Eight, Twelve

I know that sickly pull
a retched twisting clutch
rendering strong and controlled form
a pool of chesnut agony
Cold and jagged fragments
icy, bloody bites
slicing flesh to ribbons
memories and nightmares
moonlit cubes sliding
in still and terrorfying calm
across and up the walls.
Loss and fear and agony
a hollow, hungry place
filled with pearly tablets
the burn of canned heat-
medication for calamity.
I know that cavernous space
below the bony arched cage
where beats a worn and withered heart
that simply seeks resolve.
Death is our keeper
and we are his progeny.

Some sort of dying

I tried dying once
But was woken from my sleep
The quiet and the stillness
closer to oblivion

My bones emerged from hiding
my eyes lost will for sight
and scars criss-crossed my skin
a road map of bad memories

I felt my self fading
to some solitary place
where the shimmer in the dusty air
conveyed no scent of you

And even there I fumbled
some creature, out of place
a mess of complications
a worried, manic mind

You were neather there no here
no heaven and no hell
just some lasting thread of memory
that I feel fraying with the years

The Gardener

A laugh
and he brushed my hand

A warm guide to a spiraling swan
dizzy and joyful pas de deux
barefoot on freshly cut grass,
staning a red ballerina green.

Steady, a hand and a laugh
hearty and heartfelt roll
an artist and a gardener
smelling the lemon verbena
as it burst forth from the earth

A lesson in botany
the power of soil, sun and love
how little things could grow tall
with a little bit of skill

Cupping the power of life in my hand
I watched as it curled and frayed
a sickness of wasting and wanting
staining a green man red.