Cysts Under the Rosebud Flush

so much depends
upon

the twist of a
shoelace

spattered with
clay

beside a battered
mat

Curlicues

i lift a hand
and smile
as the tiny fairy globes
bob and twist
around my fingers
in the soft
morning light

Opalescent Clasp

We lift our eyes to grade the quality of the star
And murmur to ourselves
The wealth it would add to our shelves
To be sold at a mid-afternoon bazaar
If only it wasn't quite so far...
We spin its rays into our concoctions with the ears of elves
And stock them high upon our shelves
And watch for lone travelers to ask upon our thick grimoires
For spells of love
Or charms to set their luck alight
For perilous treks through an unforgiving desert
We pull down the sun laced draught and spin tales of bottled stars from the skies above
And watch their faces turn bright
As they turn away, content and unalert.

Royal Purple

When the boldest of hearts do wane
The slow-flowing tap at the end of its drain
                   There is a certain quiet
                    For the boldest of hearts can no longer defy it
Before the swift snap of the chain

General Twists

I taste
Her crescendos
The fluttering Apex
The tremor in her hands as she
speaks.

Nebulous

I watch
The small freckle
Swirl in the thick current
The mercury whirlpools of her
eyes.

Twenty-three Reasons to Sleep Beneath Cherry Trees with Pocket Watches

Why are you crying at me
little rubber man?
Why do you breathe through your nostrils
when you can hardly see
angels spreading out cottonball clouds
and demons holding finger puppets
with their eyes of glass and lakes for souls.
Little rubber man
with your little rubber hands--
will you paint the last coming for me?

Spectroscope Mumbling

Spectroscope Mumbling

"If you are not willing to risk the unusual. you will have to settle for the ordinary."--Jim Rohn

You are mid-afternoon nostalgia

The rasp of a page against worn fingers

As they turn the pages of a philosophers meanderings

You are the dark freckle between the branches of an iris

Behind the glass and round rims

Fogged by heavy breath

However, you are not the smell of an oncoming rain

The tension of a spring storm

And you are certainly not the flash of red-sequined shoes

Beneath the round circle of a long dress

It is possible that you are the warm relief of a house

After a traipse through snow-covered hills

But you are not even close

To being a fragile rose-bud, twitching beneath gentle Southern winds

And a quick look in the mirror will show

That you are not the dainty clasp of a lady's hand

nor the man's heated breath over her lotioned skin

It might interest you to know

Speaking of the beautiful imagery of the world

That I am a rumbling thunder

I also happen to be the pinch of a winter night

The crisp scent of ink scratched over rough parchment paper

The bounce of a leg under a table 

I am also the boisterous screeching call of a powder gray bird

And the incessant shake of a musical hand

But don't worry, I'm not the freckle or fogged glasses

You are still the freckle and the moisture over the surface

You will always be

Not to mention the crisp turn of a page and--somehow--the whorls of the scholars fingers