From the Window to the SouthI am taken abackFrom the Window to the South by *callerofcrows
by the evening strata,
the atmospheric shading of dusk.
November, akin to February
in the art of mournful transition,
is painted romantic
in contrast to the needle-point
branches, starved for sun.
The view is untouched
by the crumpled corpse of autumn,
rose-tinted to defy the chill.
Bad MedicineI think of it like a rusted spoon,Bad Medicine by *callerofcrows
as I’m force fed bad medicine;
it leaves my psyche in zero gravity,
looking up like Wile. E. before I realize
there is no ground below
Each thought is the stinging wind,
my eyes water and
the air forces my words
back down my throat,
It’s like those dreams where
your car rolls backwards off a bridge,
and your hands are melded with the dashboard,
a manikin melted,
but unlike the dreamers
I don’t get to wake on impact.
I choke on my own salt water,
I shake so hard the birds can feel it
from their telephone perches
and if their songs are reassurance,
I mute them under the covers,
I find myself weather-patterned,
except I can’t bring myself to rain,
and the nimbostratus on my shoulders
is too damn heavy to clear.
I chalk it up to the fact that my mind
is drowning in a dull roar
that plugs my nose and
forces my mouth open.
If only I could refuse the irony
in that spoonful of crus
Fringe GroupThe stage curtains smelledFringe Group by *callerofcrows
like dust and the coffee cake
you had made last night until late.
Rehearsal would go long
and you knew you’d earn some approval
for a little while
before you became obsolete
in your own opinion.
You happen across photographs
of current reunions.
Nostalgia wears on your face
Like a tired smile.
Suddenly, you feel sixty.
This group was not yours.
You didn’t have one.
Just like when you cut the cake,
you noticed how the crumbs
fell off the pan.
You identified with them.
Perhaps it was the vestige
of darker clouds in your thalamus,
All the world’s a stage,
and even though you’d landed
the lead that year,
you were still a set-piece
in the roles of others.
If you didn’t make them happy,
they would forget you,
even as you fumbled lines with them.
Your name is a quiet word itself,
and while you know you don’t factor
into memory or conversation,
You wish you had.
You even washed the bunt pan by yourself,
feeling all the
Were We but TreesThe sky whispers waterWere We but Trees by *callerofcrows
and the leaves turn on their backs
in hopeful submission.
We, the nomads,
are not so blessed with the immediate relief
of understanding cloudburst patterns.
If my toes were roots,
and my palms
begged the moon for rain,
maybe I, too, would learn
to speak fluent with the clouds.
The LitanyHeartache begs to be written.The Litany by *callerofcrows
It is forget-me-not blue.
After a year of music,
stolen porchlight kisses,
it censors old love-letters
and holds fire to his picture.
Its memory is jagged glass,
draws blood when you reach in
to throw it out.
It is cake with too much salt;
you spit it out
and can't forget the flavor.
It retrieves what you dropped
and reminds you to remember
in deeper shades of bitter.
A Good Year for GershwinJazz tastes like red wine--A Good Year for Gershwin by *callerofcrows
drowsy contentment sipped
from a rounded cup,
delicate on its impossible neck.
Sometimes it burns when it slithers down,
a youthful Zin that savors of unrequited aspiration before it breathes,
mellow with contentment
when it ages warm and slow.
I Believe Hell Must Be BeautifulWhen we ran out of water,
we were four miles from the end of the trail.
It felt longer. The path kept winding upwards,
just out of view, and we believed
the end was at the top of each climb.
The beauty that must have been around us:
the mountains, thick with their carpet of trees;
the trees, lush with their vibrant, summer greens;
and the blue-winged butterflies that I saw briefly
as they fluttered into view.
This must be Hell
to be submerged in beauty, but to wander
with your head hung low from thirst,
your eyes set to the trail, thinking
"a little farther, then I'm out."
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