Kim Talon
Scarlet FacesIt rained scarlet that day
trees unabashed and brazen as leaves flew helter-skelter same bold shade as the old five and dime lipstick we used to dress up winter pale faces in Junior High tucking plastic tubes into our knee-high socks to hide it from adult eyes even as our lips gave our secret away The HushSilence envelops
Even the clock who shows off every hour has wound down so the familiar tiiiick tock is absent where is the sound of Spring? Birdsong absent as if the chirrups of sparrows were caught by wind and taken clean away silence envelops No sigh of wind or dream-woof of dog stretched out in a skim-milk patch of sun on a cosy carpet The cats turn their noses up on windowsill haunts and curl upon soft chairs The Memory Tree ☊
Tender shadows keep vigil
in the blue-stained dark as minutes seep into hours no moon companion even the birds sleep wings tucked neatly waiting for hint of light to grace a morning sky before singing the praises of a day unfolding in the hush hours between here and now lies what was thoughts drift-- aimless travelers meandering through recollection forests in a sudden gust of recall a memory tree sways and a memory breaks free falling in the inky dark into hands gently cupped Cloth Dreams
You hold the fabric tenderly
pins glinting in the lamplight spilling over your shoulder the needle flashing in and out tattooing the cloth fingers-worn making stitches neatly you prick your fingertip cursing softly under your breath vermilion staining sepia fragility you're trying to mend cloth dreams overlooked and neglected tugged from the antique trunk in the dim corner of the attic… trying to hold them fast against the approach of oblivion but the cloth dreams refuse to be pieced back together tattered, the fabric tears even with your gentle handling you sigh removing the pins dropping them into the hand-painted bowl with the wreath of pansies glowing like jewels in the lamp's warm light bits of sepia blood-stained cloth scatter on the floor at your feet fluttering in the draft from the open window … I tiptoe across the room to kneel in the remnant-dreams using a piece of threadbare cloth to wipe the droplets of blood from your fingertip I swear that you are weeping but I hear no sound and see no tears Plumed
The borrowed wings
don't fit quite right feathers trail on the ground as you twirl in front of the looking glass nearly tripping when the wings wrap round your legs gingerly you test the wings like a heartbeat ...in and out... ...in and out... your eyes wide-wonder when the wings obey your commands up you go a clumsy flight scraping toes across rooftops feathers snagging on branches of towering trees breaking free of the wings to journey alone gaining altitude you soar through the blue to places more outlandish than imagination overwhelmed by the magic the temptation to stay overpowers but reluctantly you leave there is no place like home no matter the sting of reality the borrowed wings are returned to their owner who tucks them back inside the closet... neither of you speak of your journey in the quiescent closet the wings rustle resettle wait |
November LightsOctober’s radiant colors weep
into November’s grey oblivion November is unguarded-- secrets held dear on summer nights debris furtively swept under starry rugs November reveals through gossipy winds A mist of memory remains caught in the boughs of the crooked pine The CraftingThese creatures we gentle
tame so they might abide by rules created by us, their captors, and leave their wanderlust at the gate have shaped us as much as we shaped their destiny as we manipulate genetic codes unraveling all that someone else created their version of perfection tainted as we celebrate our own cunning SpectreYou stand at the top of the steps
on the threshold of the shadow room holding out an imploring hand begging me to come up …don't look down… or back never look back I see nothing but a murky silhouette guarding the shadow room where broken dreams crumble and die shattered illusions littering the damp floor The Curl of DarkHours are numbered the same
but the light is uneven dark curls around day and holds tight Sun bows her head admitting defeat letting candlelight battle gloom-- and valiant flame-keepers pierce the darkness like stars in a night sky In the Mood
Tucked on the shelf
dusted over and around ignored Grandpa says the last time he heard the old radio play music he was dating Grandma... radio perched on the deck rail singing softly as they danced cheek to cheek on the beach in the moonlight the waves whispering Grandma's heels leaving pockmarks in the sand UndoneAll of the words I did not say
things I could have—should have—said if only I could shape consonants and vowels but I'm stuck in the silence before language unable to summon knowledge of speech swallowing the unspoken choking on shards of the words I did not say splinters of remorse and regret Stutter-Steps
I saw him this morning
the little boy with the limp and the charming lisp his black and gold backpack bumping against thin shoulders with every stutter-step is peppered with neon-bright stickers his obsession with super heroes is on display his mother walks beside in measured tread so as not to eclipse his progress I know she wishes to erase his stutter-steps but possesses no magic wand he told me once that his leg hurt the most on humid days but he said it carelessly such is his life and his adjustment to his fate to always be the boy with the limp the bus stop at the corner of Maple and Park is alive with chattering kids awaiting the blue camp bus the mothers stand to the side shoulders touching as they swap minutiae a little girl with blonde curls and a flower-patched arm cast approaches the little boy with the limp the lone injured in a cluster of over-excited children who whoop collectively when the bus lumbers to a stop with a squeak and a groan as mothers admonish-- be good be careful have fun the kids are swallowed by the blue bus the mothers disperse up the now quiet street like birds taking wing the mother of the little boy with the limp heads home walking in measured tread as if the boy with the limp stutter-stepped beside her still
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