Stratego

You walk down the hall.
Swaying your hips slightly, convincing yourself that you're the least bit attractive.
I know, that sounds bad.
You turn your head, your eyes are pinched as you look far into the distance.
The farther you look out, the more you see inside.
You barely see past the hallway wall.

Your sword is your shield.
No one dares oppose you for
they have seen the ruins of those who have,
but you just smile.
Flanked by the ever loyal nonthinkers and
A traitor.
Nice to meet you.

Clocks tick.
Copper turns green.
Leaves grow, crisp, and descend.
Red meets blue.
Yet, blue never meets red.
And you think it never will.
So did Trotsky.

But he plots in the dead of night, his eyes become sore and
his neck, wrung and tired as his
coup starts to grow arms,
legs, necks, feet, loyalty, betrayal.
So, when he comes around, you
don't even notice.
No.
Not yet.

Ah, but you will. Your regime
will fall, your trusted companions
along with it.
But for now, you are content to sway your hips
and pretend like your mask isn't totally transparent.

You wait.
No one buys your crap
anymore.
I'm not a follower.
Blue will meet red.
Soon.

It's so plain and clear

It's so plain and clear.

How she sits there, not wanting anyone to see.

How lonely, isolated.

How she protects herself with glass.

It is a glass door which she hides behind.

It's so plain and clear, it pains me.

Pains me how naive she is.

Pains me how brave she is.

It lights a fire in me, not so plain and clear.

Makes my face turn to fire, and my heart, to ice.

Suddenly I'm in a forest, the light green, robust flora illuminates my way. There are dew drops on the petals of the eucalyptus. They are sweet. As I tread over the lively vines on the forest floor, my feet become moist. Then I see a dear, astute and majestic. 

It bolts in the opposite direction, capering and bounding. 

My ear twitches and I hear a giggle of laughter, sweet and feminine.

The dear pivots on its hind leg to face me, its eyes squinted in a smile; its mouth, contorted in pain. 

I walk up to it.

I stand at that door loathing her.

Her innocence, passion, compassion escape me time and time again.

The dear starts to edge backward, away.

Good. Go.

But it stays, apprehensive.

A gleaming stone of agate catches my pupil

I pick it up and some of the red powder falls against my hand.

I chuck it at the dear.

The door shatters into pieces

Just as she was about to turn the handle.

She stares at me for a second, her mouth open in disbelief.

Nonetheless, she turns the handle and a butterfly with broad wings painted every divine color.

The red dust from the agate is still on my hands.

A Dance

A Dance

A dance can mean the world.

The start of something succulent, sultry.

A dance can shock inspiration awake,

And its ever trailing companion, jealousy.

When I put my hand on your hip, the look of your eyes, the way you bite your lip, when we start to dance, flowing into each other, fluid, in sync.

A dance can be the greatest tease.

Your eyes stray for just a minute, but that’s all it takes.

As your voice, low, sweet, and laced with taunting, whispers in my ear halfway through the dance, “Stay here.”

You fall from my grasp, and you, with a slight grin, ask him to dance, his outstretched hand a sword, about to stab my heart as you take it.

A dance can be a storm.

As it starts, it speaks to me. It dares me to show you how I can dance.

It sweeps me up and the music devours my desire, steals my heart.

You look at me, wishing you were a part of this storm that is downing,

So I snatch your wrist, bringing you down under this sea of ecstasy and bliss.

A dance can be a denouement.

Your hips sway gently in my palms,

And a diamond sprouts from your icy eye.

Your feet don’t respond to my feet like they used to.

We both know it’s the end.

A dance can be a discovery.

A glance stolen from halfway across the floor,

We both gasp as our bodies respond to each other, no talking necessary.

The magnolia in your auburn hair, your maroon lips, full and twitched into a grin, your smooth face and fingers, I push a lock of hair from your face.

A dip, we stare at each other, overwhelmed by our proximity, and the spicy Latin beat.

A dance can be something new.

A dance can be something old.

