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Tattered In The Wind

In this realm of chessboards
and fresh books
smelling of coffee and minds
and neweness

Manythings can happen
And yet go unnoticed.

The man with the suede Irish cap
carefully packs away his metal ruler.
He moves quickly to ensure
that no one wonders what he has been measuring.

The homeless man shuffles out.
His panhandling this morning
ensured him a good cup
and a soft chair until noon
when the influx of people
begin to stare.

The well-dressed woman wearing sunglasses indoors
wavers,
leaning against a wall.

Wind rattles the old windows in their frames,
The ghosts of
dead unpublished authors
determined to break in.

My cold tea
grows warm.
The phone rings
and is never answered.

Time
Slips
Seductively
Past.

The voices come and go,
Timbre high,
Timbre low.

The windows squeak and bang
Author spirits wanting coffee
with a touch of fame.

A painter chews
on a sandwich and a book,
His split-kneed, splattered pants
Belying intellectual pursuits.

Flip-flops contradict pea coats.

An elderly man loses himself
in a magazine.

A woman has second thoughts
on a book about
Machu Picchu.

The painter gets the hiccups.

A bottle of Coke makes a break for it,
Rolling across the broad planks of the floor
Towards the old loading dock doors,
But is thwarted,
Captured,
And replaced upon the shelf
For some unsuspecting future customer.

Someone whistles the theme to ‘Gilligan’s Island’,
off-key and distractedly.

A black-leather clad woman
Sports a Starry Night water bottle.

The man in the pork-pie hat
and well-trimmed beard
casts suspicious glances
over his shoulders.

New people arrive
burbling about the wind
As departees
Bundle up
Chins down
Before exiting.

It goes on and on.
In and out.
Come and go.

Always with the wind,
Moaning, sighing,
In the background.

The Mixed Emotions of a Coming Winter

I am scared.
The gray of the sky overburdens me,
Swamping me in a soft blanket
of ennui,
but one in which
I can’t indulge.

I muster my strength to throw off its

weight

and push through,
giving birth to myself each morning
from another cocoon of dreams.

I am choiceless.

Now, the green grass still lies splayed
below me.
A maiden no longer,
She shows herself fully,
a last gasp before her faded beauty
dies for another season,
smothered by a soft, frozen fatal whisper.

I am coddled
by the lowing clouds
That catch me up in a drowning
Embrace of cool sadness,
Pushing on my eyelids
As the earth
Balks and wavers
And hunkers down to suffer through
Another winter.

At Water’s Edge

When I am old
And feeling softly lost
Among the silver strands of hair
That stroke my face like slender reeds
At water’s edge

will you take my hand and draw me
through this tender abyss
captivating raptures as we weave our way
between the littered stars?

will you loosen the twigs
that tangle in the tresses of my spirit as it
drifts across the silent sound
coyly toying with the watchful herons?

will you hold me as I
ramble in and out of spatial palaces
and ramshackle rooms
built and filled with dreams and memories?

And
Will  you let me slip sylph-like
Into a permanent moonlight
Recalling the simple color of my eyes
When I am
Finally
old?

As I have revived the Weekly Wednesday poem, I am also reviving the Original Thursday poem. [Insert applause here.] I have hundreds of poems from the past that I can share with you, and I hope that the revivification of this feature of the blog will inspire me to create more.

Devil With A Forked Tongue

One golden morning early,
You looked in my eyes across the table,
And said,

“You’ll never find another man like me.”

I was touched.

Yes.

Touched in the head.

In hindsight,
I should have stabbed you in the tongue with my fork
And run.

Yes.

Stuck a fork in you.

We’re done.

January 2019
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