Faith Hope

Warm, crisp air caresses my face,
Musical notes flow through a maze
Of smooth wooden pews.

There are no wretches.
No scream, No wail, No howl.

A pristine, beautiful, proud
Crowd glazed with gleaming smiles,
Hat-covered, suits, heels clicking over tiles.

Bodies sway to the beat of white and black keys.
No dirt, No smell, No fleas.

Vibrations pierce through and through.
Sweet music and fluttering voices brew
To a simmering boil.

Splashing every which way, the sounds coil
Back into the black musical box;

Then, trickling out like water over rocks,
The notes glisten over speech once again,
Seeping into the minds and hearts of brethren

Striving, living, praying.
All singing, All sighing, All crying.

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Travel

Water falls in clumps of sweat.
He runs in grey skin wet with
Perspiration. Biting metal he pushes
Forward.

She comes in purple wrapped with
Yellow honey drops, selling their fragrant
Calls to buyers. They are smothered by the
Pressure.

They cry too, rolling around lifeless in a basket.
With dreary eyes, the flowers all stare in
Mellow sounds that echo on forever,
Severing it.

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West End Cafe

Wooden floors creak,
The pitter-patter of feet
Resonate throughout the rooms.

Soothing music looms
Behind lilac and lime,

Coffee beans splattered on lined
Windows.  Suede fabric
Quickens the beat.

I am hot, here in my seat.

Smell of mint and tea sweet,
Flowing down and through streams of
Dark walls filled with cream.

Crystal chandeliers
Are an oddity here.

Navy-blue ceilings, laid-back feelings
Bring back a chill to the beating heart.
Hot layers on top and icy vents below.

The faded rope scratches skin touching ashes.

Black-top tables, flowing
White coats a caramel-
Covered sofa seat.

Others twitch around me,
Typing, reading, fleeing

From their thoughts.
Foam fuzzes, clearing,
Buzzing here and there.

Wooden tables sprawled everywhere.

Sitting, reclining, sleeping. I am here
In a cool cave, amidst
Penny plants, edible lists

Forest greens, and
White-paint slants.

Bulbous lights trickle
In white, red, maroon
Making the solitude festive.

Small talk begins and ends.

Sadly, the music is
The same.  The cave
Seems empty now

The sleeping bear
Has awakened.

He slips through
Purple gauze fluttering
In the air,

Surrounded by beams of freshly cut pears.

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The Bracelet

She wears the smooth wood,
Between the twisted rope,
Tattered and worn by now.

Absent-spirited, she did not notice
The loss. Falling fast through weeds
And stubble on snow-covered ground,

The noose did not make a sound.
He is smothered in the whiteness
And loneliness of an empty field.

She looks up at the stars
With no expression and leaves
Behind her human connection.

The bracelet, benighted
With smooth, white snow,
Is lost to her.

She races back only to find her
Beating heart in a field, falling
Quietly with clumps of snow.

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Psychotic Phases

Crow calling and light calling past, so past
The creeping dawn I dared not enter fast,
And the sound almost smothered blue in light.
Dew leads me into darkness, dropping last.

The people crowd around me to see me.
Spiders weave webs on a flowering tree.
I am soon blocked by reflections on glass;
Mirrors turned upside down, melting in three.

Psychotic as it is, my pyschosis
Will be much stronger ere it will redress–
A mighty feeling of sweet blesséd blows
With much discussion, nothing to confess.

They cannot stop my internal rages
Between arguments — which no one raises.
I love them so much, too much more than life
To give up all my psychotic phases.

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Thanksgiving Dinner

The mother skips through a crowd
With a turkey shopping bag.
The child twists and turns between loud

Buzzing bodies to keep up.  The yellow turkey
On the shopping bag waves like a flag.
The child zig zags through, lurking

Here and here.  Mother throws in apples
Strawberries, cinnamon and cranberries.
The child comes up from behind, babbles

About the upcoming party.  Mother tells her
To shut up and get on one of the ferries.
They must prepare the food before Sir

Madam, and Guests come home.
There will be time to be merry later on.
No, they cannot go for candy.  She must not groan.

She must not stomp.  She must not cry.
There is no time for it is way past dawn.
My, how the time does fly

So fast!  Here, empty the turkey shopping bag.
Golden apples bumble out, knocking around
Metallic corners.  Do not lag

Behind girl!  Crush the cinnamon sticks,
Mash those cranberries into that round
Pan.  Get the flicker started and pick

The best strawberries from the fridge.
Smash them into a soft pulpy mound.
Good, now take those pastry strips and bridge

Them together.  There is the setting of the sun.
Sir, Madam, and Guests will come soon.
Oh! But where is the turkey?  What have we done!?!

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Eaters of the Hare

They nibble and chew
On burnt crisp ends.

With the roughness
Of thick straws,
Eaters of the Hare

Continue to savor
The stringy threads,
Reddening the cracks
Between their lips.

They are always insatiably
Satisified with twisting,
Rolling, grinding, sliding
Through contiguous pieces
Of flesh.

And when the red Hare
Is all worn out, the Eaters
Start all over again, with
Another.  Piece by piece,
They are turned into tufts
Of rough, irregular clumps

That line the drawers as
Undiscovered treasures,
Lying in wait to be
Discovered by the same
Who lost them.  Finally,
It is the skin that touches ashy
Edges, withering away and lifeless.

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