Never in a Million Years
we thought ignorance clever—
less agonizing than the burden
of brilliance or tip-of-the-hat altruism–
the colorless prism of time and again.
A man can only stick one nose in the air
and since we travelled against the grain,
we rebelled into our current mantra—Just Be.
Set your thoughts free; shun the pain
of gray beards and spectacles. Invent passion.
Invent vision. Invent artistry. Be innocent of
vain airs, pomposity, and class warfare.
Then faint curiosity tricked us (pity our psyche.)
Discovery is collective—intellect AND art.
Paint shirts and starched shirts abide
inside the same books, same bleeding heart
that knows to achieve mastery, if but for a moment,
we need to practice the cultured hand of refinement.
Art welcomes strangers who don’t belong.
What he left behind in the smiling sun
He dared to bury ours in the silty soils of the deep Skane forest—my father’s father’s father—
from a peasant’s straw bed to servant’s hayloft to the sweating vomit in the hull of a steamer cargo to a weedy Nebraskan soddy dripping with snakes—
an earth dweller with his kin and livestock, digging a new life, hiding inside a new world
not unlike the one he left.
But with a new name.
Sipping it Real
I see no difference.
Both are welcome upon my lips.
Both I boast and savor.
Both I stir with finesse and skill.
And neither do I favor.
Behind the lover’s smiles lost in this world
are untold secrets longing to be free.
But lovers’ lips must linger swathed, unfurled
aside tides of stray words flung into the sea.
The futures of our children wait and so
we dance barefoot ’round the world this night.
and sing the story of our love so slow,
so soundless under midnight’s candlelight.
When friends say, “Let us listen to your song,”
I’ll tell them it is written on our hearts
where fickle moss and time do not belong—
only the fading chords of betrothed sweethearts.
Oh, gift me with your moonlit eyes and charms,
and I will die with your sonnet in my arms.
Our Last Day
for your eyes that were never fragile
for your thoughts that were never buried
for your heart that never collapsed
in the center of fear nor rose in the fertile
valley of praise and flatter
I would remain
one more day
and one more day without end
inside our own little sphere
of safety here in the highland fields.
2017 April PAD Challenge: Day 10
“Stand a little less between me and the sun.” Diogenes
It does not matter if it is
twilight or a waning midnight
moon or high noon and too warm
for lips to touch,
your shadow (or lack of)
is your idol—
for me this is a poem.
for you a fate.