Wishlist (ef)

This is the wishlist
I never wrote,
You never saw:
my crystalline complacency
restored
my frosted permanence
thawed.

You never smiled
and made me smile.
You never came
and stayed with me a while.

I wished for nothing
and have so much more.

You’ve asked for nothing.

This is the wishlist
I never wrote,
You never saw:
the hope of my faith
healed.
Within the ink unwritten
on the paper,
an unheard prayer
revealed.

Offstage (ef)

Every-so-often
a light comes on – it’s a brief success
in the history of illumination,
but its brilliance is unscalable
and when a light comes on
every-so-often
everything that is Past is burned.

• • •

The sweet chastity of the flowerless
fades when exposed to constant bloom
as birds cavort in seedy baths
as pistils & stamens let bees impale –
fungi set their spores asail, wide-eyed,
the unflowering sisterhood observes
in shocked silence.

But the expressions on their sweet faces
and the gleam in their eyes sparkles
like a pure Christmas morning
as initiates presented
Nature’s sexy violence.

• • •

Nervously, she looks offstage
and asks,
“How am I doing for time?”

Migration (ef)

Immense globe
heedless curve
catches the eye
as it rests on
the backs of
sleeping cats
a ball borne
by the swimming
circus seal clouds
a pandering iguanadon
drops its spin
with squeals
now the screen
of a gypsy’s
spangled curtain
perfumed with smoke
the migration
of every lost tribe
fixed to follow
the wild globe
unbreak the broken.

Sunset, Madagascar (ef)

Under the coming promise of velvet night
Reality lets cautiously loose
As sunset's frail wings
Neatly clasp to the ocean's, firm
In union, perfection, collaboration
As if any old sunset would do.

Rival evenings, lost from memory
If either eye saw more beauty
Pale now, paler still
Holding soft hand to strong
At sunset's iridescent cue
Every star lets its dance begin
Under the looming curfew of dawn
Stand beside me, dance with me, too.

History (ef)

History finds safety in
the color of a mirror -
maintaining every image,
every passing scene in silver.
As compared to the originals,
it’s near-match perfection
avoids detection.
But there’s a mocking turn
and a pervasive ripple
in each offering, each
reflection.
When pushed into a corner,
so defensive it becomes!
It repeats itself
as far as the eye can section,
a possible infinity in each direction.

Rocks (ef)

So, I am just a grain of sand
washing away at the feet of space
and time
and softened and fading more with
each turn of the tide -
Is that it?

You push your foot down
and my little sketches,
and my secret language become as
shadowed
as the seas on the moon -

There’s a big, empty glass -
it’s not half-full -
I said it is a big, empty glass -
and you have to put the big rocks in
first or they will never, ever fit when
all the smaller debris starts to fall in
place -

It was only supposed to be a
dissertation on time management
but it led to deeper, more disturbing
thoughts of life management -
where life equals crisis and satisfying
moments,
Where I equal the sand that slips in
between those first-come, first-served
rocks that pushed their way into the
big, empty glass...

But, it is important to remember
that sand was once one of these big
rocks that takes the space up now
and in time
(managed or unmanaged)
the rocks will come to know this
humbleness
as their newfound tiny-ness has them
sink and tumble
between their former peers
and settle on the bottom of the glass
to keep me company.

Meantime, in the sand,
inside your footprints
unimaginably smaller things
make their way
inside my little sketches
and learn my secret language.

The First One Fell (ef)

The first one fell without remorse
a hint of smile on its facet
it was never alone
even on impact
its undirected course
the only felony incurred:
the stealing of the autumn lawn and the untintended ankle
sprained at indelicate landfall
askew, but only the first one knew
the exhilaration, the acceleration.
If one will do it the others will too,
that for all the friends who jump off bridges
because the other friend, too, knew-
it takes an eon to reach the ground...
as if each tiny hand to another’s hand was sewn,
then blown
from that high cloudy precipice
to precipitate.
The first one fell
and the million followers, too
small white crystal lemmings
so close, their bodies on the autumn lawn-
not a peak was left,
just white and on
they lay so close together
as if each tiny hand to another’s hand was sewn.

Concomitants (ef)

I will die of many things
long before I’d die of loneliness.
I will die one million times before
solitude will be the infection, that raging sore-
I have reached out
and perhaps over-defined
nevermind-
It is the foil to unaccompaniment:
this soul never feels alone,
without music to support the principal voice.
Will death diminish this
impact or effectiveness?
I would die before I’d see this so-
and never know
nevermind, let it go.
Sometimes high-
I see over all these things and into the pure heart
of the matter-
so that when low and the crowd of things grows
thick and fatter,
keep at the top of memory
the finer oils, the lighter things afloat.
Easy to find, familiar haunts-
Will I be born a million times and still
find these concomitants?

Snaps (ef)

When the finger snapped off-
it was clearly too cold-
we should know better
than to walk
into the wind-
but - its the only way
to hear it sing.
Walking away from anything
is safe, but silent.
There's no song in retreat,
not even a hum.
So, with fingers tingling
we lay them on
the panel of the wind
and mightily play its keys-
'til the finger snaps, again.