Our House

The cancerous floral proliferation of a creative-minded child

Can conjure rabies in a Dad like Snow White’s poison apple.

 

It goes: fresh undulating capillaries form, at dreamtime, ‘neath

The foundations of a country home conjoining not one, but four

 

Four children to the central Nervous system of a hardwood,

cross-borne body turning every virgin dandelion to oak

 

They cast each stem in pitch and resin

instill the fear of God in amber bones.

The cinders dance like lightning bugs

Over the bonfire’s conflagrating trepidation.

Sonnet 2: A small, precious, important eulogy.

Many times, you’ve burst from recollective
Gates in zooming jubilee streaking white
Across some grassy field, a carpet sprite
Jingling like a thrill in mom’s direction.
I lose myself in ways to permeate
Your portrait enveloped in shine and black
A footprint just before your thread went flat
To seal in wax your blessing, unwise saint.
Still, the weight of your head on my chest was
A porcelain egg, embedded and warm
In my sweater, my own bones dwarfing your form.
My beaming dream was you could speak in tongues,
That you would blink out words with your wet eyes
Or huff lamenting with your ancient love
You, magically contained by knitted lungs
Snored small rhythms to our paused and mulling lives.


This poem is dedicated to my Princesa, my dog, who recently passed away.

Incantation for creating poems.

My most recent poetic approaches
Occupy a haunted heaven
where God is always somewhere inexact
And lives repeat or stay amen.
Silence and music invent one another
purgatory shimmering
Calmly from a phantom face. Stillness walks
the garden-paths, condemning none,
nor blessing them, but nodding as they pass.
It’s not the writing palace gates
but a museum of small, Sedated,
meaningless minds. Desolate and
sunbathing where they stagnate into peace.