Venus Fly Trap

People say I'm too quiet.

Not the case.  I'm on the prowl.

Patiently waiting for one to stick.

Yearning for mind body and soul to connect.

Touch me right.  Touch me twice.  Discover there's

warmth in my black hole - I'll suffocate you with love.

Trending till the End

A dam shame

to think that the eve

before mortality was also the slow death

of singularity. Father, Mother banished as one

from Eden, fitted in skin garments, heart and soul

enshrouded like the Tree of Life—mind bewildered, harried

by a kaleidoscope of indistinguishable monarch and viceroy butterflies.

Downhill

Days of reckless wonder

Eyes wild, wide, as your bike rushes

to the hill's bottom like waves to the shore.

You crash as a car nears the stop sign

and you panic, sending your hopes and fears

skidding towards the curb, sandcastles crushed,

engulfed, and receded into the sea, blood leaking

into the drain, so abruptly, so definitively, but don't stop

nor despair: mount the bike; reengage the waves with recognition.

It's summer: high noon, high tide. In the heat of our moment, try to catch the wind.

Twenty Four Hours

To Ian,

frail, pale, with vapid eyes,

baritone, brother, born child of God but backboned by the Devil:

I lie down when I listen to you, keeping the tears

swirling in saunas of effervescent emotion: Marco Polo,

drip-drop, hopscotch, child's play – recreations from yesterday.

My joy is not the next man's: from Maryland to Macclesfield, mundanity.

I'm forever obsessed with the sunrise because the new dawn fades

into a perpetual autumn sunset with free-falling foliage,

fumbling towards the ecstasy of ash and dust,

sun holding sway until the final moment.

So, this is permanence....

July 15 – May 18

Firefly

You come to me

on summer's first eve

as a limited edition toy

You come to me

defective—nite lite

flashing fortuitously

You come to me

as a beacon born

before the longest night

You come to me

I grab, squeeze you:

my lucky star extinguished

Stonehenge

We used to be holy

holding hands at the Heel Stone

as the sun rose on summer solstice

a silhouette of stability

Today we are pagan

with primitive pursuits like

mimicking old magic of our first May

a mirage of a megalith

Days of Heaven

The seminal fire

Quiet, quelling the querulous

Nature's nurture – never casting shadows

Where crickets count sheep

and cousin locust never clouds our point of view

The eye in the sky twinkles indomitably

but burns too intensely – illuminating imminence

Innocence gone like days of polar winters

Leaving us frozen with the nostalgia of not knowing