Ovid at Sea

My step wise to every rise
in the cobblestones of Rome.
I stumbled at Julia's backdoor
and Rumor whispered
my name in August ears.

Careful to hush His Ganymedes
and legacies He forced
  His offspring to suffer,
Augustus hurled thunderbolts
   from Olympus.

Verses my fame, now my Lake Trasimene!

Women of Rome,
How can I live without you?
Your tales, smiles,
tails, and scents Mnemosyne
cannot resuscitate.

Inauspicious undulation of the Sea...
my gut sinks, but not so low
as my heart.

Death is Noble, Dying Ignoble

Life abhors the dying
and honors death.
The living hasten
their span of breath
into ground or urn
and call it rest.

Dying lust,
feral and unseemly,
honors life in greedily
rasping its last gust.

Proud life scorns to draw a breath
and welcomes the firm grip of death.

Quarantine

Orange cones, barbwire, and signs mark the terminus,
streets barren as salted earth.
No rustle of footsteps, murmur of voices, or crisp flutter
of birds in flight. The drone of electricity and motors gone.
The hollow city stretches like skeletal remains of a mythical giant
for miles. Haven't touched another hand or face for months.

When the contagion spread black wings over the city
it disdained to take me. My wife and two children lasted two months.
I still have pictures. I've built palaces for them in dream.

When the military came to cordon off the city they didn't
bother rescuing survivors because, I imagine, they suspected
we carried contagion or were in league with it.
Probably made up a name for us like "Viral Terrorists".

Run into others at least twice a week. I keep my distance, avoid
eye contact, and dare not speak. I resent other survivors more than my
own survival.
Down to three cans of soup, two boxes of cereal, and five water bottles.
Each day brings fainter whispers of miracle.

I hate this life. I fear losing myself and memories of those I love more.

Sobriety Cruise Lines

The boats are all sober.
Passengers drink sweet cocktails
on disinfected decks,
Redskins dead or fronting Casinos
for Western Capital.
Endless green seas stretch
under gray heaven.

The cash boxes and
prison ships have won.
Arthur hails from
the virgin page,
"Smash them!"
Nobody hears
over the calm drone
of gray-green
above and below.

Grave Solace

The Dead know our hearts.
They can list every
insult and lie calmly.
This is their Heaven and Hell.

Still, liberation is theirs.
No longer must they live with us.

Take solace.
The day comes when we'll know
living hearts just like them.

"Where are the Bichons of Yesteryear?"

Oracle

Blue skies and blades of grass,
Rising seas and red leaves,
Exquisite the scaffold
and tyrant's severed head
as flames lick armories.

The Hulks

  I'm never the shipwreck,
    but ever the wreckage
     
    Lyre like lungs sails
       plucked by tides
       and sea monsters

    Bones rotting wood
      dismantled by the
        circumambient
     vale of briny tears
     
  From these depths
  the Sun wanes pale
   as an unreachable
     pill promising
           peace.



   

Australia is on Fire

Saturn

Shackled in shame behind the Sun,
thoughts ripened
by everlasting night
and set on vengeance,
He returns from exile.

Ravenous,
He craves
all living flesh
that mocks Him.

His hunger never sated.
No rest until,
belly bursting,
splitting a grin,
everything taken,
proudly He leans back
pruning the masticated.

Holidaze

"En ce temps que j'ay dit devant/Sur le Noel, morte saison,/Que les loups se vivent de vent/Et qu'on se tient en sa maison" François Villon, Le Lais.

Nyxed

Dusk unadorned
                             (shade figures
                              all bodies in
                              brooding relief)
awaits opulent Nyx.


She lets her hair down
                                      (festooned with diamonds
                                       sometimes dimmed by
                                       a large pearl brooch)
and untangles splendor.

Cradle Moon

"...and in the soft, pale brilliance of the night she sensed a preternatural stirring, the tremor of impossible hopes, as though bliss were on the breeze."

Limbs Read

"I have witnessed the wood's insomnia/And the fields at rest."
Milestones, #65, Marina Tsvetaeva.

At the Protest

At the protest with the committee approved placard and appropriately colored
hat you showed respect for authority. You thanked the police for their service
as they arrested you. If their fellow officers roughed up some of your comrades,
maybe they deserved it. When you were quickly bailed out the pride of accomplishing
a civic duty filled you. You rushed home and told family and friends about your
adventure. How you behaved with strength and dignity! Alone you managed to spare
                a thought for your less fortunate friends still locked up.

Cannae

Fond gold of full summer Moon kisses skin like smitten Sun.
Under heaven's favor en route to the crowded concourse
my heart was pure, no expectation polluted
blood flooding my body with tenderness.

Doors opened and there she stood
exquisite as a deposed Queen.
Never so stunning in white
that bound and abashed.

Kings long passed slaughtered thousands
for a woman's favor and I understood.

To dishevel her hair I threw the top down.
The stereo blasted to nix small talk.
Inhuman to look so captivating.
Incensed, I punctuated a terse "goodnight"
with violent embrace.

Home,
spirit and sense snuffed,
I curled like smoke
under red sheets
and dreamt massacre.

My Little Angel

"Dogs read the world through their noses."--J.R. Ackerley. (Angel's expressive eyes tell a different story.)

September

Tumble of buds when leaves blush hues.
Summer brides and grooms imbue
Harvest Sun's mantle.

Rain dampens tender
as maternity's kiss,
life dishevels hair.

The crisp scent of bark,
carried by clement wind,
assents air's clarity.

Fire This Time

The crab's girdle fastens tight and the fire this time stops breath.
Wheezing poets cough up spiritless ash not verse.

Amazon's crown fires glow infernal
as composed blue blood flows formal.
Abattoir sans souci douses alarm in tranquil
appeal to the practical grace of technology.

The Amazon still burns.
Buy Oxygen tank shares
and profit off the prescribed
sharecropping of fresh air.

In every holocaust there's opportunity.
Let it burn, strangle billions to death,
to rake up greener leaves with impunity.

Yes, darling, the Amazon is burning,
but will our world ever stop turning?

Tiny Bird Bows Under Chalk Mark Moon