Reflections, of sorts, in verse, of sorts.

Month: February, 2013

As Black

I can’t stop the noise for long enough to buy
a pair of shoes and so I walk these aisles
with gritted teeth. Now you call
me angry and so what if I am crying?
Everyone sleeps while I
sit being spoken to, not listening
never listening
with a melancholy air. Spiders
find me since there are
no windows here and they —
as black as black —
are crawling, crawling, crawling

Still I am stronger for they
do not carry this weight. This itchy
stabbing weight. And they
could not.

I cannot walk too long upon these young and veiny knees.

Everyone’s a ghost and if I ever meet them they
will look past and ask about this scar or my arm
or make a sporting joke. And we will laugh at first
thinking we have found new water. But it won’t be. Just
another drowning pool.

Shooting stars and betting boots. This isn’t
even me.

20130209-152838.jpgphoto Jo ©2013


Morning Tide

Something about today’s
silent moments pulls
at me. Like the way
that nightgown climbed
the backs of your legs
when you used to reach up to run
both hands through your hair.

20130217-205332.jpgphoto Jo ©2013


My daydreams star
your ancient summers —
sunburns before bonfires
midway romances and easy
cotton candy tongue
Gone now
replaced by
this winter

20130209-152404.jpgphoto Jo ©2013


What is this if not
nothing? Waiting for
wet death within a ship
of dead. Drown me in time
so I may wash upon
another place but never
any other place for
I do not want again a
morning or a journey
such as this.

20130209-152558.jpgphoto Jo ©2013


Whoever said beauty is fleeting
that from firm flesh soon passion
must run out, had never
held their sight on you —
those irrepressible lips
folded by stormy and long held kisses
Thighs as warm as thunder claps
No. More. Like standing ovations
of the sky!

O surely
these real things
like well-tressed clouds
do clear; yet they will never
even though new springs bare
fresh scents and flowered fields
fade from my memory. So neither
shall your rampant youth.

20130209-152715.jpgphoto Jo ©2013


Melting snow along
the highway and across
fields owned by farmers
who’ve yet to rise as I am
on my way to work

reminds me of the
melancholy burden
of your white breast
in my hand
its ripened plum
squeezed hot
between cold fingers

20130208-210026.jpgphoto Jo ©2013