Comb Keeper

I recover honey samples from the bright-eyed bees

who hug their hives and kiss the cells with floral lips.

The keeper of the combs will pick scents –

infused with lavender, sage, nutmeg

raspberry.

Sweet, but not impure

Sticky, but not messy

Golden, rich and all of the above.

The keeper of the combs weds himself

to the bees.

He won’t ever lift the veil

until the day is over and the sun drips around the planet

veiling and unveiling dusk.Wallpapers 1366x768 (1)

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Bloom

Green embedded the floor,

a sonic chlorophyll symphony

permitting the sunlight to sweep the immaculate eyes

of saintly columns.

Wet grass sounds like the cadence of caterpillars

who move like butter over leaves.

the rain revives the ground like a fizzing soda down your throat,

and the girl in the black and white dress

takes a picture with her camera necklace.

It is Wednesday and the grass

is cold, but gunshots break the ice.

snowball hole in ice

The Backside of Fear

Phase I

My sign reads, “Closed for business.”

I will reopen after I fight this lineage curse.

If you saw me today, you’d see

worry lines

transposed from paper to palm

dressed in unwritten ink

pressed down on a clean slate and

moving words from wrist to skinny branches.

I have been shutdown. In lockdown

hiding (protecting) creative fears

from a catastrophic letdown.

If you saw me at thirteen, you’d see

passive explosions falling from palm to

paper

blue ink covering black letters.

Soot on a blackboard covering white chalk.

I have been snuffed

by the fingertips of my own fears,

Goals repeat themselves on papers stashed all over –

I am wanting and waiting

to reopen,

to release my fear.

Phase II

I cut carefully along the lines

running parallel to my spine.

At night, I let the pieces mend

without any glue or tape.

When I wake, they fall a part

and lay to the sides

parallel to my vertebra –

child’s play –

those white ivory keys

I cannot touch.

Have I mentioned the wings

I tried to insert inside the space

I cut?

At night, the incision closes around the blades on my back –

in the morning I wake and stand, let the weight sink in –

Wings tucked tight,

White and light.

Yes, wings can look proud and earned.

Only sometimes, the weight of the day is something that must

be learned.

Phase III

Wings. Held in my hands, you are the backbone, the backside of fear.

The longer I hold you, the more I feel

with my muscle

memory.

My voice repeats itself, becomes a shadow

(flying wings) on dry garden dirt,

dead kale capillaries and withered bean skins.

Muscle memory. Theirs too,

Repeats itself,

folds in for the long shadow of winter.

To be afraid of dying, or the leash of fear

(don’t be) is not trusting your sown seeds.

Spread them far.

Come in…open your hand.

I see wings

the backside of fear.

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Pale Wind 

Once, the fish swam in the night sky –
a galaxy inside her belly.

She bore stars and pushed out tears, recalling

The angry cycle of mourning the living.

I had the chance to talk with her,

a chance to travel around her galaxy.

I saw the cycle churning,

filling and unfilling her fists,

palms milk white.

I felt the pain safely escape away

from her memory, from the dark house.

Although she lost the tears,

the memory of it twinkles.

Dead and alive in her sky.

Astronomers attach no name to that time,

That spiral pattern.

That place ejected from her insides.

I looked at the fish finding his way in the night.

He broke out and fell

into a motion you’ll remember as no accident.

You felt it coming. The pale wind

reaching for him.

 
 

Tranquil Champlain

A boat swings like a weather vane

on the flat blue glass. It turns

like a ballerina

dressed in white canvas and

wooden soled shoes.

She tip-toes and etches hull lines

in the glass like smoke

in her wake.

A man sits on an August heated dock,

watches the lake expand from dark blue to white,

from summer to winter

from East to West.

That boat swings like a needle,

’round the compass of his green-gray eyes.

 

End of Day

Your feet are tired, rough and bruised at the stern

Blue nail polish flakes into the bow of your socks,

you are like a snake shedding skin so you can heal.

Your shoulders ache, pinch at your neck

and squeeze your tendons

like jellyfish tentacles injecting poison.

All this time, the day moves

forward                   forward

swings back

like a pendulum.

I thought you wanted to start new.

Hop off here, pull that pendulum

forward,

feel no reverb.

After all this time, the day stains yellow.

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Towers

A dark stream spills snake-wise over the streets’ hissing hot

pavement.

The noon light reflects optical illusions,

like piano key towers,

ivory skyscrapers

and tall men with powers.

Most of the smokestacks

protrude from their and the city’s mouth

streaming with a harmony

hollowed of energy.

That dark stream sweeps the feet clean

and the men run faster

staring down at the hissing pavement

looking up at the black and white glass.

The noon light transfigures their image;

city and men.

They are shorter by dusk

and gone in the dark stream of night.

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Awning

She still carries the old awning from territory to new territory.

Originally, the salt-sprinkled awning

brightened her face

when the sea sun glowed orange and splashed the canvas.

Now, the soot-covered awning

dims her olive skin, casts shadows

during the day.

At first sight, you would fold away

abashed

by her striking

candles

under a flammable movable roof.

Second glances prevail and

reveal surprised, flared smiles.

The blackened awning drifts

with homemade electricity

sideways over her tarry hair

lingers for a while, as if delivering rain

like a cloud-

then, it stretches wide and blossoms

toward the sky to be refilled.

Wallpapers 1366x768Image: https://w-dog.net/wallpaper/rain-light-candle-light-drops-silhouettes-sky-rain-mood/id/349900/

Houses on Stilts

You are an EyeLand Catch like your neighbor’s great-aunt,

Nellie-Ann.

After the oily waves took bites out of your land,

your home deserves a Time-Out.

Be Proud Mary.

Keep on Pipe Dreamin and enjoy backyard barbecues

on the Fourth of July

even as the June Bug bites alligator skin before mother nature gears up her ammunition.

Mama and Papa’s Dreamers swing on the concrete porch

watching the Grey Mist below My Blue Heaven on this Grand Lyle isle.

You will find paradise in these Weathering Heights, just

Sip n Sea.

 

grand-isle-louisiana