Little King

There is storm in his

eye. Still, light finds him and keeps him;

cannot leave him alone; makes its face to shine upon him. Be-
loved, ever so. But storm lives within

him. And his heavy crown hangs low. But

with reign so ever near him, love’s the only

fear he’ll know.

4 april ‘17

Nice Guys

I see you, clear as the Negril waters, where, once, I took a nap and awoke floating far beyond the safety buoys. I panic. Then and now.

I see your face, dark like the soil in my father’s herb garden – seasoned, rich with a promise to sustain. I am walking away, but waiting to see if you’ll grab my wrist and shake some sense into my gin-soggy, hipster-chasing one-track mind.

I sit too quickly when you pull out my chair. I blame you with my eyes, cutting. From the floor, I contemplate taking your hand that is outstretched and reaching for me.

When you lay your wool, fitted sportsjacket over mud puddles, I pretend not to see it and, avoiding it, step, then, fall – deep - into a hole that I cannot seem to pull myself out of. Ever.

                                   Dec '13
  

My Grandfather's Portrait

grandfather

upright on the shelf,

polished

dust-less -

by care of his youngest girlchild.

Stern

and mustachioed

in a way that conceals

his lips,

any smile,

any semblance of a shiver

not that it would

ever quiver

Nor would he ever

shiver

Or shake

Feb 28, 2013