Flight

Pilot me to the edge,

to the door between either and or.

Wear tie and handkerchief,

the trilby that looks sexier on you―

with midnight in your pocket,

your shadow fixed between the arrows.

Look to the middle distance when the tide is out―

at last you see migration on the horizon.

Give me mellow, for keeps.

Show me the other side of clouds―

pull goggles over my eyes,

kisses from my quiver.

Let me be free to let go―

die that little death.

tk/June 2013

Thanks to  R.A.D. Stainforth for bringing this poem to life. 

The Promenade, 1918, Marc Chagall 

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Christmas

R.A.D. Stainforth's lovely Christmassy reading...

There's a place for us,

an oasis between fruitcake

and watering the tree,

with hot-and-cold running kisses,

that stretch restless,

from the hearth

out to the snow,

where I push you back pink

and holiday-faced,

knowing this smiling garland

around our necks

links forever compatible.

tk/December 2012

Marc Chagall, 1914

Happy holidays and best wishes for a contented 2013, dear friends. Thank you so very much for your continued support and encouragement. You are the best. You really are.

Buttsprung

Charming R.A.D. Stainforth in his black and white world ... he nearly smiles here ...

Spring jumps in,
like some kind of joke,

runs at confused birds,
chases flowers with a faux nose.

Veins earthworm his arms.

He juggles dormant trees,
popcorns the sky,
flings yellow,

Wild as a buttsprung umbrella.

tk/April 2012




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image: The Circus With The Yellow Clown, 1967, Marc Chagall