Nightbird

It calls with a clear

two-fingered whistle;

how a neighbor summons children

home for summer supper. 

Unabashed wooing.  

A lark?  Or Cherokee mother

clothed in twilight sadness,

blade of grass pressed in her lips.

Run.  Feel night-cooled meadow

under sunburned feet.

Find the moth-specked porch lamp,

the scent of belonging.

Without the chatter of song birds,

it seems human in the dark.  Urgent.

Should I leave by back door or front?
Persistent pipe.  O! Come.

tk/June 2015

Beautiful read by R.A.D. ...

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*A Midsummer Night's Melancholy by Michael Sowa

Of That Ilk

From the beginning

kindred voices whisper

between words.

Sea through the windows.

Landlocked roots.

You reel me in without a net.

Gently unhook.  For keeps.

Channels pulse an ancient beat,

deeper in your eyes than blue.

I have been away too long.

Ancestors line the shore.

One of them points―

"Your man over there"

I take him literally.

They applaud as rain.

Rush of belonging sweeps

stronger than a tailwind.

I grasp your arm

to keep from flying―

put me down!

Look at my pale feet

unearthed from nowhere,

still covered in grubs.

I dig in my heels.
Spread my toes like fins.

tk/May 2015

Lovely retro-esque read by R.A.D. ...

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Station

You sprint down

the platform at Piccadilly.

The first time I see you run.

Boyish.  Easy.

Sun pales gray

through the train shed roof,

as if we are lit for a morning set.

I wait for someone to shout "Cut!"

The doors close.

We're late.  The attendant frowns. 

Next train leaves at 11:11.

I don't mind.  It's lucky.

The carriage is warm.  It sways.

You explain why bricks change to stone

in the crosshatch of hedgerows

and sundry farms.

I find a station in your arms.

Stillness in your eyes.

Think how indecently happy,
should I suddenly die.

tk/April 2015

Lovely read by R.A.D. ...like the gentle sway of a train carriage...

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Stride

First, I notice

the easy stride. 

You move mainstream.

Two long steps for each of mine.

I think of the time

you wander to Birmingham

for that first punk album―

coins in your pocket

like the silver your grandfather earned,

walking nineteen miles

straight up the middle of Yell

to fiddle for a wedding.

Those boyish endeavors bring you luck,

make your heart beat like a drum―

ancestral rhythms, word of mouth,

a fine-tuned ear.

You offer me your arm,

my feet barely touch the ground.

We dance a simple reel of lamp-posts,

paving stones, letterboxes―

speaking of―we stop the incessant writing,
to walk what's left of our wits.

tk March 2015

*photo: Old Bank Street, Manchester, UK by R.A.D. Stainforth

A most lovely read by R.A.D. ...

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Culinary

I'm your sous chef ―

but it's you who are cunning,

squeezing seeds from tomatoes

casually in the palm of your hand.

We reflect in the night window

like two aproned ghosts.

It's a changed world here,

free from any feeling

apart from belonging.

I lean back and sip wine,

watch you do your splendid thing,

flee all responsibility.

Patient with a slow simmer,

you dare to touch fleshy lasagna

with gentle expertise.

Everything fades to steam.

Is it coincidence we wind up

in the same kitchen?

tk/March 2013

Thanks to the talented R.A.D. Stainforth for reading this poem. More of his readings of my poetry can be found HERE.

Between Heaven and Hell, 1989 by Jacek Yerka

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