Solace

Words linger unsaid;

no compulsion to fill space.

They are seen in eyes,

the way the head leans to one side;

half-breaths hang luxurious,

simply for the pleasure of it.

Natural rhythms weave calm;

lull without inflection or solution.

We do not rely on talk;

ours is a contented silence,

not at all awkward.

tk/February 2015

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Wanted

Modest lunchbox.

Preferably tartan.

Brodie or MacGregor.

No thermos necessary.

Replacement for brown bag.

Bologna and mayo on white.

Box of Sun-Maid sunshine.

How nice it would look,

conspicuous on the coat rack,

with books in the bicycle basket.

Undeserving.

A lesson in contentment.

Maybe they couldn't be bothered.

Now I hoard.

Tool, document, tackle,

anything with buckle and handle.

Enough for a dozen lunches.

tk/May 2014


R.A.D. Stainforth...love the way he rolls his Rs in Brodie and Mac... 

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Climbing

I see your head poke

from a cloud of leaves;

your sap-stained legs dangle

beneath a limb.

Some days you climb further,

to the high branches,

frighten sparrows

from their narrow perches.

In winter you are easily seen

carving graffiti into the bark

with your laser eyes;

four initials and a heart.

I am content to swing low,

absolve myself with hemp,

twist tight, let go,

lose control.

tk/August 2013 

Thank you, R.A.D. Stainforth, for this beautiful read. 

Jeanie Tomenek 

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With Feathers

I balk at gestation,

swallow stagnant,

rear back, eyes wild

as a startled horse.

Maybe I'm hungry,

or just thirsty,

or the stars are tossed

like a handful of jacks.

Your kitchen seabirds,

content in their flowers,

hang as a reminder

not to gallop,

that hope is a thing―

so coo, forage frequently,

toss in a couple of clams

and call it chowder.

tk/March 2013  

Thanks to the talented R.A.D. Stainforth for reading this poem.

Faun, Horse, and Bird, 1936
Pablo Picasso 

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