when spring arrives

when spring arrives


i. primrose

salmon rosettes bloom
Spring’s first breath
Winter defeated

you tickles spots within
warms chills
first kiss from pink lips
makes knees wobble

sweet aroma remains
silk scarf left behind
stuffed in pillowcase

I dream of you


ii. daisy

love me or not
plucked until
one leaflet remains

you are the one

nerves overwhelm
I ask if you will journey
into uncharted paths

yellow centers with white asterales
descend from Heaven
when you say

yes


iii. snapdragons

we cultivate gardens
till soil
plant trees, blossoms
your favorite
pink clusters with angry faces

the following April
cough persists
blood drains from mouth

doctor’s diagnosis
bequeaths news
words dreaded most

how long? I inquire

doom fills bloated silence


iv. tulip

waxen stance
as coffin passes
tears suppressed
eyes sore
disconsolate grief
dazed disbelief

faded crimson petals
tinges with yellow fold
on once vibrant chest
perfect yet fragile

cursed by nature’s storms


v. hydrangea

we play peek-a-boo
smiles glow iridescent
still on all-fours

one day you will inquire
where she disappeared
you possess her eyes
pale baby blues
bushy florets of hair
tied in satin ribbons

bitter truth lodges in pharynx

Teeter Totter

* I originally wrote this poem back in November 2012 from a prompt my friend Karen gave to me, and it now seems appropriate to post.


Teeter Totter

The sea engulfs, waves that roar
                their voices heard
                                from where I perch
                afraid to inch forward, this tightrope
                                a slick balancing act
                                between the past
                                               and present,
                as jealous sky spins on my right.

I feel the trickle of tears
                beads of sweat
                                that trigger paralysis;
                                I must move forward,
                confront hostile realities
                                              honestly,
                accept their approval or criticism
                without hindrance of my progress.

Life sways in the balance;           
                I press on despite
                                this notion of teetering
                                            on the edge
                                of life, death, flying, falling,
                                decisions that affect
                my ultimate success, derision.
                Whoever declared existence
                                           would be paved
                                with pearly rose-beds
                forgot to announce the thorny truths.
                The true reality? We create paths
                                to follow or not without wisdom
                                of how fate will play her last ace.

I slip, catch the rope,
                hang on by a hair
                                scream for some kind soul
                                to bail me out of bitter lies,
                                contradictory facts,
                                                to pave the way
                                so I may see in obscured light
-                               climb mountains not foraged,
               as wails reverberate into an abyss.

I pull myself up by tethered bootstraps,
                                while anger turns to hurt
                                               then to resentment,
                                but fury awakens courage instilled
                                               in crevices of tissue
                                hidden from consciousness,
                                as I grasp the platform
                on the other side panting for air.

What I gleaned is this:
                memories hold us hostage, encircle faith
                                like a vulture that feeds
                                on cadaverous cattle.
                They obliterate futures of hope and faith
                terrified we can achieve the spectacular
                                            while the present
                                stuns us into submission.

Time for an oil change, lubricate ideas,
                                tighten loose screws,
               exfoliate crisp falsehoods       
                                embrace a new way of existence,
                                          and relish in satisfaction.

No More Sun

Poetry spills from painted hands
tumbles, rolls to storm drains
where they lay
amidst cluttered leaves,
fermented mulch.

Why do words of jubilation
wither from consciousness?
The internal world marinates
in soft tissue, blood;
even the sun can cry,
shed noxious tears
like sheared wool from a ram.

My phrases drip in melancholy
liquidate into greens and yellows,
joy squelched by anxiety, fear
places familiar, comfortable
like swaddled in a lined mink coat.

On the surface
smiles light in cerulean seas
filled with optimism, potential;
underneath, the earth quakes,
fissures appear in tectonic plates
foundation clamors,
sucks in the land, atmosphere
dwells in doldrums.

Yes, I feel beatitude,
but what I know is change occurs
in a wispy blink
as the past incubates demons
who plan to haunt my currency.
It is Fool’s Paradise,
but I stick with what is understood.

Dreams of Pericles

 

 

 

Yesterday retreated into night
bringing a new morn
with possibilities abound -
but where to begin?

I stayed home the previous,
opportunities for interaction deserted
for a day to myself,
hidden under comforter
three pillows,
modus operandi
for sufficient rest:
lazy day where no metaphor
alliteration, onomatopoeia
struggled for expression
though countless efforts
spilled onto parchment
the ink still wet with abandonment..

I wonder why the muse
did not spark her grace
failing to inspire ambition to produce
even witty haiku of some sort.
She is so fickle, so full of mischief
like an imp who pinches
your toes unseen..

As I write this, I am aware
of drab imperfections -
filler words, certain tightening of phrase
here, there, everywhere -
but this is today’s condition
and to scribe anything,
something  magnificent,
is painful, fatigue mixed with anxiety
another chance to unveil
Aphrodite's robe -
as I drown in yellows and blues
settle for celadons.

It is what it is,
time for me to take a nap
dream of Pericles
see if he will build the Acropolis,
possibly bequeath me
some of his golden treasures.