Static

Lies in the shade,
crimson fingertips, tainted in the dry ink
on the couch at midnight,
staring at the empty screen,
remember that afternoon

Look round' the ol' house
crumbled about you
like a house of cards

Luscious smiles pasted on the desert madras,
on layered hills
like paint pots overturned

Those deceitful eyes
shining on the oasis green
just reflections in the dark

And TV goes static

frozen in the moment
crystalline
like a spider in the amber.

Mossy Banks

Wept on the lake tears

alight in dark embrace

grandiose the thoughts of those

lost in the forest

but I can see the trees

As the melody secretly floats away

on tethered hopes and dreams

watch the smoke engulf blue eyes

as the shine goes

soon we're little more than tiny figures

see there, on the silver fields - cowering in the hot shade

that's where we left frozen pride

On the way back to lake, through hands like weeds

striding tall again

so full of ourselves, we scream into the faded skies

only to awaken in the sand of our desires

in mud

the gritty beds of a vagabond

Another night by the lake,

another night of bitter roots

round the supple throat -

still in the moss,

right where we belong.

Angel Hair

Flutter away m'dear, away into the flowers melt,
shy kisses enthral the senses but we lost ourselves
in the painted halls, in every frame a new life hanging
on the tips of wild tongues

Upon southerly winds walking together, soldiers'
faces in a peckish hue,
the drums beat a constant tune as ten-thousand feet
crack like thunder,
Be still my heart! She swallowed them all -
into the sinking sands, where diamonds come to life
and golden treasures are spun and gods fear to dwell
all of my comrades gone, withered away in angels hair

Still, still the porcelain stare
like love's last breathe on the mountain's pair
afloat on a river of blood
the ashes flair, flared
upon a whim and a dare
the changing days they
come hither to bear
taking the silence, and
evenings last glare.

Corridors

Bright eyes where have you been?

I lost you in my glasses tint

Along glittering shades of sunlight she danced

In the cobblestone cracker homesteads we met

Long ago when the winter moss was green

Like an oceans kiss

I saw you in the shadows kept

And the pinhole cushion mountains

Where giants fear to tread

Enshrouded in the clouds so blue

Dancing just on the corner of the eyes

Where we will not look into

Like a window to the soul

And so we chase all the empty spaces

Footsteps a crescendo on a circle well worn

Never really looking for the end

In the tiny quiet moments our minds spin like a top

Looking for the way out

On the edge of a mirror.

Leap

Stolen streets
revealed cold embers blue
as liquid colors in the moonlight

gentle fingertips burning angles
glistened
into perfect skin

it's just a leap across the lake
a slow fall
as the wind goes

easy on the eyes
remembrance of the heart
blackened in the hearth

keep a tongue behind your sword
does it suit you?
Here on the stolen streets
dyed in a hue
longing for the blue to come again
in the embers of a kiss.

Tape

Restful leaves play among the silky clouds
torn apart, scattered like fleeting glances while
the fiery winter's breath reigns down upon
summer's cold shoulders

Not lost, but found
shiny glass reminders strewn like pebbles
broken baubles
Not lost, but found
too many colors mettalic
swirled together like
oil on the water

When the spring jumps the heart
let me fall into your arms again
on the swift currents we'll play with time
shambling along, while you dance
I'll remember the old music
on the edges of the crumbled streets
and the eyes plastered to the windows

empty vessels smile at the sky still
and the earth will melt into
the opal blue sea.

Frost of the Harvest

There is a revelry in the dark clouds of war,
upon the soft soil, drenched in blood
the unlucky ones dwell beneath,
as craven raconteurs spin yarns,
and cull the fog o'er the eyes of reason,
blackened boots cover the land,
one by one, cohesive with the drumbeat,
but not to the heartbeat.

Some cry out to gods in the sky,
others bemoan cruel fate,
yet still the graves remain full,
unwilling containers for the greatest mistake,
man against man on a never-ending
battlefield.

Still, each mourning draws hope - like every breath,
as the gentle winds of change allay cannon-smoke,
the stench of death in the fields of gold, now crimson
in the setting sun,
tilled in those fields,
a lesson in the beginning learned at the end,
in every mind, in every grey storm, in every life lost,
hidden in plain sight,
hope found
even in the frost of the harvest.