Life of a Leaf (day 2408)

I’ve grown accustomed to leaves turning my memories from fresh to curled, a well understood paradox that changes the tide so romantically it hurts like the small spots beside the bulging veins growing inside.

My smile has grown lines, my heart has extended its beats, my hearing has begun to dance with angels upon the dead leaves blowing along the roughly trampled ground – are these our memories we have yet to experience, or have they been forgotten and left to dissolve into earth?

So I crouch down low and embrace the softly blowing wind that helps me to see my passing time I used to think I loved, I used to want to love, so here I’m hurting from spatial infrequencies that cup my involuntary spasms from underneath the table and remind me to forget to itch the pain.

Does this leaf know it crumbles within my palm so slowly softly? Did it reach for me in a pure moment of thought, expecting my return upon amber wings of a sun soaked day like an emotional Prometheus on a personal mission.

Then, like the ashes of memories crumbling in scaled hands of our Phoenix, so too shall sun rise again over the horizon of a small family farm to bring with it a wet spring full of insight and gratitude that runs the width and depth of a heart shaped leaf settling softly upon a well worn path of insight.

Overturned (day 2157)

Holding on to a memory
Like a rainy afternoon
Through a window.
An oblique vase casts
Two shadows upon its inanimate post:
One small shadow from the heavily diffused daylight,
The other, much larger
From the pulsating heart
Laid bare upon the table.
Heavy splatters pointing fingers
In every direction
And a wooden chair sits overturned,
Too cold to stoke the fire.

Moon at Midnight – Part VIII (day 1982)

(part VII)

I helped Amy and Frank chop wood for five days
In exchange for…
Well, I guess it would be food and board
But I was mostly staying for the company
As they were both such enjoyable humans to be around
And their two lazy dogs, Rudd and Jip,
That I still don’t understand why
They weren’t the first to greet me
And Claire, who I nicknamed Clarinet
On account of my sweet mother’s favorite instrument
Who was the child I had heard Amy speaking to
Upon my arrival.

They came from the South
Frank’s old man was a cattle baron down there
Whose ruthless ways, along with his two brothers
Had driven his kind heart out of there
Before he found himself crazy
Kind enough to send him off with
His share of the ranch, though
Amy was his sweetheart
And probably had a lot to do with his tenderness
Having been in love since they were thirteen
Holding hands in the pews at the Sunday sermons.

Amy was the only daughter of the towns only Doctor
She was tall and kind
And treated everything she came in contact with
As if it were the most precious thing around
Yet balanced it with just the right amount of sternness
That kept any good family working smoothly
Her parents missed her dearly
And came to visit once a year after the thaw
To check on the health of the family.

Had I set my heart out to build a more perfect house
I don’t think I’d have been able to
The patio afforded a view
Stretching out in front of the house
Down the meadow to the small stream
At the far end
The exterior had board and batten
Of pine that Frank had meticulously fired
Into a most beautiful looking color
Inside, Amy’s oven was perfectly stoked
To afford just enough heat to boil a pot of tea
But not enough to break a sweat
Which sat on the kitchen side of the middle of the main room
And on the far side were two rooms
One for Amy & Frank
And the other for their planned family
That currently was filled with household items
Amy needed close at hand
A sturdy table Frank had built
One met on the right just as they entered the house
And to the left upon the wall
Was where shoes were left and coats hung
And following along was storage
And more chairs to see to it
That no guest was left standing at the door.

part IX

One Thousand Pieces (day 1909)

Desire fills my heart into one thousand pieces
Memories, unfurling as if eyes were closing tightly
Around minute memories and love letters.
I’ve concluded the end is near,
My hands have become wrinkled and so sore with work.
I will leave a little letter sitting open
Beside the night table
Where all of my wishes will be laid out in bullet point form
Segmenting all I wished I had made, yet un-done.
Do not tarry long where footsteps make no noise,
Wild animals will moan at your sound
And terrors of your heart shall flutter on by
As leaves in the wind make passing comments.
And my waning crescent turns towards me
To reach it’s dagger-like fingers
Deep inside my once well lit thoughts, cavernous,
And lay the sign of Hermes upon my back
To mark the gathering of one thousand pieces.

Gill To Gill (day 1586)

Make me choke my Chesapeake Bay oysters
Down a long narrow tube called onion
On a salty slab of rust
That juts out from the corner
Of a jagged table now suffering the load
Of my humongous belly,
Sliced from gill to gill
And forgetting the kind manners one usually exhibits
While out dining with guests
In a trendy restaurant
On the East side of town.
Hold my napkin tight to my lapel,
And caress these breasts
That light the night on fire
Through a venomous spray
Of narcotics and other banned substances
Hurled deep into the bowels
Of an East Van back alley entrance,
Identified by a single spotlight
Casting lurking shadows into my side glances
And smelling of stale urine
Upon the disposal bin filled with sour milk.
Knock knock, let me in.

Dram of Poison (day 994)

A needle digs deeper guiding the well worn thimble on
Scaring dogs, singing and howling like Big Momma John
Like she’s snaking about a pale spotlight covered in sequins
Singing the whole time about a blue moon kissing her empty bottle
And filling each patron of the evening with wonderment

A quiet lady, sitting idle at the bar dressed only in pink
Clinks cold bricks slowly about the smoothed edges of her glass
Pulling at her soul for every single bit of truth she has
With high hopes that this very night will reveal all that could ever be
And harness her abandon like the piano pullin’ Big Momma John in

A mood envelops the patrons, sensually gliding from table to table
Touching far reaching itches only elation and jubilation can satisfy
Like the silver lining on a red velvet goblet
Deadly for all those unaccustomed to these desires
And final, like large Gothic keys hung around the undertakers neck