A dance can revive, like spring rain to the crocus.

A dance can crack, sever, dissolve..

“Dance with me.”

Ode to the Mug

Ode to the Mug

Oh, Mug

You hug my morning tea,

Making sure he stays at

Just the right temperature.

Your rounded edges

Fit the contours of my

Palms perfectly, as I

Wrap them around you,

Feeling your warmth

On a frigid, snowy day.

A mug, so simple in design,

Yet it brings me happiness

That has no end. Seeing

Your magnificent body,

I can’t help but wonder

As to why I’m this fortunate.

This lucky to fill you with

Darjeeling, honey, and ice.

You make my mornings bearable,

My afternoons less tiring, and

My nights more rejuvenating.

Your brim, lipped and lined in

Ruby red paint, sparks memories

Of kisses, long and bittersweet,

As I sip. The exquisite flora’s creator,

A brush, gracefully glided along your

Skin, introducing orange to violet,

 scarlet to olive,

Sunshine to moonlight.

You bravely endure the

Merciless dishwasher for me,

To serve me, to continue

To hold my liquid energy.

And, once, when I dropped you,

Chipping a piece of white porcelain

From your fair, radiant shell,

Not a word of distain was thrown from

Your mouth, not a resentful stare was

Shot from your eyes.

Oh, mug, your

Glorious finger hold.

It sprouts from high on your build,

And expertly dances its way lower,

Twisting, and wrapping,

Dipping and rising.

At the end of this crimson

Wave, there is a ceramic flower

Painted in creamy yellow and powdery white

More elegant and full than any

Other to grace my gaze.

Oh, Mug.

Your days are endless,

Your beauty, boundless,

Your enduring, relentless.

Oh, Mug.

I’ll leave you here for now,

With the remnants of black tea

Staining your belly.

But when I come back,

The sun will be tired, as will I;

I’ll rinse you out, and restore

You to your throne,

Close the cabinet door,

And drift off into paradise. 

For Today, and Whatever He May Bring

To Today.
To blossoming sky blue morning glories, up with the crack of dawn.
To making a pot of coffee thrice, until its aroma dances toward you nose.
To giving a stranger your best smile.
To crying.
To hot, thick soup, whose steam paws at your nose and cheeks.
To making up with a friend.
To actually listening.
To spending five hundred dollars on the best dinner of your life.
To living.
To smiling.
To building some half finished building.
To writing poetry.
To knowing that someone is in pain.
To those tragedies that are never timely.
To playing the guitar, outside, in the rain.
To singing the same show tune that you've been singing in the shower for 20 years.
To ripping.
To turning off the bad news on television.
To Today, and whatever he brings.

How a Boy Becomes a Man

As his time nears her

She lures him in, promise of

bliss, serenity.

But her iron bars hold him

His brief childhood stolen.

Regret

Regret strolls slowly along the lakefront on a briskly frigid night, pondering what to do about her boyfriend. She has soft, velveteen blonde hair, which is cropped short. Regret works as a secretary for a company in South California, always wondering around the hallways, not doing what she should.
Regret hates baking, but bakes anyways. In fact, she mostly just stares at the cookies are they burn in the oven, not caring to rescue them. Why should they be rescued? Regret sometimes passes me by; she steps on my foot and mumbles some half-hearted apology. Regret lives in an old Victorian house on the top of a hill. She doesn't take care of it, though. There are cobwebs and cracked window panes.
Regret sometimes calls in sick, but instead of going out on the town or a spa, she just sits in her room. Regret falls asleep in the shower, and when she wakes up, she regrets letting herself do that. But, she'll do it again tomorrow, not having the will to break her own habits. Or the will to do much of anything.

Stairs

Stairs

Most people look at me

 Seeing what they want to

              But I have secrets too, like

                Unopened boxes, dusty. I

          Always stuff them down stairs, until I

                                 have the muscle to bring them up

                                                  Sometimes people get a peak into my

                                                Unspoken, undealt with guilt and shame

                                                                If they pass by as I’m closing the door, but for the

                                                                 Most part, I just smile, slipping the key behind me.

