Sequence Poem

Prayers for the Week

I.                   Sunday

A small stone, held between my fingertips

and rolling slowly up my arm to stop

just beneath my heart. It makes me stand still

walking in the street with my hands open

and reaching up to the stars. I glance down

to see how those eyes look in the moonlight;

like leaves blowing in the autumn morning

down by the river where I used to write

love poems for the sun and odes for gravel.

I’d walk those eyes there, talk about water

colors as they drip down the page to drown.

I thought I’d seen my reflection in the cold

lapping pool full with frescoes of blonde girls

pacing dark rooms and singing of poets gone.

II.                Monday

I flip the stone, toss it through both of my hands

letting it fall slowly between heartaches

and half hearted crushes, memories of brown

and white rolled into one, down an old street

where I once laid my head in bone weary

exhaustion. Now I can see the soldiers

as they pass, surrounding me like a design,

pottery laid to dry in the dying light

forgotten by its maker, thought of as smoke

rekindling itself at every dawn

just to wander again through the dirty air.

I thought I saw my reflection in the cold

lapping pool full with frescoes of brunette girls

pacing dark rooms and singing of white sunsets.

III.             Tuesday

The stone moves to my mouth and I kiss it –

I let it stumble to the ground, bouncing once

before becoming sad and slipping away

under the covers to keep itself warm.

I take it home to those eyes     let them go out

in the night, see why my skin burns to the touch,

for my gossamer secret, why I sleep

wide awake and cold, severed from frailty

and dreams of a man in black with thick thumbs.

Once I walked with my arms held together,

straight like a rod and fading at twenty one.

I thought I’d seen my reflection in the cold

lapping pool full with frescoes of red haired girls

pacing dark rooms and singing of frozen tears.

IV.             Wednesday

One morning I woke to the ringing alarm

of a two way turn, one road buried in snow,

the other lost in the mist, shrouded hope

flying through concentration camps and ghettos.

With those two eyes now gone I grab two more

from the floor, ovals in the nocturnal sky,

beautiful in the moonlight and growing

like daisies in a field, little smiles set

every three feet for me to pick and hide

behind my ear for rainy evenings in bed

with only the future over my head,

a life that may not flourish more than two years

in the light of god’s love. I may choose to break

tradition like a stick against this stone.

V.                Thursday

A daisy trickling its leaves down my hand,

petals floating through my lungs until I sneeze,

blood pouring into the sheets until the end

of dawn, a couple of red pills and dinner

with pretty girls, no sleep and stumbling

through class my eyes bleary and red as roses.

A daisy picked and held against your nose

to count the rows of yellow potential

sprouting from the basin of loves deep roots

stretching to the earth’s core until they burn

dissipating into fog and floating

up to the half drunk rising sun, shadows

crawling through empty hallways back home

to find me in my bed lifting my eyes.

VI.             Friday

The daisy grows from the stone, settling

itself among children as they play, laughing

and bouncing around the house, my bones warm

in the soft sunlight. Now it is easy

to stand by myself, dropping these rusty weights

to the ground and letting them roll away

down the hill. I want to know each speck of light

as it dances with the world, overwhelming

and vibrating, filling you up and bringing

you back down. They walk to my early

grave full of happiness, my family:

turning me over and placing coins

on my eyes. They say I died in love;

saturated with the smell of fields of gold.

VII.          Saturday

I thought I saw my reflection in the cold

lapping pool full with frescoes of stunning girls

pacing dark rooms and singing old folk songs

to men passed out on the street, curled up

in a ball wondering if they’ll wake up

from this vicious dream soaked in angel dust.

I pulled those ovals from the sky, eyes willowed

and thoughtful, grasping me in the warmth

of a conversation in the rain. My heart

is weak and flopping slowly to the end,

my father smiling through the haze of the moon

with his thick thumbs fumbling through sepia

toned photographs. I wish only for strength;

a Sunday morning when I can rise alone. 

Poem in Meter

Water Ballons

For e.e.c.

Some sunlight pours

                through maple trees

alighting on

                 the ground.

They walk slowly

                  tiptoeing down

this old slipping

                water slide –

where bubblegum

                whistles the news

and dances far

                 and long

across pavement

                 hot with the blues

and breaks them in

                 to songs.

Sometimes they cry

                   and move around

trickling up through

                   the waves.

Sometimes I try

                    to get them by

and in-just spring

                    they do. 

Poem in Iambic Tetrameter

In a Brightly Lit Room

There are twelve tiles across the floor,

four colors hanging on the wall –

and a small photo in the corner

of a young girl with willowed eyes

that watch as I draw little lines

and splatters across the canvas,

searching for red, four kinds of blue

and a smile to the dancing moon. 

The willows wallow in the frame,

curled brown slopes, sanded down

to perfection, lined with golden jewels,

thirty-two, eight on each milky side. 

