Leading Lady

Curtains closed,
the stage went bare . . .  
Costumes hung
with reckless care 
Bouquets rushed
from door to door 
Petals strewn
across the floor 
Kisses thrown 
Embraces swept 
Applause, lush garland
'round the neck . . . 
But there she lingered,
statue fair,
diamonds woven through her hair,
shivering 'neath lights' warm glare,
rose of silk with shattered stare
like broken glass --
He was not there.

Animation

Bear out of the lair: 
Grunting breath
an approaching sound
all around --
but where? 
I run up here,
I run down there
then stop --
his presence fills the air;
to call or move I no longer
dare. 
And the friendly dogs
who'd lain at my feet,
thought safe to greet,
arise to rage --
no cage. 
No cage.

Inspiration

Trust --
hidden in the corners,
in the cracks,
under the eaves . . .
between the books
on the shelves,
beneath the rustling 
of the leaves . . .
From its knees,
trust rises
and breathes.

Gypsy Wept

And Gypsy wheeled 'round,
weeping tears of fire
for dawning youth smothered, 
lifeless pyre. 
Head buried in cape
graced by mother's thread,
she sniffed the old garment,
but the scent had gone dead.

Sequel to "Gypsy's Prayer"(1) and "Gypsy Wind"(2)

Flying Right

Less but more 
Scattered pieces
circle the core,
awaiting direction: 
Straight ahead. 

Less is more 
Precious time wasted
I now deplore;
frivolity can kill me,
for sure,
"lite" fare slowly striking me
dead.

Sparked

Insight,
sparked --
live current
coursing freely through the wires,
pole to pole,
ions meeting ions,
"like" patterns converging, connecting
bit by bit,
infinitesimal fragments
waiting --
each in its split-second duration --
to be drawn in and fitted
to those empty spaces where
ignorance
once dwelt.

Gypsy Wind

But the gypsy wind danced
as no storm ever could,
'round lightning condensed
into a pile of burnt wood:  
charred embers, the relics
of night-searing dreams;
strewn dust, the ash-grey
of stifled screams.

Sequel to "Gypsy's Prayer"

With Helen

Tears burn
but don't flow,
abandonment congealed
within,
childhood's grassy slopes
and manholes
on my mind. 
Dreams multiply
of a deceased lady
by my side;
together,
we walk the grounds
of the manholes --
old schools, interchanging --
so barren,
so sad . . .
and the students' concerts repeat
in the halls,
one grassy slope becoming
another --
older, then newer,
distant, then a shock
of pale green grass
under our feet --
wild, uncut, dry,
brushing against our shoes --
and I look down at the grass. 
Dear soul,
you are more serious now,
so very serious,
perhaps for knowing,
knowing
what I've forgotten.

Originally written April 14, 2012
Revised for clarity

Daring Joy

Alarmed at my joy 
you were, 
because you couldn't 
control it.  
And so the practice of joy 
became furtive -- 
wild giggles smothered, 
humor barely stretching 
its legs.  
If only I'd known 
then 
how to laugh as I do 
now -- 
I would have laughed 
so hard and so long, 
your face would have had to 
crack 
into a 
smile.

Thus Kindled

Outside blankets, 
the cold congeals 
around fingertips and toes -- 
poems and furnace fueled, 
in spurts, 
by outdoor motor chugging on gravel; 
candles yet more warming 
than thin heat, 
stop-and-start -- 
each "stop" overtaken by cold.  
Where a few lights beam, 
the chill also blasts; 
so in darkened rooms I sit 
beside my cherished candles, 
sweet little stubs 
breathing fire and light; 
and I savor, as never before, 
the elemental 
flame.

Seized

To the basics 
we clung 
as rock bottom 
rose, 
trying its best 
to meet us -- 
wind lashing 
on top, 
fury unrelenting.  
Hands over head 
while roof took the blows 
and the blows 
and the blows, 
high-speed pitches 
of branch-shaped 
baseballs, 
gutters flailing in the wind 
like crazed ghosts.  
Seized with wind's fever, 
the skylight 
burst out, 
flying steady 
on Aladdin's invisible carpet, 
landing flat on grass.  
Gazing up at the gaping hole, 
I thought, 
"It might get a bit chilly."

May the souls of those claimed by Hurricane Sandy (10/29/12) rest in peace.