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 

Refit

The walls are empty,

pocked with nail holes,

shadows of pictures―

a room without windows.

Too many years

since the piano was tuned.

Behind the sofa no longer

a good place to hide.

Laughter sleeps like stones

under shroud sheets.

I have forgotten

the dance, the lampshade.

I pull a chamois from my pocket―

not going over Jordan―just spring cleaning.

Dust smells new:  a scent of yellow.

The holes stare with tiny, hammered eyes.

I could use a shovel. 

tk/March 2014

R.A.D. Stainforth breathes a bit of freshness to my words:

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*Lee Plaza Hotel, Detroit, photo by Bonnie Beechler

Yellow House

The Ice Cutters, 1911, Natalia Goncharova

I lie with insomnia,

wishing it was you.

Listen as salt trucks echo

along the river road;

dare to disturb monochrome.

The autumn of me craves

orange marmalade on toast,

breakfast with no conversation,

watching sunflowers

grow into firm-fleshed love children.

I think about Vincent nibbling his paint,

how the taste of his favorite

floated vivid on his tongue,

how he was happiest

in the yellow house.

tk/December 2013


The excellent R.A.D. Stainforth contemplating a yellow house...I hear a cat...

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Buttsprung

Charming R.A.D. Stainforth in his black and white world ... he nearly smiles here ...

Spring jumps in,
like some kind of joke,

runs at confused birds,
chases flowers with a faux nose.

Veins earthworm his arms.

He juggles dormant trees,
popcorns the sky,
flings yellow,

Wild as a buttsprung umbrella.

tk/April 2012




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image: The Circus With The Yellow Clown, 1967, Marc Chagall