Wednesday, November 28, 2012

spillling water at lunchtime

image source

glass spins, winning
unseen fight

a careless hand
a busy mind
and body got ahead

of thought.
thumb stuck out too far
and now a flood

envelops tabletop
whispering over edge
to create waterfall

in miniature
that manages (despite its size)
to sweep down to soak

my shoes as i choke
on the sip i took
in my rush to halt the flow

with hands that drip
sievelike, yet still try to push
the water back into the cup

a futile endeavor
to hold back a flood
with flesh and bone

water runs
through my fingers
defying  my attempts

as it always does.

Friday, November 23, 2012

sounds in the house of silence

(Picture by Edvard Munch. Night in St. Cloud. 1890.)

the faint sound of dust settling
fabric of loveseat

snag of the page turning
rips an almost imperceptible
tear that echos in the quiet

the swift
drifting of a bird past
darkening window
a single feather catching
in the crosshatching of the frame
that rustles against the glass

the graduation of colors
that slips from the crystals
of the chandelier

seems to almost whisper, rebelling
against the demure
fold of the drape

slam of door in wind
dragging of chair legs
over the uneven tiles

the faint rattling of dry
boughs that rustle
(bonelike) over the moon

these are the sounds that gather
in this house of silence
sounds that exist in this quiet


(like the wail of a flute
they resound
but are somehow
a part)

of the gathering


Sunday, November 4, 2012

the lady at her dressing table

image source

finger dips into the
palette of white
lets the powder
fall upon her nose

silent maid takes
a square of velvet
snips twice
a black heart flutters down

pasted on her cheek hides
an angry pox, which
refuses to heal
despite repeated bleedings

neither she
nor her wordless maid
knows that the
powder that aids her

complexion with such a dewy charm
will steal more blood
from her cheek, her lip
than the festering sore ever could

lead-poison will eat
away her lifeblood
but will lend her cheek
an innocent shade

(not like the pallor
 of the dead, 
a color she'll soon attain)

so the silent maid spreads
the white death where
the lady cannot reach

bits of lead fly through the air
and quiet death catches at her hair