sapling

the light lathers her dark limbs
twist and tremble like a puzzle
like a game of growth
life is a torrid affair
the pain, the leaving
the betrayal and the coming up
a sapling became a god
branches beneath the sidewalk
under the streets
she holds a city together
looks out over her queendom
of shop windows and automobiles
headed anywhere but where they began
knows our hearts
knows our unseeing ambition
remembers her roots
feels them, not as phantom limbs
but as toes and eyes
mind and Self
she has no qualms now
holds nothing against
the night
nothing but the all of her
in amnesty, majesty

the underhand

I have no defense
against the underhand
the suckerpunch
the psychological breakdown,
slipped in on the side
with a plate of eggs
and hashbrowns
three links, fried crisp
and greasy

the fall, the break
and the regret,
cleaving to me
like 50 years
of undigested, failed
relationship

the split was phenomenal
the rise, undeniably unexpected
I wrecked a perfectly good
ruinous end
for a better friend --
the man in the half-moon
clambering for a peek
at the same man
in the half-moon
of a silver mirror

by the talking tree

down by the talking tree
the black sinews
throw words like wisps of smoke
placid and placating
conjure your real name
out of discarded garbage
plastic bottles and styrofoam cups

play for awhile
by yourself
in the woods by the creek
watch the slowness of snowflakes,
falling
catching you unaware
with each untainted blast of white blot
on the blue of the sky
on the surrounding dead branches and brambles
ending on the ground
as anonymous as any vulnerable soul
wandering these three worlds
lost to find themselves
lost

all these dreams

all these dreams
all these wasted minstrels
kick this rotten globe
down the fields and alleys
down the ravines and ravenous streams

at least
they are having fun

and all these dead words
end in the ocean which reclaims them
renames them

they polish the stones
at ocean's depth
relinquish life and pride
Muzzein out and up
to challenge the sun
in its rejoicing

I fear I might break

The white lights of Christmas
The bright, white tree
Gaudy red stockings and bulbs
Morrissey, Cohen, ginger beer, coffee
Journaling, reading Ryokan

I fear I might break
In this quaint café
My pavement heart
Tender shoots
Sprout up
From within