                                                                      Someday, I’ll open up the biggest box of all, and all of the dust

                                                                       Will explode in my face, asking me why it’s been here so long,

But for now, I can keep my unwanted boxes down here, holding parts of me that aren’t meant for others to see. For now, I can just close the basement door shut, sigh, and put that key back into its spot, where it is constantly reminding me of that, which I have put aside into darkness. Maybe one day, you or someone will descend into this darkness, seeing what a collection of cardboard boxes I have. I have boxes big and small, full and nearly empty. However, each contains a part of me. Something that it embarrassing, humiliating, hurtful, or shameful, but nonetheless, a part of me. Coming down here is not a small task for me. I hear the begging and pleading of each box, begging me to release its contents, which are so determined to sever the box, if they need to.  So, for now, I’ll bring up a box that has been down there a long time, waiting. It is a sizable box, full and heavy. I have gathered the courage to slice open the seam, and I’m prepared for whatever rushes out at me. 

Perpetuum Mobile

Perpetuum Mobile

It starts slowly, softly

Then, a musical phrase chimes in

It is steady, regular, and embodies a dream, before that dream has been spoiled by reality

And the music changes one

The rhythmic, steadfast tones inspired awe

They open one’s eyes so that one can see forward into the past

Melancholy nostalgia rises from the gut

And one gets lost in the music

It brings one back to summer days

To lemonade stands, when three dimes made one rich

 Getting up on Saturday with a bowl of sugary cereal and morning cartoons

To life

And it tells of all that is gone

But the memory lingers, like wine on a white tablecloth

Yet it’s perpetually moving

Never staying long enough

But the notes that one craves

The sounds one begs for

Come back to play

They are forever young

Years pass, smiles get lazy, tears fall

Who picks them up from their grave?

Not a savior, not a slave

A song, a melody, eternally poetic

It never satisfies, but one comes back for more

And each time, they leave feeling sore and broken

Filled with regrets,

Why does one come back?

The faster one’s fist closes, the faster it gets away

The more it leaves one standing, waiting

The closer to perfection it is, the harder it is to listen

It embodies what one hasn’t done, what one misses

And it leaves, not sorry it didn’t stay

There are children with innocent minds, willing to embrace its pace

And one stands there, jaw open, heart stabbed

It’s perpetual

 You are not.

Sankt Marx Friedhof

Sankt Marx Friedhof

Blink.

And a flash of hues, an explosion of passion, and multitudes of grief and sadness will pass you by.

And that is all he was.

And that is all you can ever hope to be.

And yet, millions have and will flock to this very spot

And you will try to gather the pieces of your shattered dreams

And you will try to pry open an eternally shut door

And you will try to extract meaning from a life that had minimal pertinence to yours.

And the cold, gray dust will unhinge your heart

And cerulean, olive, magenta, lavender, scarlet, indigo and violet will come gushing out.

And what are we really? An insignificant fly, scrounging for dinner, or the last ash left in the stone fireplace, cold and overdue.

And you will end up here one day, maybe tomorrow, maybe in 20 years.

And you refuse it!

And you pound your fists on the earth

And you scream until your voice cracks

And you understand that you can’t fool yourself any longer.

And you know, however consciously, that the less you accept your fate, the darker, the scarier this place becomes.

And you try your hardest not to blink.

And why him?

And you understand that he was a wrecked, beautiful ship that was ready to sink.

And a smile starts to peak out from behind your lips, ever so slightly.

And you comprehend that you're only human, that is all what the world is asking for.

And doubt creeps back, slowly.

And you wonder, what did he do?

And there is no answer.

And we all hope to have people remember our past greatness.

And we all hope that someone will commemorate it with a small flower bed, a half built column, a devastated angel, a few water logged candles, and a whole lot of tears.

And you will start to cry, perhaps out of happiness, for you realized that you have blinked.