She Sang in the Morning

This is a photo of me with my mother when I was about 9 months old. The poem follows.


She sang in the morning
as she softly reassured daybreak
from under the warm covers of her embrace

She sang in the morning
as she settled like dew on thick tufts
before all the stars could evaporate

She sang in the morning
as she serenaded robins and sparrows
who flitted about in serene commotion

She sang in the morning
as she wove a crown of baby's breath
and white doves flocked to her side

She sang in the morning
as she gently caressed my brow
etching her needlepoint onto my DNA

an isolated night

a raging wind swirls
at the fabric fix
edging reality corners
when suddenly the center
of a tortured emotional
hurrIcane arises from sacred
howling dogs salivating
salvation in witness of quail
blood spilled on the asphalt
bandaid suffocating fertility
while famished tears
deafen drowning ghosts
under a shadow-filled core
ticking the midnight moment
nourished by a preservative
laden canned fruit charade
where an ancient canyon's
hermit crab crawled under
profit's calculated violence
wondered up by the sewer stench
flowing through the veins
of an isolated night
tattered by expectation's
breathless decay

Shattered glass
A magnet without poles
The little boy crying into his pillow,
A silenced yelp
A carousel with no brass ring
The little boy's finger in a light socket,
An empty sky dwelling
A heartbeat pumping no blood
The motherless litter of one,
Dusk without a sunset
A bee sting
The boy's knuckles smacked by a nun's ruler,
Perpetual delay
A barn without hay
The child drowning in the deep end,
A dry riverbed
A locked door
The boy's menacing father lies,
A walking caricature
A searing desert
The word echoing from birth to eternity, no.

Cassiopeia

A shooting star streaked,
cracking momentary brilliance
upon the new moon's canvas,
tattooing the black void
with its sole illumination.
The glowing, aphrodisiac aura
embraced emptiness, draping
vanilla and honeysuckle scents
on Cassiopeia's shivering
shoulders of silky alabaster.
Her bright eyes sparkled.
Cosmic winds seeded discovery,
eliciting an amused pleasure
acknowledged by her alluring
Mona Lisa mystery.
Only Adonis and Aphrodite witnessed
my brief, parking lot caress.
She planted an eternal garden
in the placid waters shimmering
from the forest of my heart.

Purple Plums

Imagine a single,
shriveled pitted-prune
in a bushel of freshly-picked,
sweet, firm, purple plums.
Tiny beads of perspiration
trickle across goosebumps
eliciting witness to arousal.
Unblinking eyes gasp
at taut, silky flesh
when moonless midnights'
anticipation shudders.
The juice of the meaty delicacy
dribbles taboo down lust's chin
in a dream just before awakening.
An insistent shimmer-shiver
rapidly tattoos desperation
with every pounding heartbeat
of untarted forbidden flavor.