Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

Ice Skaters

We timidly tiptoe from the shore,
wary of every creak,
not trusting our full weight on its
slippery ballroom floor.
Lured by an orchestrating wind,
a couple, teenagers still,
are already out over their heads,
intoxicated by the dance.
Bold laughter echoes the music
that fills their eyes.
Laced into blades sharp enough
to draw warm blood
or a gush of icy water from below,
on fresh sea legs
they twirl, whirl and dare to taunt
the depths underneath.
Moon drunk and in starring roles,
the stage is theirs alone.
To them, at sixteen, tragedy is
an old wives’ tale
since forever seems unbreakable
and love’s invisibility is
firm ground for entwined dreams.
Joined hand in hand,
still eluding Time’s envious glance,
the weight of years
has yet to crack beneath their feet.

First Dress Rehearsal

Come September’s final week
we witness
Winter’s first dress rehearsal.
Before dawn,
Autumn’s colorful stage is
fog-draped.
Festooned with a thick curtain
impervious to
the moon’s revelatory spotlight.
A white expanse
encasing morning, it emulates
October’s frost.
With silence now in costume,
a steaming cup
only mimes Summer’s warmth.

Bottom Of The Ninth

The Visitors score twice
in the ninth to go up by three runs.
Only a fool would dream
our last place team could ever
mount a come back.

Turning into a full rout,
grumbling fans begin to trudge
for the parking lot exits;
the highways and neighborhood
bars soon congested.

Ushers are no longer policing,
and a front row seat
can be nabbed without fear.
After all, nobody is
being called out for the steal.

Fully aware that their
ace reliever has yet to squander
the lead, I too gather
my possessions and prepare to
join in the exodus.

But then, humbled by
the boy in front of me who still
believes the game can
be won, an inner voice whispers,
why not wait and see.

When he rises to cheer
the first batter up, wishing I
could be ten and
so naive again, I find myself
clapping in support.

Fifteen pitches later,
another loss is chalked up
and those who left
early can jadedly laugh and
say I told you so.

Not knowing what
they missed: the rapturous
look on that boy’s face
when a foul ball was deposited
straight into his mitt.

Decent Fit

Mated for life until one
or the other’s sole finally gives out.
Used and discounted,
a mismatch of styles, laced together
and sorted by size.
Aisle after aisle, poorly displayed in
flickering fluorescence.

Wedding shoes, divorced from
the happy occasion.
Dancing shoes, some barely worn.
The sensible and exotic.
Hiking boots, now gone the distance.
Baby shoes that assisted
in taking hesitant steps before they
were outgrown.

If only these tongues could speak.

Seeking a new relationship,
willing to overlook calloused toes
and thickened nails,
this time around they simply dream
of finding a decent fit.

Wolf Moon

Forgotten all day
the Wolf Moon hungers and howls
contained by the sun

Expectant with light
see it struggle to rise from
horizon’s cushion

Now considered tame
it never shows its dark side
except to the mad

Disguised by the glow
its craggy face knows distance
preserves the allure

Liberated from
restraints, wantonly engorged
it prowls the night sky

How can we envy
Saturn’s profusion of moons
when full with just one

After consuming
admiring glances, this Wolf
still hungers for more

Heaven’s Gifts

She was the Mother
who presented her children with
an empty mason jar
on the night before each of their
first ten birthdays,
instructing them to remove the lid
and consecrate it
open-mouthed beneath the sky.
When resurrected again
the next day, filled to the brim,
heads mixing with tails,
they found a note placed on top:
“Pennies from Heaven.”

She was the Wife
enchanted by Black Dragonware
who, on their first ten
wedding anniversaries, received
a cup and saucer,
accented with dragons in flight,
to complete the set of
her husband’s teapot marriage gift.
Forty-eight years later,
beneath that sky of mourning rain,
in lieu of somber dress,
she raised up her favorite cup to
collect Heaven’s tears.

Birthday Gift

Light a candle.
See how it flares, its core
of liquid blue
hardening into an orange hue.
Before the match
sears into delicate flesh,
touch another wick.
With an entire box of wood
at your disposal,
continue down the row.
Before moving
to the next, appreciate
the hazy glow,
at this stage, less a blaze
than kindled warmth.
But hurry, wax is softening
and decades
wait to leap into flame.
Halfway through,
like drunken mariachis,
separate fires
band into orchestrated heat.
Singed but
undeterred, proceed until
the cake’s entire
surface is a forest ablaze.
As the candles
meld into a conflagration,
unwrap memory’s
cool moon and reflect how
persistence is
a welcomed birthday gift.
The best one of all.