LOVE POEM #92 – SPARE CHANGE

Spare Change

 

It feels dishonest to call her a dime,

a penny, a nickel, or a quarter.

A fifty-cent piece doesn’t do it

and even a silver dollar falls short.

 

She doesn’t slip nicely between the folds

of my freshly bought dark brown wallet

like a twenty dollar bill, creased over

from its dozens of previous owners.

 

She might shine like spare change;

jingle like a pocketful of coins,

perhaps even grin like a president,

but to me, she’s priceless.

——

 

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Dog in a Car (and Other Haikus)

The Squirrel

Your bushy tail

cannot hide the stack of nuts

spilling from your nook.

 

Sore

Like a rubber band

stretched tight between two fingers

just before snapping.

 

Two Pillows

They lie side by side

on the Victorian sheets

like two slabs of stone.

 

Twinkle

You looked to the sky,

starstruck by the midnight lights,

and I, by your eyes.

 

Dog in a Car

I hear you rushing

to look through every window

and see the redwoods.

——

 

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FIFTY WORD STORY – The Poison Apple

It’s so beautiful. Like a green goddess, crafted in Eden. How nicely does it dangle in the wind; a perfect sphere—unblotched, unblemished. How the sight of it made me salivate. I couldn’t help but hold it for a moment; to pluck it, to taste it—just one small bite.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #89 – The Leaf

The Leaf

 

If you look at all the flowers

blooming in the fresh spring air

you might miss her floating in the breeze

on her way to greet you from the forest,

 

but if you keep focused on the flowing sky

you will catch sight of her fluttering

like a dancer, so forgotten in her song

that it seemed like the wind was flying on her.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #86 – Sleeping / Waking

The peacefulness of a Buddhist

draws its way across your brow

beneath the wisps of blonde hair

that hide the blank expression on your face.

 

Then, with the flutter of your eyelids,

the materialism of your features fly back

like the flare of spring when Persephone

crossed the fiery steps of Hades back to Earth.

——

 

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DRESSING UP

The formalist would put you in a suit.

He would knot the tie so tight

around your tiny little neck,

that you would strangle to death.

 

The romantic would demand that you disrobed,

down to your silken stockings,

so that he could describe you walking

in all your splendor through the dusk air.

 

And then there is the Victorian,

who would worry more how Fra Pandolf’s hands

worked at the canvas of your throat

than how his ink depicted your dress.

 

Only chance would place him side by side

with Prufrock though, who would sooner put you

in a gas mask than a marriage gown,

so that they could ponder the sea together.

 

Yet who am I but another suitor

come to parade you across the palace floor—

for a minute. Another to curl the strands of your hair

over your ears and whisper sweet nothings to you.

——

 

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BARE

Naked ladies are the favorites—

both the bulbs and the baristas,

where their ephemeral blossoms

breast the mid-August mountainside.

 

And yet the bare winter flowers,

cloaked tight in their snow white blankets,

know the veil of rosy lips

cannot stay unblemished for long.

——

 

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KNOWING THE BUTTERFLY

Was it better to know the butterfly

as he flew about the vegetable garden,

or to have simply seen him as a passerby

enjoying his stay in the sunshine?

 

Perhaps if I’d known him, he’d have stopped

and helped me along with my planting,

or told me a story about sunflowers

and how they made a magnificent landing;

 

but having never met, he stopped all the same

and waited hesitantly at the head of the gate,

fluttering his wings, faintly ready to fly away,

and that distant beauty wasn’t lost in friendly banter.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #50 – HOW MANY POEMS

How many poems till she realize she matters?
How many poems till she escape this disaster?
How long till she makes her defection?
Stands up for herself
And fights for her own protection?

I
Get the impression
That all the rejection
Normalized his affection
And led to her concession,

But I’m
The only one with objections.
The only one with obsessions
The only one with confessions.
The only one with depression.

So where in the world
Were all those processions
That told the girl she’d be saved
By divine ascension?

It was a lie.
It was a lie!

Saying when pig would fly
Was like waiting for goodbye.
Told the world I loved her
And her rivers ran dry.

So goodbye.

Goodbye.

——

 

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BEAUTY IS A LIE

They say you’re beautiful,

But beauty is a lie.

You see that beauty passing by?

 

Now look at her smile.

And the song in her voice.

It could make bitter men rejoice.

 

But for all her magic

All the world can see

Is that she ain’t got double D’s.

 

We misregard her laugh,

And disregard her mind,

But beg to see her great behind.

 

‘Cause that’s all beauty is:

What greedy eyes can see.

They don’t care about you and me.

 

So I’m telling you, son,

Don’t fall for their beauty

‘Cause it’s a mask for cruelty.

——

 

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