Carousel

Birds soar high above the ice chiseled cliffs,  roil  over  ancient forests at the moss covered foothills of  Mountains.  I hear the voices of ancestors,  perverse whispers of hate and grudges,   they are witness to our deception. They  know the gaps in our souls are filled with the same  darkness as theirs.  When we once again come face to face  they will  tell us how the hours passed so quickly.  You are that bird whose wings beat the air senseless, rainstorm eyes protest  a dream unlived. That perfect blue honey of desire you washed away in golden brown.  Swoop down, I miss the sound of you. Tell me how to survive beginnings.   Save me from this carousel,  my arms outstretched not knowing I am still  spinning.

 

unless you ask

Unless you ask

I will always make you go

before the birds invoke the day,

leave our scent on the crumpled

sheets to the cats.

Though it is somewhat embarrassing

I love most among poets Aristophanes

and sultry dreams of cherubs that twitter like

juvenile birds drunk on adventure.

Unless you wake me to the soft sound of Coltrane,

the rich taste of espresso, the breath of fruity herbs,

I will always make you go before

the sun breaks the horizon.

 

 

 

Painting by Michael Lipke   (1953)