boston marathon haiku #3 (18/30)

the pressure cookers
gone from shelves;’food not bombs’ sounds
harsh at fear’s table

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kaleidoscope krylon voices (16/30)

there is the search
to love you past adjectives
at bent angles in pauses pregnant
that we fight
from coming to full term
with small talk and coffee.
a need that lives
to see the morning
you stop using social glyphs
to hide what you want to say to me
and the hurt
you still cradle
gifted by past lovers.
we get up
like tags on walls
kaleidoscope krylon voices
but never put our feelings
for one another on display
waiting for walls bigger
than unspoken fears.

tangled iron garden (13/30)

arthritis forms
as shackles around ankles
spotted with years,
and her muslin coat
matches the arms of the Hudson
two blocks ahead.

her hair is now daylight’s cotton
framing a face once besotted with smiles
this is how one walks
when goodbye is the final word,
but she still comes here
amidst car horns and traffic.

this place,
this tangled iron garden
that resembles what time has made
of her heart
is where she goes for peace
and a lunch with the sun.

she sits among gladiolas
lets gold seep into the lines her skin bears
stretches her arms, palms outward
and with a laugh
lets time she’s lost come back to take rust
away from her in this tangled iron garden.

before the illusion of drowning (12/30)

don’t be amazed
if those who fear drowning
at the water’s edge
before wading in
claw at your shoulders,

put their unfinished stone carvings
of golems and haunts
in your pockets
and try to trade eyes streaked with fear
like schoolyard marbles with you,

those moments
before the illusion of drowning
you find out that you can swim with weight
and that others
slip down bottom with no depth.

cold stones in passing. (11/30)

you
have left me cold stones
still laden
with two in the morning tears,
asking me to dine with you
without noting
my mind’s teeth are still sore
from the kick unseen.

this silence
must be the last days
a pair of broken shears
meant to cut away your misery must feel,
the reluctant crackle
one finds in campfires
and corner store cigarettes
that sudden snap between us.

bittersweet
is the merlot of minutes
made of seedless grapes
and stolen kisses,
yet nothing else
will help me deliver these stones
i only hope old happiness renewed
becomes the aftertaste.