I opened my front door,
and when I bent to retrieve The Times,
a crispy Monarch met my gaze.
and white polka dotted
all within a thick black border.
As delicately as I could,
I grasped her wing.
But when I lifted
she fell apart,
disintegrating in the wind.
I watched this dead butterfly
as though my touch
were some newfound life elixir.
All I’ve lost, returned with one caress.
To paint a new life by brush stroke of my hand.
P L O T
A mysterious plot was devised,
the very day I cried birth.
A series of events,
consisting of action
to form some narrative graph.
A diagram of life’s relations,
complete with points,
hatched by me?
Of course, I hope they’re mine.
For only I can reveal
what these scenes conceal,
what it is they hide.
My story is the hide indeed.
A skin covering my small piece of land.
I hope it thickens,
tough enough to keep
my secret plan
from harsh winters,
and sneaking sunlight
slanted in splinters,
stabbing at my scheme.
One day, though,
I will be naked again.
Old Ez, losing the plot,
memory merely fiction.
And then will I be one forgotten
among many charted tombs?
Or, maybe they’ll visit me with stones,
take my stories for their own,
place them within freshly carved bodies.
Regard the moon in early morning,
when grey-blue skies hang low and wet.
A finch’s song carries ‘cross the yard
breaking the quiet and keeping the calm.
These are the hardest of times, for
the mind turns eitel, while eyes,
Dream is Real
The dream begins.
I see her face with perfect form,
it’s just as I remember.
Skin over bones, a nose
and lips with corners
that twist in a smile.
But when I look into her eyes
I cannot see, and then I realize
my memory is full of lies.
The dream ends.
I gaze upon a shattered mirror
reflecting formless matter.
I know they’ll miss me, I know they’ll cry.
As if it’s not temporary, as if they won’t die.
We’ll meet again some day,
under a westerly sunrise.
With new blood through our vein,
and new youth to our guise.
Like him before me
I try to write Paradise.
What hells he went through,
must I go to them also?
Sit in a cage near Pisa,
with only day and no night,
until lunacy grabs hold.
No! A man of the moon
I may become, but only
on my own accord.
will surely drive any man to madness,
but he who plants his seed
in troubled soil
is certain to rot his root
or twist his stem.
Desolate sandstone shelf,
crusty and crotchety tract
of old, dry juniper posing as bone.
And bones posing as white rocks
reflecting morning rays.
Bright lights on Earth’s biggest stage.
With deceptive quickness
Sun falls beneath the horizon.
The normally glistening gold landscape
momentarily set ablaze.
Far in the distance, yet visible,
thunderous clouds roll close
with flashing lightning
and floods as well.
We rolled along, electrified,
listening to lunar incantations.
The beat of a drum grew loud
as we drew near the sordid crowd
gathered round fire dancers, breathers, and throwers.
A cautionary sign: Watch At Your Own Risk
Her face lit up an orange glow,
this was a risk worth taking.
Swirling fire light shone in her dilated pupils.
Identical universes of heat
spinning in different globes, never meant to meet.
An inextinguishable flame
able to burn these very words,
or any others written by this name.
Can it be that what I see
is merely foolery?
A shadow cast by fire’s flame.
Some trick of mind
or sinister decipere with no name.
Or with a name,
if that is what you like.
Me? I’d like to get out of the cave,
suffer the pain ,
and squint in the light
so I may ever briefly
feel it’s warmth swallow me
It is noticeably colder outside today.
A few desperate leaves remain,
clinging to their branches, weary of the wind.
I wait with a rake on terra firma,
—collector of the dead.
Funny how they grow green
with sunlit envy.
Greedily grabbing rays of life.
Soaking up moist morning dew.
These leaves put in all the time,
only to be shrugged off when days get shorter.
Trees of life look strangely dead when bare.
Though they seem not ashamed, unaware
of their nakedness and without leafy coverings.
I suppose that is a difference,
between them and us.
Panic ensues when security is breached,
secrets leaked. Terror wins out as we worry
nonstop. The earth floods with quakes
and cholera, and sixteen percent of people
—cannot even read this or that.
It is noticeably colder outside today,
even the trees can feel the change.
Zeke is a Labrador, a humungous Labrador.
He is a shade of yellow, mixed with off-white tones
and golden hues.
His teeth are sharp, yet somewhat safe,
like a sheathed sword or a paper shredder.
Zeke loves to eat paper.
Toilet paper, receipt paper, wax paper, newspaper, any paper.
Though, he cannot read.
His eyes are soft and brown. He looks to you,
or me, for the big OK.
OK Zeke! Good boy!.
The veterinarian has him take joint supplements
to ease the strain upon his stick-like legs.
Zeke is strong, don’t get me wrong,
but he is a humongous Labrador,
carrying a lot of weight.
A burden, almost weighing more than him.
You see it in his smile, with wrinkled corners of his mouth.
You see it in his ears, they fold back stiffly when approached.
You see it in his paws, they dance back and forth, up and down
as poor, old Zeke tries mightily to sit and wait for his treat.
O Zeke! Do you even know enough to be anxious about anything?
You’re just a Labrador, a humungous Labrador.