What Beauty Born

What beauty born

rooting your days
to the dry
spreading your losses
in loosed winds

ugly rivers down in tongues

You arch across the day
from morning to moon
tempting a tremble
tempting a fall

 much ado about decay

but what beauty born 

Mysterious Ways

She travelled at night
collecting confessions
tossed each regret 
in an apron of sky
shook all the blossoms
from trees not yet blooming
fed them to birds
who could no longer fly
polished the dreams 
she found on the sea shore
offered them back
to an ocean of days
ignited the light
that was caverned in darkness
ended beginnings
in mysterious ways

ArtPlatform and Inspiration Speaks

ArtPlatform has just released it's innovative book of art and word in support of colaLife. International artists and poets have come together to create a beautiful marriage of talent and I am delighted and excited to be a small part of it. Please visit and consider ordering your own copy either in paperback or ebook. Enjoy!

ArtPlatform

The Clock

I have a clock
next to by my bed.

Every night

it keeps me awake.

unceasing stilettos on slate

It reminds me
of you

and my last trip

to the top

of  

those

narrow

stairs

to your matchbox room,

warm enough to hatch chicks.

You wanted water

or maybe another blanket

or maybe just to know what time it was,

because I looked at that clock,

and I hated it.

taunting tapping on tiny legs

No need to say,

no clock was ever so melancholy

or so succinctly reminded one

of the measured, meticulous march of the minutes,

the hours,

the days,

the months.

It ticked and clicked  

more loudly than ever need be

and haunted my creaking climb to you

punctuating pain with perfect precision

And there you lay,

unmoving,

a crepe-paper doll,

cold,

cocooned within the quiet of quilts.

I could never understand why you kept that clock,

how in that cloistered room

time could have any meaning .

The silence between the seconds was life
         holding its breath,

the narrative of a house dying.         

It had been a home

that made up the mystery of my mother’s life.

And now it was an old house

with a clock,

and a death,

that took more time than ever need be.

I was twelve years old,

yet at the top of the stair,

I wished I were younger

and could creep, courageous,

into the camphor rooms as I once did

and slide my fingers across
the forbidden bric -o- brac of your life.

The secrecy of knick-knacks and dust.

But I was afraid

that if I lingered a little longer

the clock would stop.

I wanted to tell you I loved you.

But I did not.

Trees Weeping

Dreamed of phantom thoughts and rocks
A perfume pallet of broken clocks
Smokey desert's sun ablaze
With midnight birds lost in the days
And I could not tell light from down
Gem mountains floating all around
Trees weeping for their lost starfish
On falling waves, I made my wish
That rubies would all still be blue
And I could sing like opals do
The sapphire sky would drop its net
And capture all that I'd forget.