14.6

The moon has not set all day
Mothlike he has swung in the sky
Lingered on the lashes of the mountains
Avoiding the reproach of the wrathful sun
And now that she has retired to her bed
He nestles in the clouds and settles down
Like a working man melting into armchair and hearth
Coffee in hand, paper blanket on lap
Bleary-eyed he watches the world in slumber
A pale shade of envy over their nocturnal peace

14.5

This is home, I think

Far from kith and kin

Beneath high ceilings that

Smell of new paint and plaster

With the promise of a busy tomorrow

Sick in my stomach

With strangers for whom I have cultivated

A tightknit tolerance and affection

This is home, I think in my crisp bed

This is home.

This is.

The Late Minutes

The late minutes belong to me

Marching by, haughty in their guiltiness

Dripping slow like water off stalactites

Muttering stiff apologies in mechanical tones

Stacking on themselves like firewood ready to burn

Those late minutes, they belong to me

And to the determined car

And to the mercurial music

And to the thought of you lying in bed

Arm behind your head, thoughts

Of me before your eyes

Scrabble

I have never sat at table

Or sprawled on carpet

And played a game of Scrabble

Yet the burned black letters

D, C, L

In their smooth wooden shells

B, P, E

Stack in my soul

U, F, M

Like puzzle pieces

W, J, T

But that is a different game

14.3

I send myself to the top of the mountain

Treading the soft brown path with hungry feet

Who savor each pebble in its ancient earthy decadence

The target peak juts out like a rescuing arm

Surveying and sighing contentment over the valley

It is here I halt my driven march and fill both lungs

With the ocean of early morning blue and foam

Stretching its arms and yawning into waking

In similitude I too throw my limbs wide

Open my chest to the new surge of living

A lover of the light am I, in truth

A lover of the life in my own winding veins

And the freedom of this cannot be taken

By any number of good or bad intentions

Cynical Sunset

The sun is opinionated
Red edges quivering with conviction aflame
Smug, he lowers slowly behind his headboard
Of the mountains, his final glare
An illuminating finger to the world
In the meantime, the city has
Sunk tightlipped into a permanent haze
A screen of gray and sickly pink
Dusty, weary in the indifferent routine
But resolute, always resolved
To stand with shoulders back and flat heads raised
Peering with streaming smoky eyes
Into the vast gap of daily purpose
Looking, under the guise of a worthy cause
In the bold hatchet face of a futile trudge

14.1

My New Year's resolution is to write a poem a day. Simple, no? I'm on track thus far, but I haven't had a chance to post yet. That is about to change. Here's January One.

Winter nights run down the sky
Fresh paint, thick and glossy glistening
Drying slowly, congealing  on the icy walls
While in my smaller comforter dome
I breathe your scent off my blanket
Wrap it about me and drift warmly away