A Room Darkled
Its quiet halls dimly lit by the moon
Cradles light at entry which fades.
In rooms blackened further by night, sight dies.
The body slumps in comfort. It need not see.
Eyes give way to echoes of drops, a gusty wind.
Its innards unlike its façade red and ornate,
Questions the gall of structure, the ego’s need.
It leads you to paths you would skip at dawn.
You find hurt fades as well in there uncradled.
You forgo Gnostic trips to savor plainly the abyss.
It makes plumes of the trying times and secrets stowed,
The wall only tells of its marble sheath, its laths and studs.
The Sweet Sound
They saw it splayed over blackened fields,
On shingles at dawn, on modest lips,
In gasps, in muted whimpers in town,
In the shame-sick boy’s quest for daylight,
In the little girl’s hell-stricken eyes
As she wandered half-way home that night.
Grandma knew it was post-black time.
She let the wind stream in from a reddened sky.
Yes, the sun left a warm palette before dark.
And the old man and his gripes remained there
In his tightened get-up and cushy pad.
Before the lights went out, he downed his waterless stew.
In the guard dogs’ shut snouts, and birds’ away trip
Before its spiraling toe touched down, hail fell
A blender-less spin, the blue-gray clouds so close
Not a word, just the littering wind, faster, faster, faster.
Those texts rescued me, rang when I needed you.
Had mined the best me when the mind went, ruptured by pain.
Sharp and soft glows danced in dusky eyes,
Tinted, deep and still, distant and close, dark and sunlit.
They, irresistible, cradled me.
Calmed tree leaves waving windswept by us,
quieted cicadas wailing to the moon.
Like fins is close to the sea, all over, like skin and sky.