I Can Only Reach The Black

Hope, the fire of pending morrows
Once burned soft but bright as day.
Now the merest flicker borrows
Time to sputter, waxing fey.

'Lo my canvas unappointed
Born to stretch the light itself
Now with monochrome anointed
Paler shades of former self.

Not the pall of charcoal dusting
Nor the grey of sidewalk crack
Color bled from life by trusting
I can only see the black.

Glamours die with wounded whispers,
Summoning like ringing vespers--

I can only reach the black.

Anything But Pictures

I try to find some solace

In the day, hoping that light

Should staunch the dark of

My eyes, my heart . . .

The chasm where my soul

Used to be.

Leaning in the doorframe

Misty as a moondrop

The light proves too revealing--

My guts scream fire

Bouncing 'round inside me.

There is no comfort but

The craving.

I stagger from the frame,

Steadied not by the

Everyday daggers

Lurking around corners,

Or on shelves

Brick-a-brack bringing burning memories . . .

No light, no, no, no . . .

The dark proves too inviting.

No spark of hope

Burns behind these

Incandescent tears.

Who knows where shadows dwell,

Where Hurt hides until it hunts?

Who knew the human heart

Was photosensitive?

Measured Meaning (Terzanelle)

My grand attempt, though doomed to fail, to write a terzanelle
To feel the feet progressing and anticipate the rhyme
I mean a work with meaning, measured breath (and measured well)

To know with certain stillness that the verse will end on time
I try, in tracks made long ago by poets more than I,
To feel the feet progressing and anticipate the rhyme.

The questions, they besiege me, "Do I have the poet's eye?"
And "Will my Muse enable me to tame this daunting Form?"
I try, in tracks made long ago by poets more than I.

Perusing in my musing to coerce cold words to warm,
I fill the verse with metered hope I learn my lesson well
And will my Muse enable me to tame this daunting Form.

My pattern now established I progress with tale to tell
Only to find too quickly that I now approach the end
I fill the verse with metered hope I learn my lesson well.

So here lies my conclusion, judge it kindly, would you friend?
My grand attempt, though doomed to fail, to write a terzanelle
Only to find too quickly that I now approach the end
I mean a work with meaning, measured breath, and measured well.

Terza Rima: Heat, Measured in Candlepower

When shadows dance upon an amber wall,
The light suffices not to shame their play
Nor countenance the cause of shadows' fall

For light itself compels the shadows stay.
Intrigued by this arousing circumstance,
The candle flickers, teasing interplay

To tame the wall on which the shadows dance
And would distract the lovers from their cause
Were they not so compelled by love's own trance

Their passion cares not for physical laws,
As two are lost in each other entire,
Unbound by light and uninclined to pause

Their show compels observance by that fire,
That light and feeble flicker of the flame,
Which watches shadows prosper and perspire,
To never think of heat the same again.

Legacy (For Michael Jackson)

Start music to "I Want You Back (Jackson 5)"

Starling child, standing tall,
Center of attention,
You who moved more hearts and minds
Than most would care to mention

As a boy you gave your voice
And smiled for all to see
Bringing beats and rhythmic choice
Easy as ABC.

Then you grew from boy to man,
You stormed the music biz,
Showed the world a bolder plan,
A charismatic wiz.

Then when Thriller topped the charts,
We really came around,
You found those places in our hearts
And to them music bound.

Now you're just a legacy,
A legend gone too soon.
Linger in supremacy--
You walked upon the moon.

You're the one who showed us dance,
How souls that rock will move
Though you're now beyond all chance,
We won't forget the groove.

And when the groove is dead and gone, yeah
You know that love survives
So we can rock forever
On . . . (Rock With You, Michael Jackson)

Steam

A turn of smile, a passing glance,
Eternity in instants
Souls that merged when had their chance
Are never slaves to distance

Satisfaction wears a smile
And picks its teeth with ardor
A want that never finds its fill
Each day apart gets harder.

But days apart are just a dream
When nights together burning
Dissipate the days as steam
For fire stokes the yearning

Mental Paroxsym

I ran amok amongst the dreams and the gardens
Chasing vap’rous butterflies winging pantomime
Winking at me with their antennae

I chased them through the daisies while a cartoon mouse
Pulled out a shotgun that blew bubbles
And said in his high, high voice
“Reach for the sky!”

“I always do,” was my reply.

I ran by Alice and her madcap entourage
The Rabbit was the only one who spoke
“What’s his hurry? It’s not like he can catch them anyway. . . “

As if in response, the butterflies stopped
I ran right through them
Their forms wavered then reconstituted shapes

I stopped to ponder this charade
Just in time to see a groundhog parade
Led by a Centaur throwing azaleas left and right
Rhodentia marching maddening on a rhododendron carpet

I had to sit and lean against a tree to steady my mind
“Tea?” inquired the rabbit, emerging from behind
To sit on my left side.
Pulling out his watch, he glimpsed the time then cast the piece aloft, aside
“Pull!” squeaked a voice on my right, and the cartoon mouse
Now adorned with wizard’s robe (and hat, askew) did fire his beastly bubble-gun

He missed the watch, but caught the butterflies
In bubbles—
And there we sat, Rabbit, Mouse, and I,
To play the remains of the day aside
Describing bubbles
With phantom butterflies playing charades inside--

Ignoring the Centaur of Attention.