Waiting to travel

Waiting to travel,
 I came upon a
 Versailles mirror.
 frame twisted,
 face smashed.
 Discarded and
 tossed in the
 Poteau landfill.

 A little attention,
 some re-assembly;
 a revision of love
 let everyone see...
 Solid iron, and strong!
 And a face so polished!
 Crystalline and honed -

arpeggio aura quivering
 like the strings
 of Schubert’s piano.

 No jag of glass,
 no broken shard
 drew trace or drop of blood.
 Not even a scratch.

 And no cry of pain
 did it cost me.
 I can not recall
 the last time
 that joy came
 so free.

Just another blue lady

It is a rainy night
 and i didnt see her
 come in
 but I feel the sprinkle
 as she shakes
 her cool cyber coat
 look up
 and see her
 rakish 50s hat
 Curious backtrack
 shows where
 she should be
 wrapped in solid felt
 thick armor cloth
 but she drapes herself
 in elegant phrased
 Coco Chanel
 and glinting silver
 earrings of anger

Beatitudes

    for Bea, obviously

Trite hackneyed cliche
 often come to play
 for the simplest
 of reasons
 it fits
 There's a finger
 of truth inside
 the simplest cliche
 like you are in me
 and I am in you
 (stop wriggling!)

Watch

I've seen it eat,
I've seen it gulp,
spit out bones
I called friends and lovers

I've never been
in the belly
of the beast
just watched it feast

Ive never known
that lure, that cost
just watched it crush
turn lives to mush

I’m sure if we had poets, they’d be writing about the swallowing of Miami Beach by the sea.

Well Jesus I thought
just as well we dont
have poets any more
or Miami Beach might
disappear

ex cantatio

the dialogue of the wind
and the waves
written in rock and sand
scribbles harshly

Seaweed punctuation,
driftwood exclamations,
writing in codes
you can't decipher,

the message of mother ocean
we are coming

saltstained concrete
towers
will wade through
your future
guppies will gulp
your foods
and play among
the wreck of wheels

the octopi
will occupy
wall street
at last
bloodsuckers
replaced
by
just suckers

sharks will bump
and chew on
the benches of justice
tip over the
crusted rotting chairs

read the runes of ruin
and remember
we are coming

Middle Age death poems #3423245

Another building, 
another foyer, 
another elevator

another street, 
another sun, 
another parade of cars

another parade of days
all different,
all the same

until you hear your old friend
cant swallow bread any more
his throat seized with tumour
the crab nipping hard
til his doctors fashion a 
new throat from his stomach

then the whisper in your ear
next time, next time
and the days are shorter
and out of breath

and you laugh at the title
you gave this scribble
middle-age:
thats come
and gone