The pipedream of permanence
These rocks wear our names in
a pipedream of permanence.
Yet somewhere we’ve buried
our cabernet moon, our clinking
of glasses, rhyme over reason.
The sun steals our shadow.
I sent you two poems, penned
in the frenzy of midnight and
madness; our signatures linked
in the marquise’s italics.
Turnaround/turnaround.
The leaves kiss the sparrows.
It’s all as we’d written, though
it’s now grown apparent –
You’ve come to forget me.
Our summer of dandelions
In remiss of their wishes
they collapse on the side road
of Autumn’s diminishing fields.
Depleted, exhausted,
they gave what they could
of their destiny, written.
Come what may follow.
Without seeking semblance
or accolades, dandelions
submit to the crosswinds.
The flowers within
With some tools and
some topsoil, we toiled
on that miniscule patch
between the swings and
the picnic table, to grow
our first flowers.
Sadly, our timing was off,
unaware that April still frosts.
Our seeds never sprouted
but our teamwork and talk
rewarded a gift of together time, both of us cherished
That red wing revival
Truthfully, there’s not much
deviation in the stenciling of
branch after branch, mile after
mile, on the winter worn sky.
Save for cliche, of the red wing
revival, that breaks through the
funk of it, soothing the sorrow,
eluding to, yes, there’s an afterlife.
All on the drive back, from
Aunt Marie’s funeral.
Pebbles of prophecy
Sketching the shoreline, we
capture the twilight’s transition.
Countering clockwise, as
the evening had widened
I blinked twice, all’s been redacted
Our morning time musings,
now sea siphoned scribblings.
Particles morphed
into pebbles of prophecy
Here, where so little sustains
past the waves’ grand rotations.
Dumpster Fire Press 