Les Miserables

Not the ruby baubles the factory man
 works so hard to impress,
But the slumbering body
 relieved of its day’s demands…
and perhaps a lay–in
 Saturday morning

Golden Mean

Baby, my porridge is not father’s:
 don’t take it all so much
 and improperly digest it.
Papa, my porridge is not Baby’s:
 it’s not so small to dismiss
 as a mere toddler’s trifling.
Oh, mama, can’t you see:
 I’m human.
Let us sup together;
 perhaps you aren’t so unbearable.

Donald Duck Inflatable Arm–bands

Here I am in my ocean again.
You pushed me or I threw myself in
 at the sight of you,
 at the quake of you running through my boards.
A sunny day and a light breeze
 dancing upon the waves
 enchant me and make it hard to see —
well, them or your eyes.
I don’t mind loosing ground;
I wade or fathom, now:
your ocean or mine?
I invite you in.
Either I would hold my breath to explore your depths
 or would you provide some oxygen?

Tyrant

Holy brothers,
you escort your sandcastles’ beauty
and gracefully cast it into the river.
I imagine relinquishing likewise:
why is it a crummy kingdom I uphold?

Rumpelstiltskin

Pa,
I know the stubble of your beard.
 You kissed me goodnight
  after you missed dinner, working late.
I take that stubble to my grave.
I tell God about your stubble.

Those nights you let me
 shine the light for you
  under the car
I have absorbed all of that light.
I am full of that light.

When you hinted
 I might be another Einstein
I am an Einstein
 so as to fulfill your pride of me.

Your insight that
 I need no other guidance
  but my own
I turn this straw
 into gold.

Pa,
perhaps this story
 is incomplete
It is enough.

Thank you,
 Dave

Perceptiviteapot

Forgive my bluntness
 when I insist
I'm eternal and wise as the universe
In perceiving you
I see you in me

There is my heart, in you
You, flapping around,
 doing your own thing
When shall we tea in the kitchen?
 heart to heart

Artistry

Perhaps a mistake
                                       to forgo the ache
making of one’s self a human
With spiteful tenacity
 takes herself as lover
A joyful bed
 in loving herself, loves the world
Gobbling down gleams of inspiration
 indulging strange urges and combinations
 to satiate the little one
 secretly nursing, growing embarrassing
From a patchwork of snacking and digesting
 miraculously combining
 into a self–contained story
 its own life
Flesh and blood for others to see
 critique, abjure recklessly
Perhaps to glimpse fragility
 imbibe what magnificence might come
  if they too put out
 be awestruck and taken–in

Traces

In her presence,
her presence I have breathed

A blinding beauty,
a blinding beauty I have seen

I gazed
no thought
The muted radiance burning the film
 attempting to capture
Knowing, as my eyes held her,
 my mind would not catch her
 burned into my memory
 Just the pleasant burn and
  delicious soothing of grace in nonchalance
A beauty that did not strike
 unwittingly burned and crumpled
 by invisible flame

I accept and graciously
 with calm, pleasant passion
 with blissful, resigned frustration
 such effortless perambulation