Alphabet City

This is the morning of the long shadow,

the prelude to high noon, the evening of the banshee,

the dulcet pour of tears.

Around and ‘round, and when it’s dawn,

does the spirit rise?

The rain-trodden smile of Hope

peeks above her upturned collar,

below crinkled eyes along the crooked path,

searches for home, a quest for the hearth,

an urn for the soul…a table for two.

A one-way journey to an earlier moment,

and the one before that, the cascade of regret;

a sweater held up to the face, an inhale,

a longing.

How many pins can you stab

in the heart of a dancing angel?

See the cherubim flail on the lance,

run through when the light is lost,

when the end-day sirens blow,

and time runs down on slow dancers.

This is the melody of the canopy: the brush and bristle

of leaves and the wind’s whistles. I am enthralled

by the vigor of the spry zephyrs found here,

the overhead murmur of starlings. I dance a jig

on the head of a pine, atop its thistles.

From this vantage, silly and giddy,

I see all of creation.

At last, something to have died for.

So many objects in my life that I can no longer arrange or make right:

a knife, a bag, a clip, a tin, a half of this, a vial of that. 

Thrown here, about and there: a case, a  wire, an envelope, an unpaid bill…

crumbs. 

I fail to align these, to order them, to impart symmetry or pattern, only random strewn clutter,

the haphazard descent of things that fall where they may, where they might, when they can.

When all is said and done, after all is unspoken, when all is naught . 

Nary a pair or a trio or a quartet of anything anywhere any longer. 

The brevity of the silence rambles on, stalks my meandering, a dark figure in an alley, in the shadows beneath the muffled scream. 

The howl of a rooftop banshee, dulcet and wet in the downpour. 

This is the coming of the age, the upturned eye, the rain-trodden smile of hope. 

To sky, always dreaming, to a star never shone, to a universe, despite its eternal course, yet to collide. 

At the top, there is no friction, only free fall, where the Earth rushes to meet us

A failed glider knows, the last drop’s hardest, but such a sweet kiss touching ground. 

cc: CC 2025

I’d rather die at home,
before the picture frames,
the thirsty plants,
the unequivocal candlelight,
fade away.

The slanted ray of morning sun
lights my tree, the garden rake
and dripping hose,

the self-seeding blossom
that comes every year,
tall and straight since
the youngest stalk took hold,

in the earth,
deep and firm.

cc: CC 2024

My Christmas tree stays up until the spirit of the season leaves me. There are years my tree doesn’t come down.

cc: CC ‘24

How wonderful that
should anything stain,
‘twould be a berry

cc: CC ‘24

Silence glistens here
Chilled pools beckon promising
Reflection under

We are born of stars
So proud until we pulsar
When fusion ceases

Among all two find
A sense of having been there
Empathetic eyes

Eons erase hope
What once would light forever
Turns to gamma ray

Shall never lose me
Shouts beyond the din recede
To vast empty stretch

Pridefully suns sear
Hot too fast, too self-consumed
No cheeks yet to burn

cc: CC '23 peace and light to all