Morning in Amesbury

My nose and the faucet both drip

the sounds crisp against passing cars

the house is still and just past noon

cold air urges lazy bones to seek the shelter of blankets

and warm bodies

this is a home, despite the chill

all are comforted in the presence of family

taking the sharp edges of sound

and covering them in down embraces

leaving muffled silence and happy thoughts

Scanning the shores

Old man walking

on a cold windswept beach

lonely, with metal detector in hand

the pipers and gulls squak

shared companinons, looking for scraps

a treasured find, a bite to eat

solace found in the unknown of hope

an ancient debloon of friendship

may work its way up through the sands of time

tea leaves in Miami sunsets

as though through colored celophane
the sun in Miami was muted with your absence
it was beautiful and spicy saffron flavored
even when it rained, it invited us to play outside
making giggling little puddles flirt with us
but my favorite playmate was missing

I laughed and sang along to the city’s songs
old friends untied memories laced with dusty heartstrings
it felt good to revisit that old shoebox for a while

my soul would have enjoyed it too, if it was there
instead, he sat with his head between his paws on your lap
basking in the warmth of the smokey blue fire of your eyes

while the sun blew us Equatorial kisses from the horizon
dancing in a Southern Aurora Borealis over the sea
it read like tea leaves auguring in favorable tomorrows
where you and I are wrapped in the same tropical splendor
through New York’s chill, we’ll enjoy one another’s sultry sway

suckling pig

Beer and butter elevated his cholesterol
masturbation in moderation made him quick in bed
traveling and big city life afforded him a chip on his shoulder
and someone told him he was doing it all wrong

everything in moderation they imparted onto him
but mitigating his appetite limited his ambition
perhaps there is something in wont for opulence
corporal and fiscal obesity can be likened to broad swords
the bigger they are the less they are confronted

wallowing in the spoils of fruit pulled from his dreams
he let his friends join in the pressing of this wine
then they too grew comfortable with gluttony
and forgot the woes of yore by drinking it all in

they were not fed by mother ambition
only given the regurgitated cud spit out
and when this fountain dried up or got fed up
back to where they came they grumbled

angry now with mediocrity of peasant life
they complained about their greed and misguided friend
when the true source for the groveling now
is the under nurtured imp of their ambition

proximal

When my eyes are worn red
like an old hotel carpet
that’s when I know I love you most

When my pride is a yipping lap dog
in the company of lions
my roar overwhelms them with you

You are my Achilles
You can be my Delila
just always be proximal

I beg of you, to allow me to stay near
or make me drink with Socrates
and lull my pain to blissful sleep

 

bring on the deluge

all rain starts with one drop
yet one drop alone would go unnoticed
falling on a hillside and pooling
gaining momentum down the slope
water joining with dirt and moving rocks
eroding the face of a mountain

a collection of drops in balanced movement
like a school of fish
it anticipates its comrades turns
seeking level ground to rest peacefully
but making every effort to attain that

one single drop an acting catalyst
paving the way for others to follow
his slick path shining downhill
greasing the progress for his brothers in arms

not all drops make it to the bottom
most of the time not even the first drop
sucked into the ground or pooled behind a leaf
but that does not discount their effort

ad continuum

time seems harnessed
a tethered juggernaut
relentlessly pushing forward
yet today lagging
a stutter-step behind

the currents whirlpool
like the hourhands
dancing before advancing
all the while bringing us along

constant and consistent
the tides bring us along
caught in the undertow
with no regard for the entrapped
floating along as mere debris

Pillow Pervert

he came in the night
while everyone slept
arousing no suspicion
he went right to his craft
the only remnants of his visit
where the body’s naked remains
there’s no telling why he does it
or clues to who he may be
only exposed stuffed and stained cushions
with their skirts lifted to show prodding down pricks
hope he doesn’t strike your bed tonight
taking away the covers while you drool

a winning oaf

she is my candied apple charm
everytime she gives me that look
it feels like the fair came just for me
from prom queens to carnies
the most uniquely sweet character
calls herself my girl

W4th Cello Man

delighting in the throws of a lazy Sunday afternoon
where the ides of November invites outdoor diners
I spend my day contently relaxing in bed

in a city seemingly always in motion
one man has created a secret garden
clandestine only because it hides in the open
unnoticed like talent of a stranger
a live chameleon landscape
and like a child led by the hand
my thoughts are guided to this place
the breeze brings in his sweet sounds
a resonating melody that lulls the beast
coaxing the ferocious metropolis to lay

the trash is taken out
a dog is walked and couples laugh
some notice the man sitting on the corner
but few let him transform the scene
like magic that only works when you believe
this wizard has converted his want into a bow
that sings his incantations of peace
making his West 4th stoop an oasis

here alone in my bed
my picnic in the park auditorium
I can give thanks to the warlock of sound