Your Face

The first time,

nostalgia came over me;

like looking at a picture of myself

I had never seen.

I gazed, second person,

mute, hungry voyeur;

your suited and booted margins

pleasingly familiar.

Something sexy happened.

Your eyes spoke;

I could lip-read them.

Hush! this is the year of the tiger.

Let's lunch forever.

Now, a visual condiment;

ferocious but pensive,

piquant, like ketchup

with an indefinite shelf life.

tk/June 2014 


Beautiful read by R.A.D. Stainforth...love how he nearly sings the opening line... 

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Explicit Cake

Progression of days playing

in a constant loop,

a marriage of minds.

The loop is safe;

just what we take,

walking all that is left.

Time hangs in the air.

Oceans dry up.

Paths wind in sentences,

give rabbits chase,

willow to climb.

Curves follow a mutual train,

pause for picnic lunch,

explicit cake.

Done with doing, I wait

for the loop to be installed

permanently; with no way out,

a cul-de-sac. 

tk/June 2014


Scrumptious read by R.A.D. Stainforth...glass of wine with lunch...

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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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Circle of Life

Mad wings beat― 

hover, peep, tumble

from fairy tale, Easter basket.

It knows it should fly.

How did it stray from the line?

I chase, bent down.

Hands stretched.

Come to mama.

Life flashes before my eyes;

friendly persuasion.

Can I keep it?

O! gosling mine― 

dark precision drops from the sky

pulling silent pink ribbons

gripped with no emotion.

tk/May 2014


 R.A.D. Stainforth's best rendering...emotion beautifully captured... 

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image: Chair With the Wings of a Vulture, 1960, Salvador Dali 

Lunch

It Must Be Time For Lunch Now, 1979, by Francesca Woodman

Exes and seas

span time zones,

sweet chains of unwrapped figs,

peeled path-smooth,

tight with hunger.

Meet me in that place

known only as splendid,

split open all the way,

speckled and ripe;

stay naked-close ―

on the lunch side of the bed.

tk, September 2012

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

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Too Many Crumbs for a Broom

They linger,

still play in the keys,

stick to my fingers

with marmalade.

I sip coffee impulses,

snack between words

that spill to the desk,

litter the lunchroom

in crossword kisses.

I wear my best

alphabet outfit,

see London, see France,

munch and crunch

the sultry dance,

the sideways glance,

the clickety-clack.

tk/December 2011

Listen to R.A.D. Stainforth's sexy English accent:

(visit his excellent and diverse blog Black Dogs)

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image: Lunch, George Tooker, 1964, Columbus Museum of Art