Friday, December 31, 2010

The Prayers Speak with Sound




The Prayers Speak with Sound

You told me that I
was your temple; that
you sat at my steps
waiting for my doors
to open, so that you may
pray. They never opened.

Your footsteps run through
hollow walls,
echo dreams turned to
ash. You are no longer
there at the steps, but your
prayers linger with the smoke. 

Monday, December 6, 2010

A Morning Walk...On an Endless Afternoon [REVISION}




A Morning Walk…On an Endless Afternoon

Where shall I wander beneath
this lazy waking sky, tinting
a purplish glow? The leaves
all scattered, wearing proudly
their morning coffee, affectionately
forcing me to stir this plastered
green tea—the thing they now
envy out of naturally glowing loss.

My footsteps mark a badly paved
road, leaving their invisible,
shattered cells on the hot asphalt. The
papers, wrapped in yellow, await
their masters presence to deliver
yesterdays  news. My neighbor,
the early riser, waves to me, the insomniac.
Always a kind brutality on his face.

We all have secrets, and sometimes
it is best never to know. I trail
along to the next street over,
more leaves pile in ditches,
leaving the trees a defenseless beggar
drowning in the winter. But winter is not yet here.

        —Weasel