Bury the Ruby

Ruby array of  dry dismembered bones,   
rounding a pair of sodden coral boots;
her frame concealed by cherries hanging low,
that's what she drew—the artist saw it so.
What the artist saw now hangs on the wall.
She stands beside it, perfect—Such a doll! 
Bodiless feet been buried deep below.

But What Does It Matter?

What does it matter?  Asking I, at first
on sunny days (my body shivers, aches).
Life's a dream, in death it's enveloped firm—
though over pocket myriad gashes felt.

This letter now I'm living—or am I
more the letter written, rewritten, signed?—
tell me to whom it may concern, and why?
Is life a curse?  Or from the lord, a boon?

If my life's the letter, sung it's my tune;
under glasses, moments noted are runes;
and moments not, are endless landscapes strewn
with blurry ink—a soft inert cocoon
(dark enough to dream of butterflies soon,
common dream of hopeless humans unhealed).

Who's the receiver, postal system, dank
tongue that licks with care the envelopes sealed,
unknown unknowns in heaps, and myths unpeeled.
 
Who am I, the poet, poem, rhythms
and rhymes that hoist the feelings, senses, thoughts?
If received, then tell me: What has mattered?

But Looking Back Tonight…

As I look tonight I see a clock that is cracked. 
My muffins tucked in bed, so we’re alone perhaps, 
the tree aglow in red, and all the presents wrapped,  
a Lego set for Kat—But face it, facts are facts! 
You smashed the clock (recall: my gift the day we met), 
and broke the twenty-year-old glass. Your bags been packed 
for years inside your head.  And yet I’d grown attached  
to whispers in the dark, addicted to your scent….
Though you left, it was your orchid pillow I kept, 
and for years and years I hugged the pillow and wept. 
You recall the nights I kissed the curve of your back? 
Hurts me you never truly loved me, loved me back. 
Now I know the thing was just a lie, was an act... 
But tonight I’ve you, my happy family, back.   
And looking back tonight I see the clock…intact.  

Moments

Moments are butterflies.
They die, kept in a jar. 

Moments are kunik* kisses from the stars. 
They're breezes, cooled by moon and warmed by sun. 

Moments are wombs.  So too a lifeboat fleet,   
with all the boats deflating, one by one. 

Moments are lonely flower buds. 
Caress them each and watch them bloom. 

Moments are sweet receding rooms, 
with crooning walls and scented floors. 

Moments: this verse, this word.
See it, feel it...it’s gone.


*Kunik: a way of kissing or showing affection, associated with an Inuit practice of breathing in the skin of cheek or forehead.

Love, the Things We Labeled Love

We rained above our
melting skin and labeled taste
of salty flesh, love.

Paradise

Eagles encircle my paradise. 
Icicles drop from the evergreen,
pomegranates bounce on the trampoline....
Witness the poets: They're paralyzed.

Mold

Mold on the lime to 
the moribund butterfly:
Blossoming snowflake.

But Not to Boss

Work is a funny word.
But not to boss.
To work off debt,
it's said, you have to go to work;
where working as a clerk,
you work your way up, reach the top.
You work around the snags you come across, 
and working in the office never stop
to work away at them with all your heart, 
till your report's a flawless work of art:
Intense and smart.
But not to boss.
You work out quickly, getting set
to soon depart for work, and yet 
you end up working up a sweat.
It's funny how that works...
But not to boss.
Then there's the "work it in" to write,
which now I'm working into this outright. 
By "this" I mean my poem, song,
which, by the way, I've long
been fond of working on.
But does that count as work?
It's never work, it's said, 
but only if you do 
sincerely love the work. 
But not to boss.

Devouring Silence

The suitcase of silence    
is veiled in black, in white; 
it tails behind on wheels 
that dance to earthy tunes, 
spinning at whim.... 

My carry-on contains 
displaced letters only.
Homeless in frozen air— 
How they blubber!

In the flying coffin,     
relics of past, hollow.
Meaning: I call poem
my home. 

I escaped with letters hostage,  
so I can be.  At last.
Alone.  I

fear devouring
silence.