“Do you know what tonight is, my darling?”
The one time of the month
When souls of fiery baby girls
Slide down the arc
Of a clouded Crescent Moon
To land in the arms
Of powerful chosen mothers
(Copyright 2021)
HEIGHTENED SENSE (“Under A Common Moon” – 2021 August Postcard Poems)
“And what of tonight, my darling? What do you smell?”
The scent of saturation
As wax seeps into wane
The fragments of dream
As they evaporate
Onto the pillow
(Copyright 2021)
PURGATORY LOST
Chicago
The South Side
where the L screams wickedly
through the backyards of Hades, Satan unwanted
chanting sacrilege at a baptism, claiming new souls. The South Side
of Chicago
scraping the powdery soft skin
of the delicate Loop, filling its veins
with the opiate of jazz, shocking its lovers
with mouth music blues, leaving only the scent
of sulfur and ash, to vanish like smoke curls
off a stolen cigarette. Cages drawn down on facades
like facemasks of muggers, the short circuit
of epileptic lights
where rats create choreography
on stages of blight. Politicians rise
on wings of hidden money, speaking in calligraphy, indecent promises
in the language
of renewal. Too much of The South Side. No one comprehends its pariahs, deciphers the accents of tongues
left at liberty’s door.
Orphans who came for candy, then stayed for drinks, stranded on islands
named Stoney and Goose, not islands at all
but ghost ships of live cargo. So unlike the cathedral
of downtown city sidewalks, where stars of functional streetlights
beckon sinners to worship, while those in the South
blast radio hymns of anguish, power and fear hovering like angels. Sirens squeal, the blackened air vibrates, a meteor shower of intensity
declares turf wars of frenzy. There is so much
of The South Side
that repeats and shatters
into infinite fractals. My family couldn’t have known
that I would resurrect them. They lived so guardedly, full of life yet caged, servants of the blast furnace, pockets full of coins, lungs full of disease, the smell of whiskey
coating every breath. Life was balanced
on the edge of a knife
intense, immediate,
ready to cut
and sever the cord. Gwendolyn Brooks arrived,
a visiting seraphim, offering wings and balm
in an ointment of words. But there was too much
of The South Side.
It intimidated the city, bullied its way beyond boundaries, knocked on the bolted door
of staid City Hall. Sprayed pain
on crumbling underpasses, littered names on L platforms
challenged lightning, danced in heat, authored is own bible, forging a new religion
of personal damnation. There was no savior, Only the saved. Progress came,
dressed in scrubs of opportunity, pulling out scalpels, blades forged in law, cutting unbroken skin
down to muscle and bone. Pulling away layers, searching for cancer, offering false hospice
in tones of despair. There was no one left to listen. The cathedral of streets trembled, cast out its sinners, muffled pleas for mercy
People bade farewell
without goodbyes. No tears, such dry mouths. Shackled to false faith, swung low on sweet chariots, pushing past redemption
in glad-rag gospel song, the unheard whispers
of a lost people’s Amen.
Genghis Khan At The Typewriter
Genghis Khan sits down at the typewriter, a portable Underwood.
His tortured soul desperately tries to conjure up a Mongolian metaphor for love.
It is a task of barbaric proportions.
Mongol is, as yet, an unwritten language birthed from bone and mayhem.
The sounds are raw and feral.
No font can cage their nature.
But the Great Khan, Universal Ruler, senses a sonnet steeped in The Steppes coursing somewhere under his leather-laced armor.
Certain tribal concubines have indicated this to be his heart.
They have placed their tiny bird-like hands over his iron chest and summoned forth strange visions.
A heart!
As if the Great Khan, master of Central Asia, scourge of China, has need for a heart.
Empires are carved out of destruction, death.
A heart!
A heart would be a liability, a stigma of weakness.
And yet?
Genghis feels an unknown creature course through his veins and stop to drink at the place where the concubines held their tender young palms.
His coarsened skin tremors at the memory.
And so, Genghis Khan, Emperor of Oceans, sits at the typewriter, a portable Underwood, hands bloodied with conquest, body still suited for war.
He sheaths his emotions in strands of silk and sends them forth like arrows of unspoken words in search of prey.
These weapons are of a language that cannot break, complicated, strong.
And once embedded in the heart, the tender teasing of the twisted silk opens words into poetry and the wound seems insignificant.
Copyright 2013
(For Bryan, who loves history, even when it’s invented)
HONORARY PAPUAN (“Under A Common Moon” – August Postcard Poems 2021)
“Can you reveal, my darling, a surprise about the Moon?”
SSShhh!
Can you keep a secret?
One only six people in
Papua, New Guinea
already understand?
