Pubertal Piety
Reticulate her infancy
surrounds the chair.
Her gloried curls lie
in fetal invocation
While a hovering lady crysallates
with scowls,
and frowns,
and cautious smiles,
Distressed
that children die
to grow up beautiful.
* * * * *
Round lips red smile pubaceous
In the glossy of the party
Frozen now in time,
A sentimental dacquiri
Of tender expectations.
How, with whom and where
Will teasing eyes find their reflection?
Who will find the woman
In the girl in the taffeta gown?
* * * * *
Pain of Puberty
With heaving sigh convulsion,
the baby cries her way to loneliness.
No womb,
no mom,
no daddy.
Angel battered,
Sibling less
she looks for friends
with fingers fisted
curling toes
around the ladder
rungs of life.
* * * * *
We are now so busy
The dust never settles
To soften the glare
Of table top surfaces,
Slick shiny calendars,
Headlights and bumpers
On cloverleaf serpents
Swallowing care.
* * * * *
Where Apache bravely fought,
the white man's red
land staining,
lay another day
a cowboy lover airplane
Man,
the pilot of a ship cut down
by heart so big it burst
in flowers
Where the cactus even found no rain.
* * * * *
In my youth
she was madonna,
strong, embracing, powerful.
I lost my breath
within her damasked folds.
Now aging at the middle
I hold a slipping away
withering memory
dying in my arms.
* * * * *
The lofty flagpole empty
where the old folks
set the sun
behind the hills
stands
lonely
sentinel.
They pack the wagon up
for sands retreating
to an ocean condominium,
its concrete tongue
a longing for the deep.
* * * * *
Little Ladies in Red
I like little ladies in red when old.
Their cardinal virtue ruling eyes
They robin snow on elder reeds,
Like eagles overpeer the ground,
In flames fly out this mortal nest,
Beloved sparrows known to God.
* * * * *
Cups clattering he tries,
forgetting
to make coffee
For the wife.
Her tongue tied
wishes punctuate
their uncompleted sentence.
She no motor
He no mind
They shuck possessions
Pick the kernal rough with cob.
Grow old,
their only hope a stuttering laughter
at their infantile complicity.
* * * * *
Preened plumage sits
with eyes resplendent,
hidden,
shadowed in the bush.
She sings
mid piercing thorns
and bursting roses,
perfumed with a musty
underbrush decay.
The nest now empty
clutches fluffs of down.
A shard of turquoise shell
lies like an eyeball
in a jagged fork.
Her mate brings worms,
red strings,
and bits of butterfly.
She bows.
She melodies,
bright exclamation in the bower!
* * * * *
Earl Lived
Rock was all around him
Wrested from the field,
Custodial
Contained this man,
Constraining him tenaciously.
Compassioned in his loyalty
This mountained mortal
Toiled to tell
That he was rock,
His tears a hidden spring.
* * * * *
Who shall hammer in the nails?
Make sure it's done professionally.
Be sure to pick the size that's right,
The galvanized six penny nails.
And space them as the plan requires.
Make sure the lines are straight.
And please remember,
Use the hammer made especially for this job.
Work rhythmically for God is watching.
He was an academic.
He should have a coffin done just right.
* * * * *
Beneath the crooked tired lamps
flit frail taxis through neglected streets,
worn out,
cobbled into dereliction.
Lights dim,
the conversations of the crowd begin to slur,
sprightly motions atrophy in darkness,
beaming smiles invert upon a palsied face.
Inside,
the shop is closing down,
the memories boxed.
Letters cram unopened files,
undone acts released from hope.
Unanswered doorbells cease their clamor
in the darkened corridors.
In rooms locked deep below
the music still reverberates,
old films roll once again.
A song survives within the night.
A dancing power
surges in the switches,
suddenly explodes,
leaps to universal audience,
A shower of sparks
in the fire of God.
* * * * *
He hangs in time
suspended
before the abyss,
looking for bridges,
falling in the cracks
between his memory and his hope.
His life is bite-size, mashed and squashed,
delivered on a spoon
from strangers' loving hands
that shave his wilding whiskers,
slip his shoes and trousers on and off.
He ruffles through the disappearing files of a life,
takes inventory,
matching was to ought,
and might-have-been to is.
With each forgetfulness
the world we share begins to slip away.
And so we die in the arms of our fathers,
receiving the death of our mothers' wombs.
* * * * *
The Inheritance
Tremblingly,
in stuttered whispers
old now with regrets,
he rose before the table
separating progeny.
His words were spoken
one in thrall upon another,
"It is my death.
We now divide the cup."
They split Leviathan asunder,
Creation in the grave.
* * * * *
Our Terry Down
Down to earth
He was descended
From prophetic loins,
Bread shoulders high
This wandering tree
Fruit filled with blossom fingers
Cried.
With laughing tears
Baptizing dirty days
He shortly tarried
Full of flowers
And went down to earth.
* * * * *