Your bonnet, mademoiselle!

"I'm not playing your song, Mary." Freddy states loudly.

Freddy senses that Mary, on the verge of tears, likes me very little right now. Freddy likely deserve it. He provides a certain level of aggravation for Mary. His twisted, crass sense of humor requires an emotional palette largely lacking in most humans. Tigers and polar bears can handle it.

"Freddy, you are an abomination." Women in their early twenties cannot.

"I do so regret, Mary, that you think so little of me. Kindly do me the favor and never utter my name again. I bring enough shame upon your person."

Mary, seizing upon the invitation and wiping her tears, laughs uncontrollably. Her ruby lips gingerly frame her pearly white teeth. Freddy bows his head slightly. He fights back his fascination with this young lady. He imagines that she could be his wife one day.

"You are an ogre. An oaf." Mary, thinking nothing of it, throws her bonnet at Freddy.

"Now, that's not fair, young lady. I do not have a bonnet."

"That, Freddy, is a very good thing." Mary walks away, turns her head a bit, and smiles softly.

"Mary, your bonnet!" Freddy knows now that he is no longer the predator but merely the prey.

A piece of place

A sense of place begets peace and

it begets longing, teary and measured.

Minuets of reflection pool in memories torn

from a refined process long passed,

leaving treacle, sweet and low impact,

for all to savor at the curbside cafe.

This is where harmony collapses

to the cobblestone, splintering the grout

but not lessening the strain

that place, the humble intermediary for everything,

places upon us.

body composed of souls

no sins found on his person
not a shred of evidence of former self
but then are we surprised?
for too little time has passed
since she strayed into darkest night
too much blame poured into a bottle
so much suffering amassed
her return dims in the offing
so sure he is of her that the flicker
of a candle becomes a night's long tale
of tears and want for strange tablets
to type these words, both somber and pale,
against the backdrop of their life
forgotten as it were
but real nonetheless

with pen and paper, we climb

steps, light but rapid

shoulder my world when i am gone

the quest to reach towering places

a long, hard drive up and around

a simple parchment, syllables unbroken

into a meter worth repeating

a mile worth climbing

a life worth living

born of lives lived

and sacrifices offered

on the other side

a clear, blue lake

crystal clear

suffering not from those that swim in it

but from those that dance near it

after the climb

full of mead and mutton

drowned out by their own song

thinking it their mountain alone

as the parchment turns to ash

in the cover of darkness

in the mist of the mountain

gone forever, father,

gone forever

the next frontier

longer the distance
between us grows
it's not fair to blame one another
concerned nations all of us
breathing in each other's politic
dreaming one another's dreams
waiting for that moment to insist
we can't have it all
for as the old punchline goes
"where would you put it?"

daily grind

my suit coat and gloves
meet the wind and the rain
the battle begins
a sophisticated fisticuffs
no Greco Romans
and no toreadors
just my handkerchief across my brow
signaling momentary defeat
a tragedy of nature no less
and no more

buoyed by sound

crafters, varied in size and shape

open sky ensemble

to a closed-minded 3-piece band

all weaving, pooling together

their love of love

gingerly the bows brighten the square

or the electric buzz rattles the night air

hands dance

eyes watch the punctuated notes

black steerage on paper

that forgives no one at no time

and the music grows

like a vine wrapped around my heart

not subtle, but bittersweet, not permanent

but i am no less in its grasp

a craft whose sails know no sunset

note by sustained note

forgive me, for i have loved

a single voice from the gallery

rained down on jurists

who watched the man wait

for some sort of decision

penalty or reward

it's not known

glances to the left

shy smiles from the maidens

pretense bears down from the bench

accorded entry by the mighty altar's own guilt

but leaves the spectacle

half empty and melancholy

a penitent man stands little chance

of love again

lest his motives are again true

and this is the test

of the court of the broken heart

this is the mirror that breaks

part for part

every time we stand

at judgement again

off book

no stage lights
no street sounds
no mention of live action
just a little direction needed
often we revive old stories
memories fond, memories aglow
from old scripts, gilded but browned
by the trickle of tears
handed to children, actors in real life
to forge new moments
of glamour and gloom
a new script of fresh memories
performed on the big stage
of life

in between pure light, pure dark

the long arm of the day

reached across my back

pulled me up close to the sun

only to drop me, slowly, into the dusk

craving more and more night

i swing my head back and rest upon the rock

in a new fallen snow

nothing seemed better than this

nothing reminds me of true love

more than this

but then what is true love?

