Music LessonsI fell onto the wind of your note,Music Lessons by *Moonbeams
the current whipped the sun
into shoots and pedicels,
and then fanned a leaf.
I could see the diluent
light passing
in the deep pupil of night that listened,
the swaying shadows of body
and foliage rippling.
I pirouetted around the moon
with a pair of double vision wings,
dipped into the bay
and back again
to slide upon the magnolia
of a leaning tree;
and then fell back onto the
staccato, and silence
as you sighed
and I prayed that I'm never left
on a roof
with the memory of you,
as your song plays like a ghost
in a wind that only half lifts
in reluctance.
We Created SoundIn the parkWe Created Sound by *Moonbeams
dandelion fluff skirts the wind--
lands with seeds
and wishes
stillborn.
The merry-go-round spins,
hatches a laugh into the wind.
The eagle's long cry
is a cry indeed
against our longing for years gone.
Electric rings in the filter--
the low buzz,
furnace hum.
The steam horn will sound
into the ghost train.
We etched it into the hour.
There is no silence in a memory.
I sit in perfect atrophy,
turn out the lights
and bury the moon
like some sort of God.
And even then,
the earth still
settles in its stillness.
NarcissusThere are no curvesNarcissus by *Moonbeams
or angles in your stillness,
no wave of anything
that fusses over your shoulders;
no sliding serpent
of light
that scales through
your form
like time's hand
skimming across the sky;
a trickle of hair--
white dancing across a pupil;
instead you loom from the ground
and catch the rain
with resignation
as it leaves its pocks
in your weather-made trails.
The wind comes down
to smooth them away--
an intruding sand-swept arm
stretching across the mirrors
in your valley.
You bloom through a cast of soil now,
irrigated by your own mind.
And your echo has died in the distance
as you speak no more
to eternity.
In the
The Sun Only Hugs The Ground As It ArrivesIn the dark things sit and wait;The Sun Only Hugs The Ground As It Arrives by *Moonbeams
the light takes its time,
starting along the edges of the day,
and from its quiet, hot-track breath
the fog moves in to moisten
the pulp of us
lying sans branch, sans tree
in the bed;
the lily yields her perfume to the morning,
and the hour dresses itself
with the suit on the door.
The twilight adds the finishing touch
to dreams even while awake-
the walk is gone,
and birds flock to the seed
as the wet shoal gets the gold
before the sky does--
makes the tangle of volleyball nets
a part of some private heaven,
and then it is night here,
and everything you walk by-
the overgrown garden, overgrown sight
tha
How Spirits Are MadeThe condition is in this Veteran's gazeHow Spirits Are Made by *Moonbeams
frozen to the ground.
He half sees the thallus roots
crawl for miles,
and the light passing in the marble
as if to bear the cross
over eternity.
His eyes are imprisoned in a place
where colors fell too loud,
and the red has permanently dyed
the ground.
It is because of this
that ghosts become the helix of white
in heavy rains,
the lackluster winter
worn upon windows,
time in a photo;
the balm that falls over memories
before they spill from us,
scatter too loosely
the blueprints of the forms
that held them together.
Picture CardI must write a story.Picture Card by *Moonbeams
A woman stands by a window
between a thumb and forefinger,
The right side of her shoved
against the sun.
She wears the scar on her breast.
The scenery is hidden
beneath the shadow
of some overcast ridge,
the small faint line of aligned houses,
trees.
Maybe it is a pleasant day.
Her expression
carries the weight
of every incident that matters
safely in the plainness
of something nascent,
her eyes as perfect
as the driest slate.
She appears one dimensional,
as all the shades and tints,
and angles of her fold inward,
rescued from the pain of her bent waist,
the lines of her worry,
the colors
she would have to be.
As I WalkThere are daysAs I Walk by *Moonbeams
that time sinks into these steps,
and this road cuts off somewhere
before streetlamps blinked,
and rain glossed the backs
of cobblestone.
I lose myself
behind steam engine clouds,
and wither in the heavy dung
filled air of sleeping horses
as I trip upon my garment;
and rivers almost come to a halt
with history;
and even with all the heaviness
of tired oceans,
the seams of the earth still
thread along its translucent edges
as the tips of leaves
fall in and out of hazes
like flattened needles
and mountains recline with clouds;
and sunsets are always ageless,
as our figures meld into doorways --
our silhouettes
like childr
On GustsWe rise in minutiae,On Gusts by *Moonbeams
slowly;
the evidence is in the shriveled
casts upon the ground,
a rib cage in situ
like some unintended trellis overlay
as vines coil like claws over bone,
bring us closer to the ground--
rivulets of dew
and wet bands of metaphorical feet
marching in our breath
to the cloud.
When it rains
it is the long intended kiss
only absent of memory--
the banding of souls,
the communism we so reject.
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
blink
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
steamed-up windows.
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There's nothing more important than to know that you are loved and appreciated. 
So as part of spreading the love, here's a stupid joke, to make a little smile on your face. 
-
eh... okey... 
Omri. 
Sta.sh
