Door

The door is closed
Brass knobs turned
Shafts on still wood

Once open a noise ago
Letting flood of voices
Diminished now to a memory

Mismatched paint the scar
Bleeding hose water on an
Untended pot of beans

Light sneaks through
The weather warped edges
Shrunken now an inch or so

Unnatural eye unmoved
To see the ground bending
Up to meet the drooping sky

A missing knocker
Stolen by boys
left unrepaired cobwebs

The door is closed
Brass knobs turned
Waiting for the spiraling pad
Of new flesh upon the surface

Hot

I feel red.
Flush with the noonday heat
of a cloudless golfcourse

Sweat pooling.
In the small of my back
against the leatherette

My senses dulled
The eastern hammer
glowing in it's forge

Half way to nine
I give up
and go home

Wet Spark Struggle

Changing histories with casual ease
lobbing softballs from the wicked past
marking the boredom of your choice
poking the embers of a forgotten fire

It is close, but all up hill
you have seen yourself naked
ready to come back.....again
no drinking gene to help along

For all your rattling, there is a band
that holds you back, that keeps you down
I will not be your liberator confederate
Only room for one to ride slowly up the coast

My Old Flame ( the one that never leaves me)

I ramble and amble to the new town
To loose my money at the bank
and wait to get a real haircut

Breaking upstairs for no other reason
doing my best with some slippery fiche
but the history is too old to be mine

I tell myself that my heart has had enough
and pay $1.75 to take the circular weave
still walking a half mile to......home?

Pulled to swing and drive always south
my island rehearsal and a cup of Nestico
early to see the beautiful lillies

My old flame...how many times
have I tried to put you down?
every week in my hands even now

You speak with my voice
you say what I think
Won't you sing to me with a new and unfamilliar tone, and bring my smile home where it belongs.

Paint

The colors, once separate
are beginning to blend
having mostly lost their hue
but still the caterpillar
builds his chrysalis

Now we are in the deep time

And what will our new color be?
How will love's hand shape
its painting of the morning
when we fly?
Changed

For now the question is a dream
and we must sleep and grow
before the artist blots his mat