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Orchid Dust

It slipped to the bricks,

A flight,

From a window

Open at

Midnight,

The orchid, given to

Polish the feelings

Rasped by an unpolished man.

A tick of the finger nail 

A click on clay pot 

Sent to its two storied 

Demise

And swept up with no trace

By street cleaners with brooms

Swept into dustbins 

Or maybe even rescued 

With no clue to it’s retinue 

Of accommodating women

Silenced with a wink, a gift, 

A threat that cooperation 

Was more prized than their worth

So its satisfying crash

Echoed in brick alley

Soothed more than the trinkets  

Bestowed as gags.  

The beautiful orchid 

More cherished dead 

Now, than it was alive. 

What Do You See?

What’s your first feeling,

Not the first pictures you saw 

but what's your first feeling? 

Is it the kitchen and you're 3,

The margarine stick and the taste of butter 

The thing you craved at 3,

No dairy, not allowed dairy,

so you ate the margarine, 

Took slices off it 

Cuz you craved the butter.

But what was your first thought,

Your first feeling,

The first vision

That grinds thru your mind 

In 8 millimeter flicker,

In tiny photos 

Black and white realities 

Copies, and copies, with dates,

Or VHS

Taunting you now with static lines,

The realities of failed technology 

Out-dated,

You didn’t back it up? 

What does your mind see,

The atrocities of your memory,

Not banal pictures of Santa encountered,

But the frying pan

On your mother’s temple?

What is your first memory.