Rivalry

This rivalry
is the uninvited guest
whose tongue waggles endlessly,

thrumming the same tired tune
like a stevedore unloading
endless thoughts

just to avoid
another death.

Why Quibble?

Why quibble over the minion of words
in a sea shanty where the pilot of the rising
and the falling of meaning
is lost in the depths so blue?

The oast house that dries the barley and hops for this strong ale
is hot and tempers are sure to flare in these nascent tunes,
roasting before the fire only to be served up to deliberate maidens
and children who will not withstand the bawdy songs
and backroom ballads.

It is lost on all of the innocents
who can't find a voice to speak,

much less sing.

Eventually Everything Blossoms

Eventually everything blossoms.

It is efficient to assure Mother Nature,
the ultimate performer,
that even the hornet can learn
not to sting himself.

Eventually everything breaks free of the petals.

Invisible jarring of joy
can't contain itself
and must gallop across the face
as a smile.

Eventually everything that complains must laugh.

The old woman kvetching at the edge of the monger's counter
catches her last breath and exhales in a sudden gaffaw.
Try as she might, even her hand can't stop the world
from flying free in uncontrollable delight
like bells on the edge of the wind.

Burnishing the Death

This infection,this rush of cells
toward the damage and invasion of the body,
does me no good.

The suspension of faith in healing
from a distance, like a mother calling from home,
impatient for details flush with rosy predictions
will never work.

This maneuver is a reflection of how bad
the disposal of flesh can be,
rotting and septic cannot be made new
by burnishing the death
with words that have no meaning.

I am fading
into spirit
with no attachment
to the death
that lingers
around these weary bones.

On the Trail to Nowhere

Strum that old sad song.

You know it so well.

The one that barters
with the smoking barrel.

Hum that lonesome tune.

You know it so very well.

The pigment of your skin
is no longer pink
and you have given up
on ever finding sunrise again.

Pick up the howling at the moon.

You know that exact pitch.

The cold blue light
suits you from the shadows
like a trapped animal
waiting for the pack to arrive.