Picasso's Eye

Picasso's eye is lodged

in the sugar maple,

like a scuttled vessel

brooding in the limbs.

It no longer dispenses

late night wisdom,

early morning insight,

from the perch outside my room.

The all-knowing stare

becomes reluctant

under chlorophyll eyelids,

dark spring rain.

My psyche's new caretaker

scries wet kisses in leaves,

with flop of roses,

gentle thrust of trees.

tk/March 2015 

Sumptuous read by R.A.D. ...

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Dust

O! claustrophobic air―

apparent and busy in the sun.

Dust hangs in waves of spring,

a universe from the bliss of nowhere.

What fallen star, what robin,

what powdered sooth plays a second chance?

Follow flotsam to the horizon,

cross the bridge through gathering cloud.

Inhale motes and flutter-boats―

the balm of dusk explodes a single sigh.

tk/April 2014

Sexy read by a springy R.A.D. Stainforth...

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Bee

Windows open,

flags unfurl merry

for the drone parachutist,

fever on wings.

Global-scented lines buzz

unsucked and sweet;

constant as carrier pigeons

in the Great War.

Pollen is everywhere;

impeccable flocked spring,

piled high and yellow

for the taking.

Accord awaits, honeyed,

barely breathed,

motionless with yearning―
little sins madden the sting.

tk/April 2014




R.A.D. Stainforth adds a little stingy-zing... 

*photo by Francesca Woodman