Violet
Hear that wind, son?
That is the breath of your father
As he blows in your ear.
Come off to bed, hold on to my hand while you can,
And pajama romp to the pillow queen.
My boy, let me dress your round feet in slipping ram horn shoes
And lion’s mane socks.
If any uncertain shadows come creeping across the sheets
Burn them with your dragon scale tongue
And never forget about me
Humming in Our Sleep
Walk with me
Skimming out feet on the old street wood
Turn a heel and let the pale current sweep you away
Past blue towers of ice, spun by a spoon in space
Impressionist cascades, and angels in the blue out
Shining mischievously like of far off city lights
Reflected on the surface of the water
Or like our souls
Glint and danced about in semi-circles
And new step dancing in the moon
And blurbirds, too.
Somewhat the Porch Rose
My red petals wilting inward upon a shivering filament,
The garnishing lavender sticking in my stigma like thorny twigs,
I lie depressed on the cement,
Shrinking sepal pressing in on me, denting my color.
Each stamen sways and flails in the milky frosted gale.
I am somewhat the porch rose
Left alone to the north wind’s cold.
Yet, it is not in me to limp home
Where palling pain subsides to warmth.
No, I will rest here outside your window,
Soul exposed to the cold of hypothermia
Because living outside your Fahrenheit
Would lead me to more sudden cotton nose and perniosis.
So I risk my skin tissue’s soft destruction
And utter mumbled pleas of my red heart’s devotion
Until the sharp tail of Jack comes upon my pistil
And stills me with the milky frosted gale.
