Paltry Antidotes

As if, discovered slightly crooked, within its place, an apprehension.

Eggshells in false forests

children milling about unharmed by squatters,

resin ovals hung on limbs yet to be formed,

and…

crosses piercing the soggy bottom turf, of what used to be.

With this dust, resolutions fade, speck by contemplative speck.

Sometimes I am pushed, stubbornly, to loose sight of…auld lang syne

Sometimes blanketed by here and there…

Often I awaken to missing a mother’s guiding a hand…

a gesture of charity, debilitated or reflectively sublime.

Once upon a village, swaddled in quilts of yesteryear…

Once an angel with spurs

A voice only the living could hear.

Soon to be a blackout doused by fabricated flowers.

A small holiday growing smaller…as the future appears.

Complete, paltry entombed antidotes…consigned by my greatest fear.

Each one an affection for weariness

an invisible affliction

all among the petunias that had crimsoned your cheeks…so near.

 

 

 

Jubilee’s Stance

Crows have picked all sanctimonious bones from my husk, so over the hill

Doubts hurl about in the frenzy of drafty April’s afternoon

Theologians with their vestments of velvet billowing from the tundras

could never let their fibers flounder in the stance of this jubilee

This epiphany defies sectarian gospel

So much so, any shallow impetus…neither could not or would not, draw a rebirth improvisation from established misery

A sense of victory weaves as poetic vines in circles around the lies once fed

The earth does not grow beneath a prostrate bed

 

barefoot pallbearer

vanishing a toe into the surface waters

I have reached another plane

coming-to, from this a fitful union

a cow…feasting upon hay

nothing but a nervous, deliberate, ploy

constant combat towards dreamy imps

who exploit any attempts at joy

I allot to carry slurping, acidic, pails of tears until the willingness comes

or

until I am turned from friend to foe

I am not the water girl for original sin

nor a sorceress with chimes of time to ring

just a nervous barefoot pallbearer…

mistakenly trying to soak up the other side

 

 

History from Deceit

Someone drew a line in the weeds

Scrounging ’bout…nose to the ground.

An instigating mime who derives history from deceit.

I, the lone observer…with spirit intact…but intentions incomplete.

Upright..the haggard and the concrete…all the bodies, all the cavities, all the blisters.

I could not muster a retreat.

To question…

‘my worse as better than my best’

imageedit_7_6271855011

To question…

‘the other side of the weeds.’

 

tree farm

pastures of juniper, poplar, beech and alike

oxygen snatches for the modest

impoverished by city lights…

wall flowers grow difficult to define

as lumbering, celestial, equine

steady in constitutionimageedit_20_9976435218

nevertheless an uncut, honesty… simple to mock

albeit their outcries to barking giants…awaiting in the night