Stonehenge

Poet's Sleep, 1989, Chang Houg Ahn 

The taste is new;

a mellow concoction

of innocence and corruption,

without a sell-by date.

I keep coming back,

like the tongue finds a change

in the mouth; a chipped tooth,

compelling imperfection.

I contradict myself;

conjure burnt offerings

to distract from the foreign,

strum a long melody on a bone comb.

It is still there.

Stubborn and marvelous, circular;

reminding me, like drunken chessmen,

to remain true to my lips.



tk/February 2014

R.A.D. Stainforth back this week in his black and white world...a scrumptious read...

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Transatlantic

Whole sardines line the horizon,

shimmer like eyes after a hard cry.

I smear a silver bite on bread;

think miracles, loaves and fishes,

mouthfuls of ocean,

heaving waves, ways of knowing

the hands of a fishmonger,

a dash of Viking.

The tapestry is nearly done;

I complete it with a sailor's knot,

float it across the water,

add my name to the passenger list,

become next of kin,

drink a toast to St. Elmo's fire.

I let it steal my tongue;

swallow, and still find the taste of it. 

tk/December 2013


Sexy read by the dashing, bewhiskered R.A.D. Stainforth...is it my imagination...or is the boat rocking? 

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