POET DREAM
In his need to add a verse,
he swayed in front
of a blank white wall,
harnessed like a climber,
then rappelled
once he completed a sentence
stroked with his tongue,
dyed spittle from its tip,
like a sharpie,
expressed his thoughts
though the words
never took shape,
sentences turned into
straight and curved lines.
Day morphed to night,
but the wall grew brighter.
His mind’s eye
stared at the phantom formation
in front of him only to discover
the dyed strokes
transforming into a dense
galactic sweep of starlight,
universal graffiti,
that camouflaged his thoughts.
Then the stars detached
and like snowflakes,
swirled around his ample mane
as the bottom quickly rose.
He laughed and contorted
to avoid the imprint
that would ultimately define him.
LIT CORNER OF THE ROOM
Companions
through the unnoticed hours
beyond midnight,
keyboard, mouse, connected
to an ample screen
in the circle
of the florescent desk lamp
where you invite me in.
Months matter little,
the house is usually dark,
the hungry pellet stove,
always on the wane,
yet those companions
consume my attention
and help me formulate
a thought or impression
into a sentence
I hope one day
will be worth acknowledging,
a redundant insight
presented with a new cast
of wordly characters.
Without the opportunity,
there would only be
my tired soul
persistently yearning,
wastefully oozing
sentiments that would puddle
then eventually dry
upon the floor.
COMPLACENCY
It
will be at least Spring
before
his friends
see
him again at the lake,
a
while before he traverses
the
frozen crests and isolated inlets
at
dawn or dusk
in a
caravan of snowmobiles,
shouting
and pointing out to each other,
as
they sped along,
the
magnificent murals that
winter’s
snow and ice created
upon
the wharfs and empty homes
hugging
the craggily shoreline.
He’s
staying put in the city,
rising
early to visit
the
corner coffee shop,
watching
the suits and skirts
scurry
off to office duties,
dodging
the traffic
the
stop lights greet on every block
while
he slowly sips
and
reads one of only two
surviving
city papers.
The
noise, so prevalent
this
time of day, is his safety net,
the
crowds, his company,
unlike
the aloneness the lake allotted
when
he fell through the ice,
last
in line, and no one noticed
until
marine patrol pulled
his
stupefied body and sunken vehicle
from
out the icy depths of certain death.
The
city is beautiful in the winter,
the
waitress was saying
as
she refreshed his brew.
He
contemplated, silently nodded,
enjoying
the prospect of the mundane.
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