The fist of judgment pounds the front door,

demands proof of identity,

presentation of papers.

Revelation of the truth, the whole truth,

and nothing but the truth is demanded,

even if it is counterfeit,

glued together with lies.

 

She never leaves through the front door,

sensing the trap.

 

Her documents are false,

written in code,

bearing the seal of no actual origin,

the brand of refugee

tattooed on her soul.

 

She was never legally born,

a pariah in her own skin,

wearing a disguise to camouflage the sin.

 

She has learned to caress the right one,

while yearning for the wrong one,

disappearing out the back door,

a spy in the war on love.

 

Copyright 2017.

There is a rhythm

to the universe,

a chant to the earth.

 

If life agreed

to the tango,

there would be

no need for dreams.

 

Copyright 2017

The shadows of chaos

float over the blue of her eyes.

 

Fleeting,

be he has noticed.

 

Somehow,

he has already sensed

that she is a child of Armageddon,

her soul an assemblage

of knife blades and nails,

her emotions held hostage

behind barbed wire and lies.

 

It doesn’t take an operative

to locate the pipe bomb

duct-taped to her heart.

 

One false kiss between them

and they will both be blown to pieces,

not enough remnants between them

to resurrect their love.

 

But he is a risk taker,

wired for danger,

so he holds his breath,

overlooking the odds.

 

He will either disarm her

or haul them both into disaster.

 

He is content either way

as the question will be answered.

 

Copyright 2017

Mercy tiptoes uneasily

on the razor-thin edge of pain,

wearing a black felt fedora

and one white glove.

 

He could easily be mistaken

for Mr. Michael Jackson.

 

But his awkward presence

and voice from Antarctica

pull the curtain away

from any such mystique.

 

The hat hides bruises,

masks a bald spot

from wrestling with demons.

 

The glove is merely a barrier

against forbidden skin to skin.

 

It is not easy being Mercy

in a world consumed with pain.

 

Copyright 2017

In the land of Willoughby,

where the wallabies roam,

there lives an echidna

sprung from a digeridoo moan.

 

Down under, down deep,

under the strange Aussie moon,

this echidna waltzes matildas

to a ridgy-didgy type tune.

 

They spin and they glide

along the billabong’s rim,

dining on bush nuts

and casks of aged Pimm.

 

I salute you, Master Echidna,

guru of wahoo,

and weep crocodile tears

for the Land of Oz,

known solely for its roo.

 

For Elizabeth Woods

Copyright 2017

Her heart beats in Morse Code,

an arrhythmia that alarms doctors,

elates lovers,

and dispatches the secrets of love.

 

An arrhythmia that alarms doctors

requires a cardiac specialist

and dispatches the secrets of love

into acute arrest,

 

requires a cardiac specialist

with skilled fingers

who moonlights as a cryptologist

capable of resuscitation.

 

With skilled fingers,

he massages code into language

capable of resuscitation

at the moment of despair.

 

With skilled fingers,

elates lovers

capable of resuscitation…

her heart beats in Morse Code.

 

Copyright 2017

He searches his heart

for the white flag of surrender,

offers it to her

with a glass of shiraz.

 

They had warred with each other

over boundaries and principles,

sending forth spies,

taking no prisoners.

 

Both remain

the last ones standing,

she having the advantage

in the art of disarmament.

 

Copyright 2017

He always wrapped his lies in gilded paper,

tied them off in bows of ornate excuses,

added gift tags written

in the disappearing ink of promise.

 

Now here he stands before her,

holding bare truth in cupped hands,

offering her the unkempt bit of disaster

that was the one true gift

he could actually offer.

 

Copyright 2017

He replaces the guitar strings

with moments of forgiveness

so that when his fingertips

opt for minor chords,

the air surrounds him

with sighs of contrition.

 

Copyright 2017

 

 

He inhales helium from the red balloon,

the girdle of gas cinching his vocal chords,

strangling his bass two octaves higher.

 

His laugh becomes reminiscent

of a vintage cartoon character,

boiled in vermouth,

trapped in the mountains of Tibet.

 

He summons forth chuckles,

maniacal laughter,

exhales them back into the red latex sphere.

 

Soon he has a bouquet

of twenty-three balloons,

all of them red,

each filled with pleasure.

 

Riding his bicycle

to the barbed-wire barricade,

he floats them all free

over a nation held hostage.

 

Bullets assassinate all the balloons

as if they were hearts

meant to be lost.

 

He smiles to himself

as he bicycles away.

Laughter rains down for weeks

bringing strange peace.

 

Copyright 2017