The sun in his sky

The sun in his sky
Wears many names;
Caesar, Virgin,
Garland and Meadow;
He recites them like rosary,
Smiles in their warmth,
Despite what new distance
The day brings to light.

No sonnet, no psalm

No sonnet, no psalm,
No poem, no prayer,
No opus, no lullaby
Could ever possibly compare
To the rhapsody of her telling me
That it's raining.

So long as you are, I am.

So long as you are, I am.
So long as I breathe, you are loved.
So long as you want, I will.
So long as we touch, I am whole.

My wishes are filled

My wishes are filled
With the prettiest of fishes;
More delicious than even
The most succulent dishes.
Though she tends to be wary
And even suspicious,
And may tease me sometimes
With splashes and splishes,
I choose to endure when
The way may seem vicious,
For there's nothing so lovely
As her sways and her swishes.
May my days remain charmed
And my fortunes propitious
So I may stay so entangled
In her mashes and mishes.
You'd be wise to take heed,
If you're feeling ambitious:
Life's too short to delay,
One must be expeditious;
Do what is needed,
Be both bold and pernicious,
And fulfill if you can
Your wishes for fishes.

I have stolen a taste

I have stolen a taste
From the table of the sun god;
Golden and fair
And sprinkled with copper;
Divine on the tongue,
Warm in the stomach,
And sweeter in memory
Than any other so consumed.
From my depths I know
Every morsel more
Will prove one too few,
But this hunger now awakened
I know too will not be sated.
And so I wait for every crumb,
For any crumb,
In beautiful starvation.

What he knows of magic

What he knows of magic
He has gleaned from her,
From the bright light of
Summer shower eyes;
A blaze whose first flare
Could have only been forged
In the faerie realm.
Truly. Faerie.

The worst he has learned
From the conclusions of abandon:
The enduring, angelic agonies
Divulged by her flesh;
Voracious delicacies leaving
Mind and soul immune to
Moral measure.
Unruly. Very.

The most perilous plummet
He has ever performed
Was into the sharp, swift waters
Of her ever-churning intellect;
Sometimes cold, at times jagged,
But never too shallow to permit
The chosen to dive and resurface.
Coulee. Sans wherry.

The most terrible temptation
Whose sparkle never wanes
Is the garnet glow of her very being;
Rapturous, remote;
Fiery and within fingers' brush;
Jubilant and lustrous regardless
That day's departure.
Jewely. Merry.

A sister to butterflies

A sister to butterflies,
Speckled and golden;
Ever striving for her destination
And happily adrift.

A sister to butterflies,
Springtime taken wing;
Lithesome and whimsical in her
Circumlocutions.

A sister to butterflies,
Delicate and dogged;
Every petal on which she perches
Left all the better after.

A sister to butterflies,
Sunlight and breeze;
Elusive to fully apprehend
With even sturdy nets.

A sister to butterflies,
Flicker and glow;
So enchanting to view in motion
That I, too, am set aflutter.

Might the giants come

Might the giants come
And break me into halves,
I have proven myself no Atlas
And thankfully relinquish the weight
To the universe
In general.

I shall gather flowers by the waterside,
Sip daisy petal tea
And call out her name as often
As I breathe.

And I shall compare her
To the copper of the setting sun.

Leonardo on the floor before her

Leonardo on the floor before her
In mute lessons of bewildering disciplines,
Sciences foreign to any but the most
Persistently devout.
And she in folded grace,
Patient in her acceptance that
Even love must bow
To the jealous passions
Of knowledge.

And for the thirty-eighth time this hour,
She is kept company by her solitude.

Valentino brooding sweetly before her
In mute promise of excruciating divinities,
Art forms unpalatable to any but the most
Devoutly persistent.
And she in ragged elegance,
Caught by simple oblivions in
The touch of warmth to want,
Filling delicate vessels
With portions of themselves.

And the previous moment passes,
Making this, for Mona Lisa, thirty-nine.

Games of shorts words

Games of short words, length of meaning,
Quick strokes that deepen the canvas a syllable at a time,
The guilty pleasure of teasing the tigers through the bars
With little fear of being eaten.

And she demonstrates with frightening ease
That there is still room for one to slip free
Of any cage.

Hours of miniscule duration, depth in memory,
Quick petals to be plucked away one at a time,
The fleeting fancy that there is little but sand at the bottom
And a moment is but a moment.

But she illustrates with maddening clarity
That the more fluidly an instance drifts away,
The more indelibly it's likely to stain.

Duels of superficial cuts, chasms for leaping,
Fast stabbings that bleed only when pondered too long,
A sweet viciousness like motherhood that refuses
To loosen its grip even now.

And she forgives with startling affection,
Her embrace like that of the sun,
Warm in its auburn mane.

From the tongue of the wolf

From the tongue of the wolf
Pour clean, vague words
Of shadow and brilliance,
So thick one might bathe
While being devoured.
Flattery and condemnation
In salivary succulence
Make the lost kneel down
In desperate devotion
To masturbate with razor blades
In his name.

Let us prey.

She wanders through different lifetimes

She wanders through different lifetimes,
Through the thin wisps of years,
Through the abyss of a glance.

She ponders the words of others,
Patching fabrics of her own into the seams
And spooling out definitions of herself,
Drawing up the cloth close to her face
To hide.

She tickles monsters lightly sometimes,
In a mischievous dare to pounce and feast,
Knowing that sooner or later,
They would find but blood and bone
And her frozen grin.

She tumbles from awkward towers,
Desperate to be caught,
Terrified at being held too closely.
She tumbles from awkward towers
Only to climb back again
And threaten to leap.

She wanders through different lifetimes,
To find the most inviolable portion of herself
Is herself.

Tie anchors to angels

Tie anchors to angels
So they may not flee,
Take pleasure in their
Captivity.
Savor the sweetness
Having such close-by,
Rejoice in the anguish
Of their efforts to fly.
And as they break free
(not if, sir, but when)
Be certain they shan't fly
So close-by
Again.

Rolling in the sun and I am

Rolling in the sun and I am
Ten summers younger, and the world
Lies before me like a virgin
Desperate with consent.

For the moment I've set aside
Recent boundaries, embracing again
The forsaken.

Rolling in the sun and I can
Feel her near, the warmth
Of her upon me like a sermon
Eloquent with abandon.

For the moment I've set aside
Coffeespoons, measuring instead again
In fistfuls.

Creations of us.

My mind tends to tip
sideways sometimes
when I ponder too long
these creations of us;
reason and sense being
constantly swept aside
by brutish measures
of wonder and panic,
fury and joy.

A smile seems to slip
free sometimes
when I consider for long
these creations of us;
the littleness of feet,
the smallness of faces
that burst magically alight
into humbling reminders
of all that has passed
and all yet to come.

My thoughts tend to skip
over themselves sometimes
when I think very long
on these creations of us;
these sassy snippets
of what we hoped to be,
these unyielding mementos
of everything we are.

My prayers rarely grip
full rein of me most times
when I beg heaven’s vigil
over these creations of us;
for I have known
neither love nor fortune,
received not gift nor favor
comparing one wisp
to all I have been given.

And my words tend to trip
when I struggle to convey
my thanks, my love.
How empty I would be
had I not been filled
by you.

For Tammy, Mother's Day 2003