Seaweed
I was so terrified of the green, slimy seaweed that seemed to grab my ankles on the sandy coves of my youth. Foolishly, I thought they would become cognizant and pull me down below into the murky blue depths. I would jump and flee, but they would follow me and sink into the indents my feet made on the wet sand.
But maybe the seaweed was trying to tell me something. To show me the world it so cherished and nurtured before
it
fell apart.
Now, I'm afraid of what man-made detritus might pull me in.
Man in the Moon
I've read that hands that reach
to just beneath the highest knuckle of another
are meant to entwine, much like the way
my head rests flawlessly in the camber of your neck,
or in the perfect length of your cotton shirts.
I must confess, I wear
them to feel close(r) to you,
for I would walk around the globe, steal
an unlicensed starship to flit around the galaxies,
especially those that occupy your eyes,
to plant a flag in conscience of serenity,
there and back again, simply
because there is nothing I love
more than the craters of your grin.
The Uniform of the Universe is Tie-Dye
It has been determined that the colour of the universe
is Cosmic Latte, which is coincidentally what I christened
my second semester, first grade art project,
abstract finger-painting peppered with sparklebright
fairydust fallen from the top shelf during the earthquake
that leveled the cathedral and toppled the overpass.
I was positively reinforced with an extra
juice box; the church with iron, the stained
glass windows crushed into possible gun powder
under the sneakers of our Sunday best; it became the same
fairy dust I had employed, but this time my comrades
helped me collect it to decorate our pigeon feathered wings.
We left our shoes in the cherry orchard, barefoot
took a running leap, but only some left the ground
and fewer still achieved escape velocity, where
we propelled through black holes until we found
the seam of these universes, the pulse of relic radiation,
and saw it was tie-dye.
The Artist
An artist arrives in a
secondhand sweater, cable knit, holy
jeans with a cross adjacent
to a crescent, pentagram, and om
tattooed across his hands
stained with paints and ink
with pencil shavings for fingernails.
Finishing his absinthe in glass,
the jug echoes the melody of the one song he remembers
his grandfather sang him, the one song he remembers
from his family in Missouri,
before he surrendered to a broken heart.
Playing on the steps avant de bilbiotheque
(for he frequents the French Quarter), his dark eyes
act as the shutter on an antiquarian camera,
(which he hopes belonged to Méliès)
memorize the cracks in the sidewalk
(he wonders how they feel).
But he is unnoticed, too involved
in his own world that he desperately
wants to share, but everyone else
is busy counting shirts.
Since I have loved the murmur of your voice
Since I have loved the murmur of your voice -
to love another more? Nay, unlikely
as no ethereal song of sheer rejoice
could hope to light my heavens so brightly.
The softness of your tender hand across
the ivory of my cheek and fallen lash
that glints a pearl with sentiment of gloss;
a loss for stolen words - I feel abash.
For how could I, this creature of the earth
elucidate to you, my shining knight,
my adoration, the absolute mirth
beaming from the doting heart you so delight!
There are no galaxies nor whispers of
the world that could remark upon my love.
The ways in which you hold my love aloft
The ways in which you hold my love aloft
are more profuse than petals on a day.
For all the time against your gentle soft,
effusive breath escapes the time I lay
against your faulty chest and speckled skin
and regard the choral of your passion -
its waltz athwart your half-moon tilted grin,
a wondrous vision I could ne'er fathom.
Thou art lovely, with penchant towards wit,
knowledge, a caring heart, and blessed song
more radiant than e'er composed, befit
you and only you to whom I belong.
Everyday I find another feature
to praise dearest love in rhymed meter.