Maybe—That—Would Awaken—Them

Muramatsu DS

Song lingers, body shaped by its charms.

The instrument, tarnished and scratched, still distinct…

Soft metal of depth, built from devotion, a loneliness all know, few embrace.

Upon first touch, cold as granite, then melody’s warmth wraps…the air.

Strange kind of ether, a wonder we breathe, sound is the current of the core.

Bending a phrase, the trailing dash of a note, dangling off into chant…

The incantation.

Magic is craft mixed with gift, singed by song, burnt into listening, words that hit inside.

First notes feel the delicacy of fingers, the embouchure fixed

Mouth free into verse.

Recite aloud.


(Emily Dickinson Series #2)


To Wander

This south wind

Brings a warmth

Tickling the side

Of rhododendrons

Waiting for the fluster

Of petals who fall

The quickest, earliest

Sticking to shoes

Tracked into the kitchen


“I meant to tell [you]

How I longed

For just this single time”


Late summer petals

Dried, lightened wishes

Caught in kitchen corners

With lone coffee beans

With runaway grains

Who stick to shoes

Tracked out, where

The north wind

Tickles the sides

Of oaks and beech


“To wander—now—is my repose”


Sacred Clothing



Suspenders are oblivious

To their importance

They hold shit up

Panties can only be pink once

Bras are too self-involved

Gloves never lay a hand on anything

Belts are for the buttless

Tightening up when uncomfortable

Loosening up after a few drinks

Jock Straps think too much

About Athletic Support

Jeans are multitaskers

With concentration problems

Especially if they’re hugging hips

T-Shirts only want to play

When it’s time for bed

Unless they’re a Pocket Tee

Then they have an identity crisis

Nylons can get along with anyone

Until their toes get stiff

Or their conversation skills sag

Zip ups are perverted ass pinchers

Buttons get too attached

Scarves are spiritual masters

Of Body and Soul, Yin and Yang

Unless they are 100% wool

Jackets are pretenders

to the throne of Coats

Turtlenecks are creepy

Pajamas play hooky

Drink Spanish Coffee

Lay around watching soaps

Ponchos live precariously

If they are fringed

They might be seen at night

But quickly disappear in the day

A blouse is a blouse is a blouse