Today has started as a lazy day
even though the roosters of Patmos
have been trying to raise me since dawn.
The clatter of fishermen's nets
raises a ruckus at dockside and waves crash
on rocks at the End of the World Cove.
Even so, a sea breeze off the Aegean gently lifts
the long arms of a delicate bush of red roses
stroking the white wall of a Byzantine church.
But down the lane, chanticleers persist
in a call to arms on this morn which I welcome
as a quiet day of contemplation on the isle
where St. John wrote the Apocalypse.
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Grandfather
and the Deathtrain
Trains.
Whose heart flows like that
grandfathers a wind.
Swept in the wake of a father,
I father a son.
Tugger,
sink of a launching boat.
Sea, unmistakably lethargic.
Though gone, he draws to wetness.
Adrift, and pulled by a father's hands.
Cortege,
pallbears a vacuole and
stiffens the death hug
of a brother's coat.
Tight flight of a bat.
Coffins.
A graveyard lozenge.
Drag and trail of a hearse.
Reign, reign of a surrogate.
Marshall of an epitaph.
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From a Daughter
The green picture frame blends
with the darkness of the mall's
Christmas trees and contrasts
the smear of red and yellow lights.
She stands before a boutique, it's glow
spilling into a darkness street lamps
can't quite absorb. Her smile
hurts the most, that chilling blaze
of independence, her gift.
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The Sound
of Horsesteps
Just around the corner, you said
and we waited upon the distance
pushing along the poppies
that grew easily at the side of the road.
Just a little while inflated our fancy
and we were hopeful
staring into the horizon
awaiting the sound of horsesteps.
Just a slight wind
sent the shadows
sailing in gracious wakes
across the mesmerizing season
and not a word between us
broke the spread of time's spaces.
Seldom did a glance
intrude upon our footwork.
This was the quiet gallop of love
and never has your simple setting
nor the feel of your face
wandered from me since.
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May
The crab apples
have been dealt a death
blow by the fluff of angel's
snow that rests on the point and
along the back of
each limb, leaved
and heavy with
blossoms.
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Babes Sleeping
Life spawns hollow days
till legends of the gruesome deed
provoke a giggling brood. Whether 'tis
the womb, the cradle or the coffin, your smell
of immortality lisps like drool around corners,
chortles the trail behind your waddle
and bleeds unsuspected into perfumes
of women. Like a deathwatch,
you slumber the strange trinity.
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Bear Killing
We chased him deep into the woods,
the bay of hounds trailing through timber,
and crossed over the barbed wire.
We killed him in the State Park,
the twilight fading, the hounds
in a fury at the trunk of the tree.
One shot behind the ear, and
he plunged to the forest floor.
We strung him anew to the old pine
and stripped him of his fur coat
while the hounds cowered in fear.
The white, fat-covered carcass
glowed neon like a hanged man
as we crept back to civilization
hugging the darkness like skin.