Sundays

Sundays were his best days
changing out of thin pajamas
that hung loosely off his shoulders.
Plaid brown hat shadowing
his crinkled eyes.
Soft tennis shoes that hardly make a sound
on the early morning pavement.
Three years he's worn them
but they always look brand new.
He grips the handle of his bamboo cane-
it makes a hollow "tock-tock" sound
on the concrete-
at precisely seven.

Coins jingle in his left pocket
just enough for a ride on the city bus,
Sunday paper, black coffee in a paper cup,
and the liberty to stand looking
out to Santa Monica Pier, the changing colors-
blue, gold, orange on the water
for hours on end.

Before he came to live as a
stranger among strangers,
he was wealthy
with acres of land.
A painter and a poet
a humble hunter
a quiet soldier
Father of five daughters
and one out of two sons.
Husband to one wife.

Sundays were his best days.
Changing back into thin pajamas
after a coffee date with
the muses of his past.

Masquerade-Villanelle

Dusted with neglect in their tomb,
assorted gems of my past lay scattered.
I retired my riches and so they faced their doom.

Rather than a collection of an exotic birds' plume-
Brittles of pressed flower petals and crusty stamps. Each one to me mattered
I retired my riches and so they faced their doom.

Then I began to design an original masquerade costume.
Sketchbooks scarred with black chalk, watercolors speckled and spattered-
dusted with neglect in their tomb.

Then I grew older. I lit scented candles, sprayed perfume,
and wore clothes that only flattered.
I retired my riches and so they faced their doom.

Spring was the perfect time for all things to bloom.
Dreams, love and flowers but by Fall, they would be smattered-
dusted with neglect in their tomb.

I don't keep hobbies now. I keep track of what I consume.
I've created several self-portraits. All sunken cheeked, baggy eyed, body shattered-
dusted with neglect in their tomb.
I retired my riches and so they faced their doom.

Amen

She fastened the last button
on her creased white shirt.
TV buzzed.
Something about a tornado alert.
It was Thursday.
She's late on Thursdays
probably because her mental meter
strikes BURNOUT by midweek.
Her phone was plugged in overnight
but the bars are still low.
Can you charge me now?

The bottle of lotion
has been out for a week.
She hits it against the palm of her hand
as she would with a stingy Heinz bottle.
She squeezes it
hoping for one good spurt.
The bottle burps and spits.
She drops the Country Apple
into the trash
as if it had insulted her.

Quiet time
begins as soon as
the door lock clicks-
her key wriggles out and the
handle jerks back into place.

God, thank you for a new day
will you move all the ugly hybrid cars
out of my lane?
In Jesus' name I pray
Amen

She'll be home after the mailman
drops off letters,
after the gardener
takes a sip from the hose,
after the school kids
march out of the bus,
after the sparrow visits
and leaves five to seven times.

She'll smell like
coffee
paper
and peanut butter
the chunky kind.
She'll scoop dinner into my metal bowl.
I'll smack my lips once I'm done.

Mail's here.
Gardener sipped.
Sparrow takes long on her third trip.

Portrait of a Girl

You remember
her eyes-
full of life.
She fears the black moon
that hangs from canopies of trees.
Is it hope that's worth dying for?

Glance, a glare
a life captured
Still

More permanent than men.
I am still
searching to find her.
She waits

Dusty marketplace
where I first saw her.
Glance, a glare
a life captured
still.

Guinevere

I found you under a tree
cold, alone, and hungry.
Perfectly fit in my pocket.
Your eyes pressed tight,
two fine black lines where
those eyes should be-
like how I do when I'm scared.

Your eyes are stormy-
always raining even
when it's hot outside.
Your feet white
like a culprit by day
and a painter by night.

There's one that waits for you
every night
circling the garden
under the grapevines.
Come out, small one
You belong to no one
Leave as we are meant to do

But your soft padded paws
never left my steps,
guarding me from
the evil glow
of the night.
Your heart beat
playing the harmony to mine.

The Great Dispersal- Haiku

The blue ice-cream truck
means, "dollar seventy-five",
snow-cones and blue lips

When the sprinkler's on
scratchy grass and swimsuit tans.
Radha-Michelle-Me.

Our moms are calling
and it's the great dispersal
Circle Circle Dot

Fox in the Snow

The evening sky holds
small glistening glass marbles.
Red fox in the snow.

In perfect quiet
she tiptoes on heaven's floor-
dancing with the night

Shadows share secrets
The fox listens and blushes
The moon in her eyes

Wilting

Upon my table they rest their heads
lowly and humbly bent
Their faint fragrance a gardener cannot produce
even with years of pruning spent

Soft cheeks blush a crimson hue
while each reminisce of better days
When butterflies fluttered by for a view
and bulbs blooming invited birds to gaze

Upon my table they rest their heads
hugging each other
as in a parting embrace
Releasing each petal
to kindly slip away

No eulogy do they request
Only a slow and romantic death