My little red raincoat,
Worn out from strenuous work and tender fondness,
Hangs above the doormat in the hallway,
Waiting to shield me from the rapturous flood.
For centuries I have lived in this house.
The air is static,
Warm yet bleak and frozen.
Each room is identical,
Forever repeating one stagnant remnant of a dream.
Though I cannot leave,
The essence of my being reaches out towards the sunlight,
Elucidating my core inhibitions
Shunning me from the nature of mankind
And saving me the despondency.
The wayward birds never returned in the spring,
And Sarah keeps crying in the hallway.
I wait for her to stop and help me move boxes.
A melancholy sound echoes through the roads
And curls around the streetlamps that have yet to brighten the wounded night.
If I were to sleep tonight,
Would I wake up in a haste just like the morning before?
For mornings are meant to be tranquil
But all I find is broken sunshine through dark green curtains
And Sarah crying over her breakfast.
The hands work vigorously at the thin white paper,
Folding each crest with accuracy and skill.
The knuckles are ashy and worn,
Like the leather on your grandfather’s favorite brown shoe.
Though yes, the hands work so hard and so perfectly,
The eyes are blind,
And cannot see that the hands are making a monster.
I stand alone,
entranced by the sun
confined by my own resistance
Infinite love and hate concomitant
adhere to my bones,
trickle from my pores.
I used to be soft
with supple skin
and laughing eyes
but look what I’ve become
a statue of indifference
cracked and brittle
with a concrete mouth
Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;
He wept that he was ever born,
And he had reasons.
Miniver loved the days of old
When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;
The vision of a warrior bold
Would set him dancing.
Miniver sighed for what was not,
And dreamed, and rested from his labors;
He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot,
And Priam’s neighbors.
Miniver mourned the ripe renown
That made so many a name so fragrant;
He mourned Romance, now on the town,
And Art, a vagrant.
Miniver loved the Medici,
Albeit he had never seen one;
He would have sinned incessantly
Could he have been one.
Miniver cursed the commonplace
And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;
He missed the mediæval grace
Of iron clothing.
Miniver scorned the gold he sought,
But sore annoyed was he without it;
Miniver thought, and thought, and thought,
And thought about it.
Miniver Cheevy, born too late,
Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
Miniver coughed, and called it fate,
And kept on drinking.
The machine bits off the insect’s head
There is no such need for you to fidget in your seat
its growth unabated
a seamless stream of liturgy
in an endless, timeless plight
forgotten not, the summer
whisks away the unfulfilled
statues of adherence, and a wolf cries
in the steam of night,
Answer with Spring
O, succulent Earth
who’s leaves I’ve yet to write
the flowers thirst
and the people pray
for the sweetness of your light
the harshness of
the Winter fades
when dew replaces frost
and yet the blooming
of the trees
is not without a cost
for when the heat
of summer ends
the dying months will bring
and longing for
another infant Spring.
Scents of voluptuous spring
creeping through thick february air
in whiffs of natal blossoms
and dew which lingers on the grass
like beads of sweat
are harbingers of the change
which will end the weary winter
So near is the season
of life, of renewal, that
bones shake in anticipation
skin quivers with restlessness
gates part, sunshine
sneaking through the openings
and the scents of
Scents of voluptuous spring