He strolled with a scar on his
chest and a shine in his eyes
and kept his sword close
as foes followed nearby.
Blue-bruised skin told the tale
of treachery. Still, he laughed
a laugh to convince passersby
he was supremely fine.
He rebuilt fences,
and defended the defenseless
who lived under the crush
of gold-lined fingers.
His pace slowed and his hand
held the helm of his weapon.
But he rubbed his knuckles
when the fight was at an end.
Air swept up his capri blue cape,
and it swirled as he sat on his steed.
He was worn yet
stood by his solemn oath.
It happened the way it does . . .
a spirit dragon called his name.
And he answered—
and the light went out again.
Category: Poetry
FIFTEEN YEARS
No card, call, on my birthday. No, From Us, To Him labels on gold wrapped paper that cover boxes. At night, dizzying lights spin like a mirror ball against snow bloated trees and pin hole stars. No world events—did you hear what’s happened? What about that? Solar and wind and electric cars? How do they run?
Yes, time had passed, and I babbled on about you. Then, no, no—
In a chair, I tell your story, the clouds of smoke, you’re fourty-plus year habit. It crept up like a hand over a crypt that poked me in the eye and made my cheek twitch. It’s been fifteen years—what the hell is the matter? I blink the tears, take a breath, and straighten in my chair. No, no, yes, I’m fine. Yes, yes, I’m fine . . . this is the rhythm of time . . .
Tortuous Tales 