Nature, Poetry and Aesthestics

From verse to vein, let my words puncture your flesh with the force of a glinting spearhead, reciprocating the thermal shock I felt upon unsealing your latest quatrains— a pyroclastic flow of beauty that raises hair on the neck's nape.

With every syllable, I still feel the static of Louisiana heat in my pores: crumbs of beignet powdered sugar clinging to your black velvet dress, the human carnival of light and color on parade in the French Quarter after dusk.

Our riverine separation leaves me pacing the prison yard of loneliness— hometown confines calcify claustrophobia.

Yet the great Mississippi highway, meandering with scoliosis spine, provides me the inhaler hit— of your verse.

Ever get the feeling You were Bought Secondhand Most certainly Secondrate You eyed Jealous scenes In the mirror With only you there

Ever get the feeling You were Just Runner up Most definitely Consolation prize Their future would Be so much better If it were her and me Not them In my gaze

I have The long view Herstory Is my story too And he’ll be a footnote Consigned to Memory’s cobweb

Bid him a farewell Kiss for me As we lay his Shadow to sleep For our peace

New moon, this honey moon phase. With its campfire allure glowing, we're bending to our heat; caked in dirt, sweaty brows cooled by mid-June morning dew, evaporating in ripened strawberry fields.

Beneath the wisps of a waning gibbous, we're hunting for Jack O' Lanterns in the graveyard's wild patch. Waxing desire melts butter with bad habits: under the arched breezeway, bare skin shared and shed—shield and quilt.

The more Lorca-like I flexed in lyrical curls...

In the golden light, The giants' villa draped in ivy Murmurs in its sleep.

Giver of life, sustains the fig, Almond and pomegranate— Campania Felix—always pregnant With the next litter of riches.

Harvest is over, store the wine. May Sallust make magistrate! The giants' troubled dreams Echo in and out of the morning's bustle.

Strangely, sparrows take flight, And the atrium ripples. 'Tis nothing new— There is coin to collect.

Midday, the giants slumber no more; Tremor, tremor, all the world is roused. Droplets of pale sponge stone, Smothering the vineyards, And rattling the shingles From the roof of Isis.

Tragically, no poet is home To lament with written word How, in the golden light, I could see the peace Of autumn stretch In tandem with my yawn.

Movement at the speed of life

I’m dislocated from my fantasies

Concussed and whiplashed

By the concrete wall of reality

Stumble through pastures

That weren’t so green

Never-green

Eyes iridescent

Still haunt

Waking fever dreams

Oh, how I want back

The mother of pearl

On the chestnut cabinet

Oh, how I crave the caress

Of cream-colored

Satin sheets

Calloused soles from this career

Of wandering restlessly

Loved ones roulette wheel

Like faces in revolving doors

Out on the periphery

Of their memory

Blink and I’ll miss me

Always seeking

Ceaseless heatwaves

Expect mirages, not oases

Oh, how I taste solace

In every sip of Earl Grey

From the silver-plated serving tray

Oh, how I’d love to love again

Watching her belly-dancing navel

All my longing and the day it always stretches all that unnerves me starts to recede

Lifting the lock, slip past the rusted gate

Lavender perfume pampers the air, a map of overgrown ivy on stone, traces of hyacinths and irises in the sunrays' trickling embers

Lighting the sky, firefly ballerinas plié to a movement heard in the breeze

Evening star, my Venus, my delight, your slow-motion form emerges from the sea of cypress and mossy aphros

Mirroring gazes penetrate You're every bit as shell-shocked as I am by the news of the world

Symmetry of feeling in asymmetrical times

Summer airs can be deceptively cool My supplication is for the warmth of our embrace—gnarled arms of white oak entwined with the leafy quivers of our lips, starved of light, evident in constricted veins

If only such moments would elongate, tomorrow's terror fractures our peace, deer ticks burrow where thigh meets knee—

Roots planted firm, we face the straight-line winds of the oncoming summer's gale

It's Friday night; the office halls Shut their heavy-lidded fluorescent eyes

I'm feeling particularly effervescent With no particular aim

To go home is to die alone

In between cracks of a windscreen Gray clouds and sheets of rain Stretch across the western skyline

My optimism piqued once again

Meet you at the trailhead in half an hour

Anything I can do to pause my problems— Procrastination is such a fine art Surely, I'm Rembrandt in such affairs

I'll take this warm downpour with you, Clothes clinging, skin cleansed by rain

You know very well I can't be caged Circling the living room at a tiger's pace Before spectators I couldn't care less for

Meanwhile, my own thoughts are my worst enemy

Another exorcism of me is due— Pen to paper just might be Holy enough to review

Rid me of these insistent demons From out of my pores and veins

These sacred places We once walked with light paces Now tinged with too much shade

Love, like the changing of seasons, Was about rebuilding. Now, I think we can both see Without question, there’s no reasons

We’ll walk away in silence— An exile of geography, If not quite in jagged memory.

For space to breathe, A life reimagined, with more ease. Separation is our silver-lined down payment.

Don’t let the debt collectors of dreams Hunt you in the fields. Take care by lantern light; Don’t attract undue stress when changing streams.

Now walk away in silence— An exile of all feeling, Self-preservation without hesitation.

Find hearth and home; If it takes longer to roam, May you taste the apricot of serenity.

Can’t say what’ll present itself as surprises In the next valley over. Just touch the next peak Above the sea of clouds as the sun rises.

Bewildered by each other, haven't we had this Argument just other day, the reel to reel Never comes to a close, we're becoming roommates in Glasshouses and less like lovers each day

Orphans pinning flags and flowers At their daddy’s grave

There’s a David here, a James there Their eyes shut seven days before Their first born ever opened their’s

Antietam, Shiloh, Gettysburg Inhaling the musk of gunpowder And catching a whiff of grapeshot

Late May brings the first Whiff of lawn clippings, Midwest barbecues Lathered in smoked charcoal And bonfire wood

The children are laughing Catching fireflies in mason jars Under mom and dad’s eagle-eyed gaze

This grass beneath your barefeet Is fertilized by the dead

Your stereo speakers blare Against blue hills once Deafened by mortar shells

Every branch beneath your soles Whether Virginia pine and white oak Pockmarked with Minie balls

Late May ever moody Is rolling in heavy clouds And thunder’s nearing crack

It’s time to decamp, Empty the bivouac Of fun and games