

And Oh how the sun sets on table tops in the distance

redden unashamed by the lowering and hiding of the sun...

Another world away, over the dusty scrub of prickly cacti

who scatter before the mounding of boulders awash

and bleached white by a noon day sun, cordoned behind

the barb of a wire fence, a tawdry necklace for the mighty ones.

At the end of a land, the friendly smile of guards on the border

greet the passing presence of those who belong...

Among the salty sand of towering peaks and grainy beach

an arid question is begged... what is there to gain here? Really.

And though I've seen these beauteous beings who make me feel small,

and mock at how far I think I have come... I keep searching the world,

my oyster, for the pearl of wisdom I lost somewhere.

The Launchpad

Raining tears as a cleansing goodbye,

farewell from dusted sills

and lacy languid curtains

that whispered the secret...

it's time to go... somewhere... West.

In a packed caravan with baggage,

and boxes, and pictures of places already seen

in memory of the many hangings.

A catapult to the future, stretching

the canvas of imagination and intrigue.

Two men sat in syncopated rhythm

of their shared lifetime, in uniforms

of their generational divide.

Only the eyes foretold their

shared conspiracy, as a woman

of chance was comforted by

their sidelong glances of dimpled delight.

She sat musing in quiet song

amongst the cargoed stuffing

of a one-way trip and the return duffle...

her reptilian travel bag relegated to the back.

The drops fell cool in the pelting

of the vessel of launch,

as the once proud house with a

For Sale sign bid farewell

to this final launch...

the last refuge at a point of no return...

The launch completed with the release

of a brake pedal

laid down towards a western sky.