On the night
of the New Moon
in April
when the evening
slow dances
with the stars
Pour out a jigger
of rum
onto a circle
of stones
Then ask
the Hidden Moon
to reveal
her given name
She will whisper it
deliberately
into your sleeping
left ear
Hold her finger
to your lips
while she silently utters
“Hush”
Leaving only
an indentation
above your upper lip
as evidence of
your Joint Conspiracy
(Copyright 2021)
HUSH (“Under A Common Moon” – August Postcard Poetry 2021)
“Darling, my darling, has the Moon revealed its dreams to you?”
Once
when the Earth was quite old
and I was quite young
The Moon pressed liquid lips
up against
my sleeping ear
More kiss than whisper
voice soft
with the lunago
of secrecy
“I have only one dream
revealed when blue
Tonight, oh my darling, I
tell it to you”
Fish in my veins
Lips sewn in silence
The indentation above them
where Moon placed her finger
before she sighed
“Hush”
(Copyright 2021)
HAPLESS (“Under A Common Moon” – August Postcard Poems 2021)
“Darling, what do you think is the Moon’s opinion of love?”
The Moon is a
hapless romantic
drenched to the stone
with every nuance of love
She crochets the emotion
into each breath
Whistles the essence of it
with every rotation
Massages the sweet perfume
of its name
into the Night
Forever in love
with Love
(Copyright 2021)
PUPPY LOVE (“Under A Common Moon” – August Postcard Poems 2021)
“Why do you think, my darling, that the Moon never drifts away from Earth?”
Moon is Earth’s new puppy
leashed on an infinite
Solar System walk
headed all over the world
forever
(Copyright 2021)
FAVORITE THINGS (“Under A Common Moon” – August Postcard Poems 2021)
“Darling, my darling, whatever does the Moon collect?”
When Earth adopted Moon
as her personal pet
she gave the Moon a gift
a shiny gold fanny pack
Inside was the
lingering last breath of
Tyrannosaurus Rex
The Moon was besotted
adding to the gilded pouch
with every revolution
Sonatas of salmon
during a prolific spawn
Unspoken whispers
of certain
Ural Mountain peaks
The third string from
the World’s
oldest balalaika
Unscented dreams
of a Minnesota badger
The final elusive bit of a
Gobi mirage
The aroma of indigo
from the Ocean’s
Mariana Trench
(Copyright 2021)
DISTINCTION (“Under A Common Moon” – August Postcard Poems – 2021)
“My darling, tell me about the Storm Moon, please.”
February is the
erratic toddler of
the calendar
Immature, irritable
impulsive, irrational
Pitching fits
Napping oddly
The Queen of Satellites
dons her mantle
of Storm Moon
To distract and appease
the imp of February
Showering it with a
weighty blanket
of heavy snow
Radiating storm through
her Prism of Night
(Copyright 2021)
TELL TAIL (“Under A Common Moon” – August Postcard Poems 2021)
“Who do you think is the Beau of La Luna, my darling?”
La Luna’s Beau
is an exotic enigma
A volatile nomad for
the Queen of Night to choose
It gives me pause
when I ponder the
attraction
Consider all possibilities
in the Cosmos of Love
Yet every four years
without fanfare or failure
the Night is ablaze
as La Luna snags
the Comet’s tail
before Haley
philanders away
(Copyright 2021)
SALVADOR’S DOLLY (“Under A Common Moon” – August Postcard Poems 2021)
“What does the Moon envy about the Earth, my darling?”
One would expect
it would be water
unique possession
that sustains
all life
But I have heard
the whispers of
poets and madmen
openly reveal
that the streak of envy
in Moon’s ancient core
revolves around language
Gift of words
whispered in the mouth
written in dark ink
The hook upon which
Memory is hung
(Copyright 2021)
MOON MUSIC (“Under A Common Moon” – August Postcard Poems 2021)
“What do you suspect, my darling, is the Moon’s choice of music?”
I have heard it told
by shamans and mystics
that when the Moon is New
hidden from the Sun
She sits cross-legged
naked in the dark
eyes closed
small accordion between her hands
reveling to traditional gypsy songs
flung far into the Universe
(Copyright 2021)
MOONOLOGY WISH CAKE (“Under A Common Moon” – August Postcard Poems 2021)
“Have you ever tried Moonology, oh my darling?”
Pre-heat unseen New Moon
Have faith
It is there
When Waxing Crescent Moon appears
like a paranthesis in the night
Remove your secret wish
from under the bed
Season to taste
Wrap in tin foil
Place wrapped desire
outside your front door
When the Moon is Full
your desire is half-baked
Turn it sideways
Recite your favorite song lyrics
over the top
at the completion of
the Fatted Moon
When the Moon resembles
Van Gogh’s severed ear
mark your wish as garbage
to prevent pilfer or damage
The cycle of Magic is now complete
Open the foil
careful not to lose any juice
Consume your wish with
a nice glass of Merlot
(Copyright 2021)
Donna Dakota in Word 