Encroachment
When we were young,
sunlight was borne from our laughter.
We picnicked on dunes
where shoeless wild ponies roamed,
giggled over cheap wine at dolphins
trailing our starboard rail.
I knew no other man after you.
Light seems suddenly dimmer now;
afternoon shadows lengthen.
Death is a man walking backwards,
more rapidly each time I look.
Reach out your hand.
Draw me again to your bed.
Make this evening
our shelter,
our stand
against the inevitable
encroaching night.
preacher john
on the avenue of lost angels,
john the baptist's ghost wanders,
still preaching, head tucked
into a suitcase,
silver platter under one arm.
shivering under the crumbling statue
of their uncommon savior,
the bag lady dreams john's words
of holy communion, ignored
by the other day end loiterers.
night sucks up dusk,
and the drug dealers creep,
bearing their own streetside offerings;
they laugh when she gropes the air,
john, are you still there.
Steps
two steps forward
three steps back
two steps forward again
sand tracing my efforts
sun scorching my neck
someone sings on the hilltop
still too high to see
angels walk beside me,
mary magdalene
annoints my feet
Blackmail Press, summer 2003
Sunday Means Forty-Second Street
Kneeling in the Forty-Second street alley,
cord tight above elbow bend,
vein swollen and ready,
Mother, on his arm,
watches, and patiently waits.
Sundays it's always the Square,
flashing sign drawing his eyes
briefly towards heaven.
His church.
She always told him to go.
Hard to remember her clearly now.
Life eats his childhood daily,
fogging memories of a figure in blue,
scent of gardenias in damp air,
heels clattering over hardwood floor.
She would like it that he comes here.
Everybody needs remembrance
of a mother's cool hand.
Lotus Journal, June 2003
Poet's Song
You of the matted beard,
watermelon snack-juice leaking
from half open lips as you sleep.
Do you dream of golden bird claws
drifting through silent rooms,
lovers' bosoms hanging
over stained bathroom sinks?
Do your bracelets clink as you turn,
restless from London's noisy heat?
A bubble from your head
spills heiroglyphs into my hand,
the afterbirth of an emerging poem.
Pris Campbell
Songs To A Midnight Sky
Daily, you draw the line
between yesterday and today,
dare me to cross,
dare me to get close.
I stand in the backyard rain,
shirt soaked, jeans sucking
against hungry thighs, hear
you move around in the den,
stereo rising high
over a flash of lightning
to the east .
The Lettermen
But of course
you would put them on
to taunt me
Defiant, I sing along,
face the night sky,
swallow raindrops, dance,
until I know that yes,
I can survive anything.
Even you.
Later, when I shiver out of wet
into dry, you already sleep,
back walled to my side of the bed,
dreaming your own song alone.
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