A Windows Machine

Clouds stained and stretched

Like overlapped, pulled thin

Butterfly wings pinned

Around the rolling-silk,

Last-light-of today sun

As it leaks to pale skins after

Sheets of April-vengeance hail.

I’m sitting at a windows machine

Wondering if I can believe the numbers;

Take the cold carborundum pressures.

Here, I truly believe, we could plant,

Could surely grow, might sustain Paradise:

Legacy, pass-along gardens that would

Proudly carry standards out of history

… into the future.

We Should not Delay

Twice three days

Past the last of the

Snow-and-salt trees,

Belts of long mountains,

We may find

What we deserve

In this serious desert:

Rain

Heavy rain:

Drip for the garden,

Drop for the lawn:

Drum roll for the garden,

Refreshing frogpaddle pond,

Falling future for

 Sun-parched ground.

I’m remembering a

Storm-hammered, crowded,

Noisy, light blue bus

Leaving a street market

In Yesterday’s-Gone,

No-Promise country;

A lover’s farewell:

“The skies cry,”

Biting back youngblood tears,

Biting passion-bruised lips,

“When good friends part.”

Drip for the past,

Drop for the present,

Drum-roll for the memory,

Reviving yesterday’s dancers,

Refreshing history’s dreams.

31/7/2013

Photo: www.newtopwallpaapers.com

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