My gratitude to good friend of many talents, Beth Hohertz,
of Ontario Canada, for the use of her dandelion photograph
All material on these pages
Copyrighted by the author...
(c) 2005
All rights reserved.
I opened my dream
And shook the memories loose
Watching them scatter
Like swarming bees from a hive
Knowing some will surely sting
March
Always a surprise
Never as remembered
March
As cold
And white
As a debutante's shoulder
Or warm
And honeyed
With violets on her breast
Her voice
Shrieks
Like a banshee
Or whispers
Sweetened with nectar
She beguiles
A harlot
Promising everything
A lady
Promising nothing
Unforgettable
And always a surprise
Day ends
Persimmon sun
Ripened rests in earth's lap
Waiting to sleep under apron
Of night
The sky was a rose
And sun a golden scarab
Perched on a petal
Paprika
Ivory hands
Ending with
Long, graceful fingers,
Without callous
Or blemish,
Very pale and refined.
Nails perfectly manicured
And painted
Glossy Paprika.
One shapely tip -
The left index finger -
Impatiently tapping
The mahogany piano...
Waiting for its player to return
And amuse her
With song
And witty conversation...
Pretending...
Hollow voices
Of wooden guests
Muffled in cigarette smoke
Sharpened her thoughts
Until they hurt.
Was it over?
She sat,
Keys grinning seductively.
A melody
Slithered
Through her nerves
And muscles
To her fingers.
Paprika
On ivory
Finding the notes
Without harmony.
She stopped.
Fingers arched
Like talons -
In pain
Or feigned attack -
Just above the silence.
Something...
That feeling...
Of his gunmetal gray eyes...
Aimed at her.
Her hand
Instinctively
Jerked
Away from the keys.
She raised her eyes,
Falling into his
For an instant,
A fragment of eternity,
She thought she saw regret there...
Too late.
She stood -
Fingers reclaiming the keys.
She pressed them
Without stopping as she walked away,
Paprika
Creating an ivory wave
That followed her...
The sound -
A hymn of finality.
The colors of the sunset
Reflected on your face
And you became a Monet painting.
I memorized the look in your eyes,
The faint smile that haunts me still,
So that when the sun had set
And you were gone,
My pencil could take from my memory
How you looked
In that pastel light.
Across
From Jackson Square
A hooker's heading home
Endless parades of pigeons pass
The wino singing blues
Cathedral bells
Bless both
Growing impatient
The wind paces through the trees
Searching for its soul
Discarded
Sometimes I toss away minutes
Treating them as useless, frivolous things.
Just annoying pieces of an hour -
Too small to accomplish
World Peace,
Play an etude on the piano,
(Or even the Minute Waltz),
Paint a masterpiece,
Think a great thought,
Or call a friend.
Minutes are expendable.
Even when bundled together
To become an hour,
They just tick away…
Joining the accumulated refuse
In the wastebasket -
Mixed in with discarded bits of poems,
Receipts,
Ticket stubs,
Outdated coupons,
Junk mail,
And crumpled up Kleenex.
They can’t even be recycled!
Such worthless, silly little things…
Dream Catcher
Fragile
As a dream at waking
The tatted silk
Of a spider's web
Shivers
In the cool light of dawn
Abandoned
By its inspired architect
And falling into disrepair
Loose threads
So delicate
As to be imagined
Tremble
As a breeze
Warmed by a sigh
Entrusted with tender wishes
Sets tufts of dandelion
Free
Past days of gold
White now and soft
As lint in a robin's nest
Drifting
By chance
Becoming accidental
Ornaments
In the spider's lace
Transfixed by the frail weave
Surrendering
The wishes
That set them free
On their flight
Destined
To be held fast
By the gossamer web
The seeds
Of which fragile dreams are born
Anew
