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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Vorfreude

Divine darkness comes

as you leave to find sleep,

black wings cover me.

What did moths bump into

before there were light bulbs?

How did I exist before your eyes?

Flutter morning awake;

frighten me just a little

with your estuary,

the sound of oars

drawing me from the shore,

church bells in the distance.

Take me out far enough

to feel the wind in my hair.

Give me an excuse to hide,

tuck some hallelujah,

let it burn a hole in my pocket.

I dare not sin against hope.

tk/November 2013

Vorfreude (n.)  The joyful, intense anticipation that comes from imagining future pleasures


I could listen to R.A.D. Stainforth say "church bells" all day...

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Et Exspecto

Resurrection Reunion 2, 1945, by Sir Stanley Spencer

The dead await no resurrection.

They shed their wide Germanic wings;

shrouds cling moist, translucent,

like thin white condoms.

The scent settles in recollection

of beaches, bedclothes, and black dogs.

Forgotten haar pauses for the baton,

surplice and cassock,

ruff around abandoned larynx,

secrets deep between bare teeth.

They stand with crocuses among the stones;

erect and proud, heads fully extended,

ceremoniously silent.

The dead await no resurrection.

tk/November 2013


R.A.D. Stainforth's best read to date...tell me if you agree...

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Storyteller

le Jardin, 1962, by Max Ernst 

Hold me as close to your fantasies as I will ever come.

Wave a magic wand

over forgotten fastenings;

wake me from the hollow tree.

How big is a halo, a button, a zipper pull?

Your eyes flash parable blue,

pan with anticipation,

tighten to close-ups of hands and feet.

Nothing is lost on the cutting room floor;

whisper a sweet amen at the end.

Remember this holy travelogue,

so it can be told over again,

without pillars of cloud.

Expose my gothic wings.

God and all the saints are gone; only kitsch remains.

tk/October 2013


Another excellent read from the incomparable R.A.D. Stainforth: 

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