Poetry & English Roses

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April 30

GLORYBOUND WISHES

GLORYBOUND WISHES

I can't see.
Smoke chokes the lovliest
of dreams
where chance resides
deep beneath veils of
castrated hope.

What is love among

pessimistic faithlessness?
I knew I shouldn't have attempted
this again; for

My eyes can't reach you
and heart can't love you
yet, selfishly, I pulled you close
to feel my promises

here, in these glorybound wishes.

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REMEMBERED GRAVE

Grave Remembered

I see the outline of your body
in a shallow grave,
as I look to a foreign number
on my cell phone

and think how nicely you have sank

deep and vague.
Delicate green lily-of-valley
pushing through an unmarked grave
over a thin layer of hurt.

You, beneath them lie
as content food for their feeding.
I, above you, stand
awaiting white bells of hope.

I had forgotten brown fingernails
and red palms from your planting!

I had forgotten estimations
of depths and dirt and how to keep you!

I had forgotten your withdrawn promises
and molesting guilt of betrayal!

until I hear your message in a voice
unforgettable.
Now I deal with dirty hands
frantic to return your call.

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April 27

DV Court

DV COURT

This room deceives.
Its calm violent elements
rest patiently within tailored swags
and mahogany benches.

The comfortable

72 degrees temperature of the court room
reminds me of green wood
before a fire-
of a warm blue sky
before the villian front.

Violence is deceiving!
It lingers in calm clean palms
and soft penises
awaiting
second-hand sweeps of fate
in last inebriated swallows
of Jose and Smirnoff.

Then, ring the bells of broken glass and skin.
Come now the victims-
beaten, raped, swollen
from betrayal.

Blood fills this room!
I smell it in poison exhales
and deep sighs of sorrow!
I see it behind steel eyes of the betrayers!
I hear it in the hurried pulses
of the deceived!

Justice dirties its white slippers in it!
The inadequate gavel strikes the wood so gently-
delicately-
you’d swear it a lover to violence!

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ODE TO SAN ANTON

My Ode To San Anton

Christmas lights hang in cypress trees
above a thin riverway offering fantastical color compliments
to the ferryboat carolers.

My eyes are tired from the business of their study
and too much comradery in the Irish pubs; yet,
they are happy students of the riverwalk.

Flagstone pathways lead awestruck visitors
through two-plus miles of
seducing cafe-scented celebrations.

Architecture is superstitious and worn;
protected by grotesque gargoyles and ornate dragons.
Three walls of an old building disappear in optical illusion.

At an Italian bistro, an enthusiastic mariachi band
is serenading a table of naive tourists
as a pitiful song of a Celtic bagpiper

haunts the tunnels in this underworld.

Lovers are arm in arm/ hand in hand in
sweetness sweeter than any riverside dessert
and more enticing than all menus and myths.

I forgive you sweet San Anton...

for your beautifully cruel subjections
to all of us full-bellied tourists
holding nothing but cameras

and your purchases.

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