If Wishes Were Horses
Rooks and herons,
kings and beggar men—
made weak by sloth and greed
and fools in the face of temptation.
A drink for my brothers now
and a nod to their better days
when honor meant something and
slaying dragons was commonplace.
Tears add some much needed salt
She saw all her life
boil and simmer away—
the sugar turned
a gruesome black
as it burned beyond
The man beside her hesitated
to speak, to lighten
the catastrophe, unsure
in her presence and
useless in the kitchen,
his skill set measured out
in spoonfuls of coffee beans.
Time is a spinning wheel
And free will is a road to ruin,
lined with yellow buttercups and violet aster—
a beautiful countryside,
a fare-thee-well disaster.
Get out your Wellingtons
Twigs, maple and witch hazel
mucking around in the
mud and mire of dawn
in the violet woods,
all melting under
a pale, yellow and pre-vernal sun,
spill-off into snow-crusted puddles
and hear the water run?
Be soft, be tender
and fighting the current
is a lesson in futility
you’ve got to
with the weary waste
of it all
lay your head on down feather pillows
and sleep the sadder thoughts
All leaves and dust
crumbled up and let loose
to fly from my palm,
criss-crossed by lines
that speak in riddles
after seven years
of silence & broken mirrors
& scars because of it—
I was dragged into this world and
I’ll be dragged out of it.
Bound in Vows
Bound in vows, I cannot break—
the nearness of this place and
these four white walls box me in
as I stand in absolute stillness of spirit
convinced that one step either way
will draw the worst kind of attention.
Oh, I’d like to burn it all down and
oh, I’d like to see myself out
and walk up and away, into the green hills
and the greener valleys that await
the ragged and lachrymose days
that must precede a homecoming,
with you and your glass of whiskey
waiting on the porch steps to celebrate.
There’s an illusion of
cents for dollars, pick ‘em up
and throw them out.
We don’t have time to make a killing—
murder is a time-sensitive subject
(well, I’m sure) and
the laundry’s been piling up for days
and I don’t care, I just don’t care
if I’m missing the forest for the trees,
a windfall is a catchall phrase
I’d rather not be here
when that hurricane wreaks the place.
(plain as day)
as of this hour
and all the hours
that follow it,
I love you
and can no longer
be anything more
to anyone else.
I wish I was a thousand miles away—
a hundred thousand miles away—
wrapped up in an afghan on an eastward facing porch step,
sun warm on my face, breeze mild in my honey-colored hair,
black coffee in my hands steaming,
birds singing, grass swaying
and you sitting on the step beside me,
elbows on your knees, chin in your hands,
your lips smirking because we ran away
and got away with it.