Poem: December Eighth

thermometer proclaims:
zero celsius!
clock exclaims:
morning!
my body complains:
I am old…

frozen air
creaky bones
blurry head
I am unmoved
and know I must
begin again

these blankets are
warm safe cocoon
safely soothing
I slap snooze
avoiding my destiny
for ten more minutes…

too soon

clock reclaims:
morning!
my being complains:
I am still old…

fatally compelled to
arise from the bed
like the sun
and the moon
my degrading orbit
predetermined
by gravity

and finite time.

Poem: December Seventh

she moves
she glides
languid
liquid
moving
upstream
against
current
trends
ignoring
the damned
reality
around
her.

she makes
me want
to move
glide along
with her
and change
the world.

Poem: December Sixth

shoes lined neatly by the door;
polished and gleaming with hope,
that Saint Nicholas, once more,
would leave sweet treats by morning.

those dreams shaped from saintly lies,
made me try to do my best;
to yearly earn my surprise
on December sixth each year.

why does magic fade away,
as we slip out of wonder?
growing older with each day,
knowing more; and seeing less.

I would, if I could, believe
that spirits come to my aid;
yet I cannot. so I grieve
for the naive bliss I’ve lost.

Saint Nicholas no longer,
slips past my deadbolts and locks
– leaving my shoes to hunger
for things that will never be.

 

Poem: December Fifth

candle burning burning bright
save me from my fears tonight
so I wish with all my might
keep me safe by your warm light

blackbeard, whitebeard no beard now
think I thought I saw a cow
leaping back across that bough
why and when and where and how?

flicker flutter in the wind
tell me please are you my friend?
once I had one way back when
they were there and gone again…

there are ghosts on my ceiling
see right there where it’s peeling
corners dark now concealing
listen now – hear their squealing

I think you’ll hear the sunrise
as the starlight starts to die
it’s unwise to open our eyes
before daylight’s touched the skies

candle burning burning bright
saved me from my fears at night
out out now brief gentle light
morning has restored my sight.

Poem: December Fourth

dull morning
stone cold clouds
flat against the sky
where am I going?

Mary Celeste
was wallowing
abandoned and adrift
on the empty ocean…

why am I here?

where does
our journey end
when there is no time
left inside the clocks
ticking for me and you?
who will write
the ballad of
our simple history
when we also vanish
leaving behind no trace,
not even a note, or clue?

Mary Celeste
kept sailing
long after life
had left her hold
bleeding memories
into the wind…

why are you reading?
why am I here?

where am I?
going
going
gone….