undefined, often enough, it is

a rhythm

a monotone voice in church

or bells in a steeple

it is a nurse at your bedside

whatever it is that is love

is not lost on me

but rather is lost in my own light,

in me to be found or not

that is the end of the day

and the beginning of night

pari-mutuel love

there's nothing like

basking in the glow

of your admiration

no words to describe it

nothing

but utter amazement

yet

when the glow dims

a harsh, morose wind

rips across the continence

i struggle to build

from the ground up

and the foundation shudders

the fenestra of my soul rattle

and i sleep uncontrollably

i guess there are ups and downs

in life

what is this?

unified due diligence of life's simplest moments

clock stands still
composed yet unsophisticated
while the game of life
continues unsheltered
by my constant sabre rattling
and my undone sense of shame
are we so truly wasted
on the untamed course of time?
i can't believe i'm still here
and my body of work unnamed
what is the story?
why are you naked and unarmed?
here is the final bell
i hear it, unsure of heaven or hell
and the clock strikes
and unlocks this final spell

call it what you will

i'm feeling taxed

brain weakens under the drought

of learning

crazy, isn't it?

no learning in an age

of mixed radio signals

chorus of machines

singing in digital rhyme

yet there we sit

stoic, nervous, but yet

resilient

as the waves pound us

slowly

but with no water, no surf

and no tide

just an undercurrent

of electric juice

poured from a towering blender

called

progress

my garden wall

we built us a garden wall, she and i

of rusty tin and iron scraps

no contract needed

no indemnification clause

just the heat of daylight

and the need

to keep the garden safe

so in the garden

the children play

the sand beneath their feet

in the hours before twilight

but still no fauna in the yard

no trickle of water to keep them just so

what good is a garden wall?

night falls softly

below the umbrage of day

we hear the soft wind,

smoke a pipe of clay

and wonder again

why a garden wall?

to keep out the sand?

never, not for a moment

the time to rest nears

the children are quiet

and as she stands, the moon shows

the garden looms dark

but only a pale darkness

for it too cannot grow

a country separated

simple, painful steps across the sand
no mounting hope, only infinite sorrow
the looking pack, married to wanting
so deep, the sand sinks into itself

and there, beyond the fringes of the desert
of our mild-mannered destiny
we wait and we pine
for the desert to slip away
for the gentle rain of forgiveness to atone
for the past's many wrongs
and for the night to clear
so we may return, tired and hungry,
to our warm beds at home

still just human

saints depart

every day

solemn, pensive

on their way

held up, on our backs

as we simply watch

the ascent

as we meekly pray

saints commence

a slow pilgrimage

to earth's final step

nothing gained

nothing lost

all is forgiven

the journey complete

the final score tallied

stone templates

are all that remain

but no more saints

a very long walk indeed

polar opposites

you and me

no ounce of will

between us

to sort out the mean streaks

put down our weapons

adorn our life

with unconditional love

for 'tis an upstream struggle

facing demons

dreaming big

and conquering the next fathom

and the next

one for which we've no mettle

nor plan to settle

so let us saunter a bit

together

take in long tables of food and wine

laugh, listen, cry,

and paint an entirely boundless time

of joy

out of the clear blue sky

the human vessel

scene of waking up

hair spiked, ransom of daylight

life flows slowly, veins transport

the angel's breath

the devil's gaze

through me

not for want of anything

but simply looking for

a place to rest

this is life

nothing less

nothing more

more or less forgotten

stained impressions of maple leaves

the concrete, too, holds a memory

though not for long

and not, to any degree, very anything

for when the rain pours,

heavy with its sameness,

the leaves swim for safety

while the sidewalk spreads

the memories of dead plants

along its not so ruddy cracks and crevices

no longer a parchment for Nature

but merely a manufactured stone vault,

cold, damp, and

heavy with its sameness

adt

short hills, nj

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