Archive for night

Dispatches From the Front

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on February 20, 2017 by beautifulimposter

The traffic signals are glass and plastic jewels
Smeared across the windshield
Cheap and gaudy ornamentation suspended
In pools of bruise purple black nighttime sky
While constellations of headlights form and dissolve
Stars afloat, hovering above the slick pavement.

Constant motion, vibrations, humming
Complicated rhythms of hands on wheel,
Feet on the pedals tapping Morse code gibberish
Underpinning radio hiss crackle
Disembodied voices, music, things forgotten
Things remembered by halves, rising and falling
Beneath oily waters, yet never quite breaching.

Bodies come and go, vague shapes
Defined by rustlings in the black,
Faces floating ghosts, masks smiling, grim, in between
Conversations drifting currents around rocky shores
Incomprehensible yet demanding, insistent
Inviting, but the address is lost, the directions
Seem to be in a foreign language.

He’s not really here or there, out of phase
The dial tuned just out of sync
A whole world of in betweens
Caught in the middle of point A to B
Möbius twisting, the cat forever in that box
Tires spinning out forever, still in motion
As a billion moving pictures flicker past.

The stories gather like storm clouds on a lazy tongue
Thick, pouring out in streamers of blue smoke haze
Littering the floorboards, curling up at the edges
Leaves and old photographs
Pinned wriggling between dime-store paperback
Yellowing pages, leaved through, well thumbed
Favorite passages recited prayer beads.

They aren’t his stories, those dried up long ago
Back when his tongue rusted to the roof of his mouth
He just gathers, stitching them together
Her shy smile to his lonely fumbling
Their boisterous revelry to his towering silence
Fingers calloused from needling onion skins
Piles of manuscript, instruction manuals for disused objects.

No rhyme, no reason, dispatches
For disinterested commanders,
From no mans but his land, a pilgrims travel guide
The points of interest among drifting bodies
Sliding past upon the sidewalk banks
The living, the dead, the dreamers
All with stories waiting to be gathered.


Autumn Is

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 21, 2015 by beautifulimposter

The between place
A pause, indrawn breath
Of air crisp and tart and bright
As apples, as leaves turning to
Rustling flame, whole forests burning
Red orange rattling
Knucklebones upon the nighted windowpane.

Here there be magic, here there be marvels
Dark and wondrous strange
Harvests of dreams
Riding smokey currents
Reaped as the earth is reaching
For her downy white coverlet
Catlike yawning steam coiling.

More than spring’s spritely urgency
Deeper than summer’s languor
Marking the border between
Waking and winter’s long slumber
Lays October’s country
The shivery bittersweet taste
Of mortality, where the lines blur.

This, this is where autumn lives
At the turning, changing of the courts
Wicked, wild, and free
Sharp as knives and witch’s cold iron teeth
Glinting beneath fat, full, ripe
Hunter’s moon hung lantern,
Welcome twisting fine madness sailing
Madcap stirrings of twilight’s hem.

Speaking Poetry

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on July 17, 2015 by beautifulimposter

It’s the kind of hot that clings
Sticky, like warm honey
Sleep is impossible
Damp sheets a scratchy second skin
So we lay awake
Watching the fat, butter yellow moon climb
The blank bruise purple city night sky.

Your shoulders are against the wall
You say it’s cooler, skin against the plaster
The back of my head rests on
Your belly, glowing soft and gold,
Fingertips making lazy whorls on my brow
When you shift beneath me slightly
I can feel the hair between your thighs
Brush the back of my neck.

My lips are dry, throat parched
You’ve had me talking to you all night
Telling you stories, pulling poems from between
The shafts of moonlight
I’m down to a hoarse whisper but if I pause
You lean forward, lips pressing against my skin
How can I resist, you pull the words from me
Like drawing water from a well.

You hold me between your legs
The night holds us like a third lover
And I hold you up like a candle
My tongue a spinning wheel
Weaving the treads of you into tapestries
Adorning the cathedral walls of our small room
Luminous, glowing over sweat and skin
And I can’t help thinking that it’s only you
That can make me beautiful.

I Have Danced with a Heron

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on March 17, 2014 by beautifulimposter

Steely blue-grey
Feathers cloud carving
Wind mastering
Arches full of sky
Settle stately
Ruffle coattail preening
Becoming schoolmaster’s hands
Behind back clasping,
Now to the lesson.

Subtle step slow
Long strider sure
Calm steady iron rigid
Yet reed wind bowing supple
Silence ripples
Pools in soft lapping
Slender hunter silhouette,
Barely a shape in gloaming
Save for dagger point,
Bright spear poised.

Patient eyes
Slow flick follow
Silver flash
Threading translucent ink
Telling moon gleam
From scale glint
Judging motes from meals
So never a stroke to waste
Dip diving neck
A true arrow cleave
Leaving no drops.

Old friend
For so I still call you
Though it has been years
Since we danced
Knee deep in shallows
Step for step waltzing
This graceless student
Yearning for your secret
How to be one
With the shore, the waters, and the night sky.