Free Verse

Walking in a Dream

Through nights of dormant sleep

I walk, chasing lines around

tabletops and (in a dream)

waiting for the call of the sun

as it rises through the fog, lost

without the moon and falling

(in a dream) to San Francesco

where I rise from the earth

ready for my drunken jog

(in a dream) through burning light

lost like a lonelily petal

floating to my bed once more. 

A Sonnet

an understanding comes in the small things

i gently brush hair from a pretty girls eyes

as she smiles     waiting for a small response

in her fingers, the quick flick of her tongue

as it beats the sides of her mouth, or knowledge

of the finest brand rolling from her lips      burning

like scotch against a strung out heart. i hear

a quiet sound walking between the rooms, a ghost

passing slowly around each voice. i gently

laugh at a pretty girl as she stumbles away

making each moment in the sun softer,

each needle mark recede faster, each second

shine brighter. i gently watch as the shadows turn

forcing thoughts and small moments into flower pots

and urns filled with grey ashes floating back home. 

Free Verse

The Minstrel’s Song

I dance on clouds

and walk past the moon

slowly stumbling

to the mellow earth

where people stand

in the sun and buy

shade that I sell cheap

from under my swollen

eyelids, my mouth

moving around the words

called “follow me

to the small space

hidden between the trees

where vowels float

through the air

up to the moon

to fall in love

among the clouds.” 

Sonnet

To Friends in Love

Summer springs across her face as she sits

beside him, her fingers singing a song

on the table and her eyes sparkling gold

in the sunlight. He does not make it easy,

flipping from thought to thought in violent leaps

of dependency. Her glasses arch to the sky

as she falls, dreaming of her father who calls

quietly from empty meadows filled with wine

and peaches. He does not understand

what she does not know, her hands kissing flowers

as they grow      her smile wilting with the night.

He plays with the trees, walks with the deer

through cool moonlight and drums the melody

of a sad pop song only she can hear. 

A Poem

Walking Shadows

They stand in the cold salty air
turning their heads slowly to the side
to say “Please lift me now. Please hold
my hand as I sweat out this world.

Please allow me a moment to breath
fresh air through my lungs again. Give me
time to walk among the roses, 
to watch as they grow to the wind."

They sit in the sand, water lapping
across their cold toes and swollen feet
as they watch the light fade over
the horizon. They are crippled

soldiers, fighting bravely in the sun
and lining the table as they fall. 
They leap into the waves, courageous
and wet, swimming deep into the night

to say "Into the bars we charge
our shots echoing to the moon
and the enemy stumbling down
to give us time, to keep us warm

in barren winter, alive in fields
strewn with dead children and lost notes
hidden in bottles never opened."
And then with a final shout
 
"Let us line them against the wall!". 
Their voices jump up to heaven, 
bouncing through clouds until settling
in a small grave by the Grecian sea. 

A Poem

Meditation

The streets boil with blood, and in a mere moment

of meditation I notice the walls

fading into themselves like stale reflections

of the sun. The soldiers march on      fighting

shadows in the shade, depressions in the dirt,

and thoughts of milky yellow pain. I call

it color: love like a river flowing out doors

and into hallways. I call it moments

at my desk with a dark pen and no mind

trying to cut my way through a prickly line.

I call it the anti love poem     filled with roses

calling for a breath of fresh air. I notice

the world as it falls     America turning pale

in its cowardice , moral in its religion,

and left starving in the street by its father;

slowly picking leaves from its nose and falling

asleep with tequila and its hands stuck in its pants.

The lakes spread across the map, splitting towns

and streets in two     pushing families out

into boats     sails crossing the morning sky

and pushing all feeling away. I swim

through consciousness watching the green water

run over tanks and children, their shirts floating

around me like dirty rags. I call it

a flower     rising in the moonlight with no god

and nowhere to go. I call it nights walking

women home in the dark waiting for a moment.

I call it getting high with Joni Mitchell

on and feeling blue, turning the record over

and over until all that’s left is darkness.

I call it the anti war poem     dying alone

in the muddy ditch with only your rifle to hold

and to touch and to make love to in these moments

shattered by rain. I notice hipsters slinging

Jack Kerouac over their shoulders and snow

through their brains holding only moments of light

and leaving traces for doctors to test and to snort.

I see them crawl across the floor in groups

so large they can only be stomped by the dozen.

I call it connection between three fingers;

arpeggios rolling off cliffs and through valleys

until they settle in a cloud of dust – gently

pushing a baby in front of them     looking

for a soft place to lie down for the night.

A Poem

The Sunset

Dropping softly into the fields like a drop-

let of rain, slipping itself through the grass

and over the hills to this town we call home.

It glides through the streets, rises over cars

and dashboards, down past sleeping moments

and children playing with firecrackers.

It floats past bars and restaurants, through doors

and up the stairs of our house, splitting off

to shoot one ray of light to you      and one to me.

I’ll mold it and you’ll let it go, let it fly

again out the window to the brightening stars.

Mine will lie flat on the kitchen table

simmering with the stew     chilling with the wine –

allowing itself a moment to sit – to rest

among the salt and the pepper – to smile out loud

at the moon      taking its shift with the sky.