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Creative's Monday April 3
Washes of Hues
Washes of hues, confuse
the binge of sound.
Noises in the head, scrape
against the colors,
in the brain.
The din maddening,
Deafening the need,
to think.
Quiet little harbingers,
Quiet little aches of loss,
Rise undulating in her mind,
Dancing, tauntingly 'til,
She couldn't take it anymore.
Constant affection, disaffection
In truth,
Blurred the hues
that scraped the mind
That binged the brain
in metronomes of sound
all around.
All resound
To drive her crazy.
He did that.
He made her crazy.
He made her crazy,
So that one night she just flew.
It wasn’t a long flight,
Just a gesture to the wind
As she was gone.
Metronome of maestros
pounding in her brain,
Not-right-not-right.
(Take-flight-take-flight.)
The hues can’t erase
Swirling water-tones
of pigment
She see inside her eyes.
The pattern on his jacket,
Buried tear stained face,
Sepia yellows, grayed blues,
Shadows begging for a palette,
knife.
Sleep eludes, scrapes
the brain
washes tints
to form
the gone-ness of time
On the tempered paper
Of her mind.
Jealousy Without the Green
I’m jealous of the air, you breath
Of the town, that holds you and
The aura, that surrounds you.
I’m jealous of the things, you touch
The views, you see
And the objects, that intrigue you.
I envy the people that you meet,
That see you smile
That fill your day.
I’m jealous of the night, that darkens
Makes your shadow, lengthen
Your body, tire
I’m jealous of the bed, you sleep on
The sheets, that wrap you
The spoon, I can’t be
I envy those that can touch you
Be in your arms reach
Be part of your night.
I’m jealous of the distance, between us
The miles, that hinder us
The time, that taunts us
I’m jealous of the sun, the stars, the moon, the wind
I’m jealous of the rain, the trees, the grass, the leaves
I’m jealous of the bricks, the stones, and the pathways
in your life
I’m jealous of all
And I’m jealous, of nothing
You breath with me from afar
You touch me in your mind
You share with me your intrigues
Your bed is where you dream of me
Bring to me, inside your aura
To your flesh that I crave.
Ignoring the town
That surrounds
Envious of our
Passion
Yet, I’m jealous still, of the azure
breath, that licks your skin,
Touches, your face,
And Traces, you neck
Jealous still of the ground, that
Holds you, carries you,
Supports you
As I, will, when the world
Surrounding us
Is the same.
Soon.
A Good Box It Was
Cardboard remnants
of past lives,
Strewed in hallways
of crowded sentiments.
Reluctant,
yet expectant
of earned places
to be found,
she caresses the cellulose caskets
of long ago purchases,
and emporer thumbs down it all.
Except, maybe one.
Maybe, that one,
Because,
that one,
was, still,
a really good box.
He Said I Shared
He said I shared the color of his mother’s eyes,
And would I like to see?
A photo perhaps
From under his bed,
A walk to the shelf
For an album of dust?
Perhaps.
No, the eye,
that was made for,
And worn by, the her
That bore him.
The Italian side,
of brown eyes,
Gone to hazel with age.
The one lost in an accident,
Found in her son’s closet
Decades and eons later,
Following her demise.
I declined
