Poetry

09/18/2013 #2

The rising sun fogs
his sapphire mirror, towels
with clouds, and starts clean.

Coldest morning in
months; exhaling, I see my
hidden spirit form.

White globe floating on
a rough green sea; elderly
dandelion nods.

Pink tinted cirrus
reflect a yellow sunrise;
dahlia in bloom.

Eight legged guardian
weaves its dreamcatcher to feast
on children's nightmares.

A world made white, though
not with snow; autumn mist to
chill my aging bones.

The maple leaves dance
a delicate line between
fall and summertime.

Polished fairy pearls,
clear as glass, gathered on a
fading green pillow.

Depression slinks through
my day like a feral cat
cornering its prey.

My skittish dog sees
dead people roaming in the
heavy morning mist.

Apparitions rise,
wrapping themselves in misty
cloaks a month too soon.

Do my dogs really
love me, or are they victims
of Stockholm Syndrome?

Sacrifice my flesh
and all my work to the god
of self-destruction.

Mist condenses on
the canopy; slow rain falls
underneath the tree.

Raised voices, awkward
scuffles; four friends performing
Shakespeare in the yard.

Hot red lights slice the
morning fog; angry shouting;
police intervene.

Trees and buildings blend
together. Even street lights
disappear today.

Deepening layers
of torn construction paper;
blue-hued Olympics.

Dressed in white lanterns,
a strawberry tree awaits
the Moon Festival.

Unseasonable
heat cascades down Puget Sound;
natives seek the beach.