January 5, 2015 § 2 Comments
In her lair she lies
tangled in a shawl of
given to her by
She is still wishing one
would return to save
her. Still waiting for a
(in shining armor of course),
But knights never
they save their energy
for lily virgins
sleeping in snowy woods,
and dragon guarded
The witch is moody,
throbbing, and greedy for any love.
She’s a dark spider with traps to set
and snares princesses
(loneliness breeds jealousy like ugly babies).
Sometimes, when the moon
is right, and the light
an unexpected prince
will stumble like a drunk
into her dark cave,
and the perfume
of dried flowers
like a potpourri can
intoxicate and blind
Then she croons
a soulful tune
“Purr into my mouth, sweet youth, for centuries I have longed for you.”
Morning light reflects against her
Snaggle-toothed grin and careless,
skin- this is what the prince, hung-over
and embarrassed, sees: tooth, and wrinkles
dark imperfection not a princess,
but an aged witch.
He apologizes for bothering her
and seeks the sunlight. And hopes to leave
the cave and the forest unnoticed.
She sings to his back as he
gathers his armor and shield
(his sword is lost).
“It’s nothing my boy, just remember my purring sighs, and leave me pink
carnations at the edge of the cave.”
January 4, 2015 § Leave a comment
Dutchman- you, with the orange beard
standing with your palette and brush
like a supplicating Jesus; a God
in a golden field.
Do you see them?
A murder of crows flying
out of thick brushstrokes of wheat
raining dark feathers, teardrops,
soaking your sunflowers.
Lift your eyes, profit painter,
you’re a bleeding heart, literally, bleeding
red drops whipped and splattered,
like a Pollock painting.
No money for starry nights spent in night cafes;
so lonely, man, so alone, and look at you
waking early to watch the harvest women,
bending their round bodies
over rows of crimson and purple grapes.
There’s madness in your trees, in your lavender lilies, in
your wounded ear. Madness!
Where’s your love? I’ll tell you:
It’s there relentlessly crying
in empty rooms. Puddles of ink.
Poor lonely son, more wanted in death
than life. I think of you in that last moment;
I’ve sat with you.
You, a single golden wheat,
smoke curling at your heart,
vermillion dripping at your feet.