A New Casting Call

In blood, with inviolable fasting we recall our common bound casting on the bed of our lady youngest to renew as the moon in her waking our breath, its word here remaking secret water circles among us.

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Afterthought 1550—Minus One, Minus Another

Time was known more by what we didn't do than by what we did. It's the absent things we know, minus one, minus another.  We withheld pieces of ourselves, expecting to do without. We focused on the words not said, leaving the others to catch up.  We made love with the lights on, ignoring the gods who call from dark. All those tears we never had to cry, minus one, minus another.  We won't see everyone home, we won't mark everything done, we won't mention every casualty, we won't spend every last cent. Minus one, minus another, minus one, minus another, minus one, minus another, we will be at our best  with all we weren't.

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Afterthought 1258—Is the Word

Is the word you wish to hear one that you yourself can't say without it beating up your throat as cries from lovers you betray kill the word's sound in your ear to leave you only ill you wrote? Is the word you wish to know one that you yourself can't see as living in the hearts you damned, replacing love with flattery of hustlers using you as though they in turn weren't being scammed? Is the word you wish to keep one you yourself consider dead, barely thought of now and then as if a brief guest to your bed? All your words sell on the cheap— you'll never find true words again.

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Protected: Afterthought 1024—Breakthrough

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Afterthought 901—Sonnet -1

This won't be how my word will be reborn like yours, all echo, pieces we'll forget, as randomly arranged as when we met like moonlight let loose on that autumn's morn. Like those, no doubt these too will earn your scorn — these touches you won't want, dreams you won't let act real, as real as poetry, yet . . . yet I'll hope this page won't get discarded torn. So let's just happen crossing paths again, a drink or two, perhaps enjoy a dance together, nothing one need bother keep. As you yourself have said, my talk is cheap — lines strung together from mere circumstance, a poem or two here, every now and then.

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Afterthought 255—Supplicant’s Villanelle

Let Discipline, my teacher, work my skill. Insanity, ride through chaotic skies to tame this creature, bend her to my Will. Collaboration primped her pride until it hadn't more than cause to criticize. Let Discipline, my teacher, work my skill to judge me justly. Have my Freedom's drill each rigid rule she lays down memorize. To tame this creature, bend her to my Will, her Inspiration's cistern to refill, may words once loved be those now to despise. Let Discipline, my teacher, work my skill to holy Craft devoid of random ill or selfish end. Pray dead as living rise to tame this creature, bend her to my Will. The wildest wind turns breath standing most still inside her throat, her tourniquet's reprise. Let Discipline, my teacher, work my skill to tame this creature, bend her to my will.

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Afterthought 252—On Taking the Cake

Icing? Now he is carving out cakes? And icing them with fantastic shapes? His creations disappear into crumbs of edible decorations, of good times smeared into mixed colors on plates that fed laughter, fun, sweet tastes, brief memories that go dim and fade before a next birthday'll celebrate. No snapshot or journal can recall love he gives to it, his good will. You should write a poem, I say again. Poems last longer. Cakes are done only to eat once, no matter how good they taste or how fantastically made. A good metaphor can do what icing does over and over and over. A poem has no shelf life. He replies he's heard all that's both had and eaten's a word.

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Protected: Afterthought 248—An Educated Guess

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Protected: Afterthought 212—Into Summer’s Light

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