Your Nose

I tried to draw your nose today
on the right hand margin of my task list
using a blue ball point pen
I first drew it wrong
with no arch
none of the curve of your
eagle's beak
or the sharp point it ends on
it was not your nose
I scribbled over it and began again
I drew it right this time
with all its imperfections
your perfect nose
next to my mistake

Triage

It must be cauterized, this injured heart,
Its edges seared to cease the slipping soul
From spilling out, char every aching part
With unforgiving flames, use burning coal,

Use red-white fire, use billows fanned from pits
Of blacksmiths blind and deaf to the soft pleas
Beseeching amnesty, reprieve from fits
Of rage, from bouts of doubt, scorch this disease,

This pain infested heart, with Hell’s high flames
Ablaze with wicked light, this man condemned
To never feel again, to seal his shames
Within his cracked tomb, the blood now stemmed,

Shored up behind these blackened arteries
Of which sweet numbness will soon softly seize

Cygnus Olor

Old memories awake from slumber creep
So gently to the forefront of my mind,
Faint phantoms lost in darkened corners deep
Once quiet now scream agony to bind

My thoughts, thoughts tethered by the heavy chain
Of ill regret to the decaying flesh
Inside my head, old visions flash then drain
To depths beyond my consciousness can mesh,

Is this the dying of those dreams to which
My once true love’s foundations had been laid,
To rise and fall through frequencies in pitch
So like the sounds of waves to shores that fade,

Each memory now sings their last sad song
In the concluding verse from this mute swan

The Vandal

I would rush to repair the space within
This fractured frame’s borders, a canvas torn,
Painted by fear as true if truth would spin
From the belly of splayed bristles so worn

By the even stress of beguiling strokes,
How brightly these colors burn upon my
Brush, bright colors caked by this painter’s hoax
To turn the course from pain of love’s true dye,

I would rush but now refrain, to mend so
Soon this canvas torn, to patch and compose
With more deceit - to what ends would I go
To end the pain of loss, this vandal knows

These false strokes must yield - for he dare not taint
Her heart - to let itself the picture paint

The Read

I’ve got fifty millimeter eyes
that pop open to f/3.2 in the wake of fear
In this self-imposed paralysis
my ears, tuned between frequencies
of 20Hz and 20kHz, can hear every sound
around the table
except the accelerated beating of my heart
drumming against my ribs
pumping blood with precious oxygen
to every muscle in my body
now primed and taut
should I decide to run for my life
when you call my bluff

All Her Music

You are still talented even though
you're fossilized under a different life than
your musical life from before. Do
you remember?
You were
younger and I was
your friend and we laughed - well
you did most of the laughing at my stupid jokes. I wish
you still carried on with
your music because
you're so sick talented, the world should know
you. People should hear what
you have to say.

Animus

This wound must heal before the end draws nigh,
Feral spite be put to rest, lest it set;
Rise up, do not this animus let lie.

Good friends undone by treason's sword must try
To salvage what's left of dignity's debt.
This wound must heal before the end draws nigh.

Stale, mildewed years, by blood begrudged, flew by.
Of son’s and father’s silent, pained regret:
Rise up, do not this animus let lie

Here, steadfast neighbors each to each decry,
Eternally confined their minds to fret,
This wound must heal before the end draws nigh.

Old feuds in bloom did wither hearts to die,
As Montague lay next to Capulet,
Rise up, do not this animus let lie

Your wretched soul's breadth must forgiveness sigh
Much sooner than scorn will yield to forget.
This wound must heal before the end draws nigh,
Rise up, do not this animus let lie.