Fanfare for Flames

"(Spawn" By David Saltaire)

Times being what they are

 I look out the window

at dirty streets and passing cars

and it seems all the bright sunlight

is a lie.

That there are so many lies

so many foolish hands covering

worried eyes, open mouths

and so much terror that it bores

like endless shocks eventually

bring numbness, as your hair falls out

and is sucked down the hospital drain.

And here I am

typing away in the bluish glow

of a testtube cigarette TV screen

unable, it seems,

to do anything but record the night

in the despairing brightness

of the silent, heated day.

Thunder cracks the shell of silence

Clouds roll in like Armadas of doom

but only cubic zirconia particles

drop from the pewter skies today

nothing wet or nourishing

just the insult of eternal expectations

a soap opera with black and white parts

for everyone except

you and me

and no plot in sight

no wonder Amelia Earhart lost herself

in the bitter winds over desert lands.

So maybe it’s not a good idea

to click and point at the frozen answers

not moving anyway, nor will they

and I’m not going to cash in on

dreams, American or otherwise.

Some people claim to find

God in their hand-held device,

Some people hear demons in

the fillings of their teeth.

I heard the Doors the other night

like licorice whips melting

into carnival tea

but all I could think was

Jim Morrison, you swaggering ass

you were miles before the end.

You and I know what the end looks like

Don’t we?

Emergence

("A Quiet Place")

In the blindness

Of starless night

Even diamonds do not glitter

Nor does finest gold gleam.

In the glare of

Blinding sunlight

Even toads seem afire

Base stones glow with false promise.

Walking the finer line

Of balanced light and shadow

There’s beauty enough

In marbled blue and green

Of this tiny, wondrous place;

This island, this Eden

Suspended in a jeweled void.

Reflections In Water

Fractions of sunlight

Pieces of the sky

Instants of fluttering leaves

In the untiring,writhing,

Gushing, flying

Downhill rushing towards

The embrace of the mother sea.

The movement never ceases
even in her enfolding,

But enlarges into swells

Rocking the primal cradle

Streaming life outward, onward

Towards the land and to the sky.

We go about our business

Moving through the air

While the sea and many rivers

quietly attend us.

Sister Delia

Here is your headstone

Delia, born Lucchesi.

You are not here,

Simply your memory

And earthen remains,

Feeding the grass...

Simply your shadow

Sealed in polished stone,

Your history etched

In simple words:

Born in Brazil,

Died after 35 years.

The rosary surrounds

Your name, the rest

Is simply a guess

To the curious man

Lovingly photographing

The relic of your riddle.

Were you a mother?

Whose wife? Who loved you

Cara Delia?

Did you ride there,

Or did it come to you in bed

Who cared then, Delia Lucchesi?

Somewhere, a family

I do not know

Keeps your picture

In a dusty album.

Perhaps, once in ten years

They point to your image

And say, ah,

That was Sister Delia,

Born Lucchesi,

There may be someone

At that kitchen table

Who can tell your story,

Someone very old who,

In cracked voice recalls your

Young, young life

And is waiting to meet you

On the other side

Delia, Nata Lucchesi,

To look into your liquid eyes

And caress your soft hair

Someone who will laugh

And take your proffered hand

And wander up a misty path

Where all is forgotten

Even graven names

Such as sweet Delia,

who was born Lucchesi

in Brazil, 1894.

Who the Enemy Is

The war is not between

One country and another

One group of countries

And other groups of countries.

The war is not about

Saving any culture

Or preserving any way of life.

It’s not about religion, either.

The war is not against

Them, or that, or those

Enemies, or monsters in the dark

Wars are against you and me

My brother and sister, both.