After the Beginning was the Lie

And lies made flesh flamed into hard tongues
unable to resist a purple crocus not in prison
putting its gentle truth behind bars of locution
for the simple crime of blooming mysteriously.

Thus flesh made words, no poem is innocent but
a shadow flashed, itself an enslaving lie that casts
our goodly yearn into a belief that words are real.

The purple crocus poking through the snow
is its own excuse for being.

I don't even have words for that.

Do not read this poem.

Counting On Time Has Its Own Challenges

A face of purple flowers bloomed at quick once
from a petaled bower confessionally esoteric
with buds surprisingly glas and gorm in season.

Not many choices but the haute septime attempt
when the mosquito bites your cheek so piquantly
and the best laid plans are south abandoned now
to a sanguine reposition of racing red corpuscles-

When I ascended into heaven I descended into hell,
the reality of every living creature plus one and you
spins in blossoms and fortuitous bites ground earthly
like trying to explain a silver mirror to a blind person.

The pattern yesterday was maniacs in courtesy cars,
tomorrow it will be something else that faintly mars:

today the blossoms drifted up like snow.

Weather Report

Silly as naming fires or counting acres

there is a blue door that might open
at dusk with oiled hinges as redolent
of autumn musk as the vibrant voices
bespoke of late, faint Teutonic love.

Hind legs always attract in season.

You can hear them best in late October
then it's all gone mute come November