Primavera

Splendid cocoon.

I no longer live at home;

have taken up residence in my room

like a semi-detached adolescent.

Sleep is supposed to let the demons out.

I compose letters with doodles in the margins.

No need to replace the bulb in the bedside lamp.

I have developed night vision.

I believe in scenery, look out the window. 

Monkey swing branch to branch in the maple. 

Steal from the sleeping cap peddler.

Throw down my hat.  Sweat.

Turn my pillow, search for the cool side.

Pace around like waiting for a biopsy.

Accentuate my hard R's.  Then roll them.

I am ready for Carnegie Hall.

I pray to the electric fan.

Belt it.  Sounds like yodeling.

My hair blows out in a radiant halo,

grows long enough to cover my Venus bits.

Time stands still like I am twelve.

I rise one last time from the open mattress.  

Dust bunnies pollinate the air.
My wings visceral and lacy in the dark.

tk/May 2015

A superb delivery by R.A.D. Stainforth...

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Regular Melancholy

There must be something

other than ringtones.

I need freedom with a heavy clapper.

The steeple in my road is silent.

You show me a cathedral with a crown,

tell me about the chimes.

A flat, E flat, A flat, C.  Ascending.

I find the notes on the piano,

imagine the clang of hours.  A clock,

not yet time.  Pick my thumbnail

like a dewclaw.  Crave

a farm bell, a cowbell.  Anything
but this incessant death knell. 

tk/September 2014 

Another elegant read by the dashing R.A.D. Stainforth... 

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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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Waiting

Beautifully esoteric rendering by R.A.D. Stainforth ...

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My earliest memory 
is a summer nap.

The box fan in the window
does not drown the French horn
moaning down scales, 
from the house next door.

Underbelly full, 
I lie helpless
on a pale duvet;
like tiny willow leaves,
my eyes tremble
to stay open.

I have time on my hands;
small fleshy vessel, waiting.

tk, July 2012

image: Yesterday's Dreams by Jack Vettriano