Tis Sun untrue,
in two,
he done of heavy weary?
For light given to the rose,
does he one the more, the other
favor new born bloom, a sweeter fragrance
’stead thorny prick, a drop of blood?
~ ~ ~
Groping
Whisky river
thoughts cascade
plunge against the rocks
splash misty vapors
feed a starlit fog
all meander, struggle wayward
groping for their way back home
~ ~ ~
Cut (short)
Was it stain intended, my pen lay against the parchment
Vitriol, incision screwed, filet heart bare, an open wound
Or saw teeth jagged, clawed and snagged against my hand,
Sliced thrice, what price, words precise, profundity avert?
~ ~ ~
The Angler Motel
I don’t know why I can’t erase my mind’s picture of the place. It comes less often than before, but when it does, it is more vivid, more deeply ingrained and yields to no neglect. I knew I had to go again.
I came upon it first; it was the early sixties, its faded neon lights flashing Angler Motel at the top of the hill where it lay beneath a grey-capped, peach-sherbet sky.
In the parking lot, pot-holed and graveled, I sat solitary in my car trying to decide whether I understood her invitation or if I was foolishly entertaining my inclination to fantasize.
I followed her from the diner, her subtle invitation I inferred. I drove fewer than ten miles, lost her briefly when she topped the hill, and then almost driving past the place myself, I saw her tear-drop tail lights go dim.
I followed, no less assured fate drew me there. Now I waited while she attended matters at the front desk.
I didn’t know her. Or maybe I did. And there was something about this place; solitary atop the hill where lovers’ dreams born here, blow away, sucked up in the wake of speeding tractor-trailers and weary travelers rushing past, pressing on, opting for a better place.
I was older now. Wiser too. Yet here I was again, transplanted amidst neon vacancies and croaking frogs, immersed in the wistfulness of Elusive Butterfly, whispers from the AM dial. Waiting. Wondering . . . when would she be here too?
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