Sunday, September 21, 2014

Brunette



Gothic eyes full of unbearable black.
She hums La fille aux cheveux de lin,
collects bones and heather. 
Wellingtons on river moss.
You hear her with the larks.

Lips pursed, as if to kiss.
Heaven and hell are in her arms.
She shows up late, ever so slightly.
You half-remember her,
rack your brain from where.

Drunk on toast and marmalade; 
she takes coffee without a mask,  
unbuttoned.  Part raven. 
Part swan.  Nearly a wife.
Flaxen hair with a ridge of dark.



tk/September 2014 


Lovely interpretation by R.A.D. Stainforth... 




Sunday, September 14, 2014

Regular Melancholy



There must be something
other than ringtones.
I need freedom with a heavy clapper.
The steeple in my road is silent.
You show me a cathedral with a crown,
tell me about the chimes.
A flat, E flat, A flat, C.  Ascending.
I find the notes on the piano,
imagine the clang of hours.  A clock,
not yet time.  Pick my thumbnail
like a dewclaw.  Crave
a farm bell, a cowbell.  Anything
but this incessant death knell. 



tk/September 2014 


Another elegant read by the dashing R.A.D. Stainforth... 


Sunday, September 7, 2014

No Third Thing



Only so much room in a lifeboat,
half-capacity sixareen.  Bushel basket.
Butcher.  Baker.  Maybe
a candlestick-maker;
the notables cross over
in threesomes.

Synchronicities flutter in threes,
casually.  Historically informed,
hinting at world harmony;
a table of elements
that dissolves on the tongue
like rice paper, moths.

This time it's fresh;
just the northeast wind.  
Ball of string.  Buttermilk sky.
A buoyant list scrawled
on a paper kite:

1.  I am loved
2.  There is solace

There is no third thing.



tk/September 2014




Beautiful read by R.A.D. Stainforth...and a bit of music as well...





Sunday, August 31, 2014

60 Degrees North



Oarsmen heave
nets of mackerel
from cast-iron waves;

half-booted and silent,
they have no need to tell stories,
ask dus du mind?

how after creation God gathered
leftover shards, pressed them together
to make the hilt of a sword.

Women rule the shore,
croon grounded wool and songs
scented with the whisky of a peat fire,

watch the sliver of land
between water and cloud,
lightning rod of the far edge; 

where men pull and point like compasses,
breathe in the charge of sea,  
think nothing of rocks.



tk/August 2014 



Delicious atmospheric read by R.A.D. Stainforth...



*Dark Harbor, 1943 by N. C. Wyeth