Mother Lode

I squat like a miner;

sift through rubble,

barefoot in Levis.

Memories swirl the pan ―

most of them look the same;

unfossilized, too liquid to keep.

Ruby lips. The American dream. 

Now and then a sparkle ― a nugget

looks up at me with human eyes.  

Clementine!  Can't take everything, darling.

Just a few. I pack it neatly in the box

labeled "Initial Boom".

Souvenirs line up like herring.

Gradually decompose,

bloom sweet and pungent;

fertilize a second chance ―
my destiny.

tk/July 2015


R.A.D. Stainforth brings my words to life...

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Morning Star

Torso of Venus, 1920, bronze, Aristide Maillo
Columbus Museum of Art

Venus whispers through limbs in the ash;

charts the path of twinkle, twinkle, little.

Yet so much.

What are you like? 

Sleep becomes a nuisance.

I pace the ceiling, press warm footprints

to the windowpane, count the night

on her glow-in-the-dark rosary,

string it bead by bead across the sea.

Her morning eye watches from a headless torso,

holds me, transfixed.  

My goddess of love and war devotes herself

to the small hours,

offers me your kiss.

She is darling,

but not as dear as you.

tk/February 2014



Delicious mid-week read by R.A.D. Stainforth...

If I call you darling

If I call you darling ...

... will you swear

on a stack of your best,

not the new discs,

but your pile of vinyl,

to always look at me

with the back doors of your eyes

open wide enough to hear

your melancholy blues,

let all subsequent music

press its magic,

touch my grooves,

coax them to sing,

deliberate and clear,

with its stylus. 

tk/January 2013

R.A.D. Stainforth steps out of his black and white world...

Charlotte Gainsbourg, AnOther

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