Vision
girl with bright green
…aura
dancing in a crowd of
…children
innocent
red ribbon
…brown skin
green is for healers and
…angels
I remember you
And in the dim
cool
empty of the morning
I can sit
by myself
and feel like the stone
in the river,
worn down by
the tumult of water
above me,
softened,
heavy,
dull,
buried.
Pine Mountain Cemetery XXVII
Tom
Once not too long ago, right here on
This very mountain, there was one
Brought up the path we’ll ne’er forget.
The trumpets rang a clarion song,
A new call to the post, an eternal
Ride through curtained mists ahead.
Laughing, stomping, pounding,
Hot walker to the end. You lived,
Kentucky Hard Boot, to the core.
Red hair, blue eyes and Irish
Temper a foil for your hidden
Giving heart, not such a secret.
You rode through life a rousing
Wind tousled hair, glee bubbled
From heart, middle and head.
Down, up, and back again.
Never neutral, always reaching.
Your like, rare, seldom matched.
St. Peter will smile at the gate
To see you running apace
On his jewel encrusted track.
Hard Boots left below will hear
Echoes of your laugh when once
Again the trumpet calls to post.
Yet never gone, you’re always just
Beyond the finish line calling us
To finish strong, life’s best wager.
Every bird sings a conspiracy
fresh potential rising in the sky
a promise of something new
the day is an ember catching fire
Fresh promises like fresh dew
the morning, a stained glass window
flakes of golden Sol
sparks of Promethian fire
The morning breaks into the day
stars folded, tucked away
streaks of Sol-fire shatter the night
what matches the morning dawn ignite
Star splashed sky gives way
the promise of a new day draws open the curtain
as the eastern sky catches fire
each bird sings a conspiracy against the night
They tell us to memorize it
So we get on our knees
I’m embarrassed to say.
I spilled Dom Pérignon
all over the front of him.
I lapped it up with my
flat, sandpaper tongue.
I might have to go dip
into the cooking wine
if my glass runs dry again.
His teeth are yellow which,
personally, is a turn on.
His hair is stringy and limp.
His parents are both dead.
I tasted starch on his shirt
when I lapped up my mess.
Starching your shirts is sexy?
I think? I’m new to all of this.
up at my favorite time of day
the sun is asleep
the moon is obscured by clouds
snow weather feathers fall
cars pass by my window
