High on Perfection
The prosodist dwells in the literary fountain,
with deep-throated roars of rising anger
splashing through waves of free writing,
fighting against streams of consciousness
reading aloud for foreign stones that trip
his tingling tongue, prying corroded spondees
off the pages, his mouth twisting as he spits
them out with rhythmic pounding, juggling
them with trochees and pure pearly iambs,
soft as lambs.
when we returned
rising toward heaven
and the children have gone home
rain is falling somewhere
across this sleeping world
the old man writes quietly
in front of the open fireplace
his sweet dreams becoming
clear as he fills the page
when he thinks nobody is listening,
he sings softly about faith and battles
now that we’ve grown weary of
imaginary joy, (we are fools)
we hear things unspoken
it’s only natural that the scent
of his wisdom
Holding Myself Captive
Nothing is holding the death
of our passion at bay in this fog
except the bounce of your laughter.
I kept thinking prayers would carry us home
but I got turned around and forgot
to put down my shield
and unfurl my fist from my heart.
to clinging together
when our hearts
in the middle
I Have Faith in Us
This time around
I won’t look for answers
in the dust and damp ash—
sometimes ideas are frail flowers.
After reading Corinthians
and begging for love,
you still don’t believe
there’s something waiting
But I do.
Last of the Wild (A Tanka)
The winter wolves wait.
Hoping for the sleeping rain
without fear or blame.
From Genesis to today
disappearing like frail ghosts.