I’d give you the jewels of Klimt
if I thought it would help
banish the blues
and I’d take the sweet, low sounds
the ground makes in early spring
to make you smile,
but all I can do
is be here, listening, watching
– too far to be any help
but so close by sheer will,
you’re here too,
our energy mixing like spilled light
and the pulse is electric,
soothing and pure.
Flowering Caricature
My gifts of tenderness
and vulnerability
are flawed
but there are moments
when the sidewalk
stops rolling
beneath my feet
and I’m real-
without anyone’s
projection
of worth.
It’s fleeting, of course
as there are dues
to be paid
so I follow… as I do;
flowers will be ignored
whether I sing
or swallow the song inside me.
The Sitting
The portrait was flat, with dimensions
spreading thinly across the canvas.
Her breasts looked like a splayed palm,
with fingers and fist cursing gravity –
all in tones of blue.
Her face looked like a sucker punch.
But with a hint of twinkle, like the one
she must have had as a girl,
before the rancid whiff of regret
piled up in the corners of her mouth.
Her hair was a silver lining
and her grin was skeletal yet endearing.
He caught her looking just beyond him,
where the hills were green and the sun
was a perfect circle
and birds made the light dance in her eyes.
She waited for him to say, “I see you! I do!”
Brave front passing through
Dreams are currently crammed
in small spaces along with
tiny joys of
finding adequate shoes over lunch break,
having figures balance happily
like little birds on a wire in spring,
and inhaling whatever is in the air
on a twinkling December afternoon.
I bemoan my choices, my genetics,
and a wildly energetic imagination
that often keeps me out of the
moment,
but some afternoons,
like this one,
I’m not worried or afraid.
Maybe there’s no room for fear.
Monday is wet leaves moaning
beneath my feet,
the pressure of too many moonless nights
falling on morning.
A solitary bird’s lament hovers
in a muffled fog.
A sad little light struggles
to pierce the gloom.
