Caring For MomEven before the long sobCaring For Mom by Moonbeams
lodges in pipes
your carpet is red as a funeral.
as I trace these walls--
masking tape curled
like late ribbons absent of fastidious hands,
pictures paling into the glare of their frames--
it is something gradual;
nature pulls you to her breast
like a new infant--
nicotine yellowing walls and lamp-shades like the thin
marrow of you.
Even before the hour hand in the clock
threatens to fall into an oar
in its own cloudy glass
your eyes have gathered the innocence of a child.
The silence rests on the stillness of uncirculated air,
the scent of you.
My movements almost become ceremonious.
Learning To PaintAs you play around with shade and tint,Learning To Paint by Moonbeams
the depiction of night will become more enticing;
as you work your way into the intimacy of private lights
you'll see how shadows conspire between forms--
how on walls they are more honest,
how from the white deluge of storms the world emerges
and stokes the fire from inside,
and the halo of flames never just completely halt
You'll learn of perspective,
how the figure leaving in the distance
can only go so far before it is buried in its depth,
and whatever shade of blue holds his steps,
the leaves in his path,
and how far they rise
will determine the strength of wind
that knows of his eagerness to leave.
As you look to the distance
you'll learn that lines are illusions,
and rarely need to be drawn
as the road is never afraid to lose itself
in the glare of light
or that which falls upon it.
Chapel WindowThe parish waits nowChapel Window by Moonbeams
in wind-chip and scuff,
the loneliness of corners
crawling outward on walls;
cobwebs align them
like the membranes of memories,
the cut of a jewel in a broken window;
through the rain
gathering in a mesh of strands
a new Mosaic
my eyes seek out the sermon,
paint no distance
between headstone and cloud;
elegies topple each other
in their climb to heaven
as light beams shear the shade,
heave a new glow by candles,
measure the weight in these empty rows
as if something came bearing down
on the silence that never ceased being prayer.
PostcardThe sky is always a fixture over oceans,Postcard by Moonbeams
another cliched photo;
even this place
where the only distance is upward,
and I lose myself in the memory of shapes
as if your foam fluked tide
had stretched as far as it could
and decided to stay.
A horse's gallop
is slowed through the blue
before a piece of his snout breaks off
and drifts away.
As the sun bleeds
into the purple
cloud and cooking smoke
as if heaven opens over the clothes line,
and corrugated metal
I realize no one ever mentions clouds in a sunset;
only their absence in a clear sky,
where the light spreads thin into nothing,
and no one notices
lest it be over oceans.
Observing Silhouettes On A HillThe embracing lovers are still;Observing Silhouettes On A Hill by Moonbeams
a precursor to structures--
overexposure and time
unlike the herd
that has come together, and come apart,
the brief romp of a pair of squirrels in the brush,
the crane's arch to the pond,
the strand on the down of a feather
that knows how to be alone again,
the leaf, the blade of grass.
Opening Letters By SteamPulled ribbonsOpening Letters By Steam by Moonbeams
fall around the ephemera
like disbanding sails.
I rub against envelopes
between the rima and words,
the paper bleeding to grey
like a rain cloud--
too close to discern
a shape in the ink;
it reminds me of the coffee
spilled upon an intended letter for you one day
in a cafe;
my eyes gave way,
the words becoming a bed of purple
in the sunset
reflecting on water,
wavering like water;
drawn from the slow,
that almost meant to say
we are beautiful this way,
And yet the kettle on the stove
remains the same as well,
because we need it that way;
like past lovers
pleading to lovers here and now;
the ghosts that team on our heart
fortifying the erosion of boundaries.
Florida WinterFlamingo weather vanesFlorida Winter by Moonbeams
are a tackiness
even the rains couldn't wash away--
as will be the remains of Christmas lights
around palm tree trunks
as the north remains
in her forests
and graffitied bridge;
the browns and golds of autumn
blowing into the folds of her scarf.
So the dawn works hard
to stitch a new pattern--
the thin reed against the milk of a cloud
as the stars continue to wink,
glance toward the west with its canyon sunsets
who know better than anyone
that when the world sheds all of her green
she is just another tentative arm
reaching out to the sky.
Over Highways In DuskThe sky holds history in its blue breastOver Highways In Dusk by Moonbeams
like a crying child;
expanding over distances.
The wind over the lake
moves like a ghost
in its first freedom,
a testament of how time
grieves the flesh,
and tired face
it was given.
There is the swell of old hearts
and new hearts
on long roads--
the loss of chivalry
crushed in the stiletto heel,
tossed in the smog of a truck long gone,
in the heavy burlap,
the murder of anything,
the drag of footsteps
left behind in leaves,
in years, in minutes,
in a new kind of armor,
a new kind of breaking.
Phosphorusnow my clothesPhosphorus by FallingAsleepTonight
and these legs
hang off the bed
my trees grip
from five stories
a girl I've known
I leave it
snowbonesholding my hands over the kettlesnowbones by wish-sticks
the skin on my fingertips peels back,
like dated wallpaper,
like flowers blooming.
they're burning from the inside out,
nails turning to varnish, turning to steam,
bones click-clacking their way out;
spreading like wildfire.
the whistling stops, and
and my fingers are just fingers,
ink stained, bitten nails.
sunlight streams across the kitchen,
my fingers warm and
slightly damp, i trace patterns on