hankarcher

Reflections, of sorts, in verse, of sorts.

Pieces

home from a
midnight shift
at the jigsaw puzzle factory
she shakes from her clothes
bits of shapely sunsets
train stations
and unicorns
before retiring to
an evening filled
with ill-fitting
daydreams

20140214-073018.jpg©photojo

Advertisements

Hemmed

her seamstress hands
patterned with pleated lines and trimmed
by measured confidence
they hold more perfectly
than any stitch

20140214-073111.jpg©photojo

Early Spring

by afternoon
only the memory
of warm hands

20140101-135421.jpg
©photojo

Riverside Devotion

bent at the waist
beneath the weight of winter
small stones
catch your sighs
and whispers

20140101-134952.jpg©photojo

Last Halloween

just thinking about
how time flies
and last Halloween
behind that mask
the way your eyes soared

20131012-161307.jpgphoto Jo ©2013

Tied

envious
of the full moon
empty cup

20131009-180908.jpg
photo Jo ©2013

After rehearsal

a band of women
orchestrate their instruments
through studio doors
and shake into our night
where they’re right away struck
by the moon; it’s naked and
round tonight like
a drum of white fire

lust hangs from them
clear throats and heavy breasts
but they are only pretty so
I turn and strain my eyes
to make out dark things
on that spacious spot-lit snare
and think instead
of artists I know —
that I know of —
some beautiful and
handsome in their work
who wouldn’t look away
from skies like this
for anything short of
symphonic Armageddon

20130721-194555.jpgphoto Jo ©2013

hot drops

through the rain
I watch you melt
and forget

20130614-092520.jpg
photo Jo ©2013

Too Late

each evening
I’m early getting
off to bed; but then
plastered across windows
beneath black piano keys
stretched atop your
soft soft skin —
words

20130606-083444.jpg
photo Jo ©2013

Subject

If only you were here
I’d spill my joy onto the canvas
display what I have learned.
Look! I use red to spin
a rose atop my thumb
and breathe in blue from
heavenly horizons. See
now there are two of me —
one green who
walks and dances
like a paper man
eats pears and scatters falcons;
the other purple
and prone to weeping.

I see words inside clock mirrors
swing darkly from pendulums with
webs extending from my ribs.

I nod to texture.
I leap to form.

I wait
to speak
but all alone.

20130606-083959.jpgphoto Jo ©2013