: Poetry

Mohawk Blues

A little rough around edges

but her loyalty is mine

as she smoothly pledges

to share with me, her wine.  

She stares at the floor, 

sadness enters the void - 

watching from the door, 

her haze, I cannot avoid. 

Her arms are missing,

Her shoulders bare. 

I picture us kissing,

because of her hair.  

I notice her ear 

And then the other. 

I look again, nearer

and then i don't bother. 

Neither ear is the same

(though not a surprise)

It is either is shame,

Or else her disguise. 

she has a tattoo

on the blade of a shoulder

It just says, “Blou!”

Like the color, only bolder. 

Blues's Mohawk spikes

drape her native neck

to the sweet of her spine,

that leaves my heart a wreck. 

I wanted to hold her,

run my hands through her hair,

so I pressed on her shoulder,

And molded with care.  

Honeysuckle Dance

Honeysuckle blossoms

on reams of leaves

clasped together

in gnarled procession. 

A seduction twines

around three trunks,

stems scaling totems

of hackberry and live oak. 

Afternoon siesta 

wafts of honeybees' harvest.

Pristine lace laid upon limbs 

of bush and beast. 

Japanese honeysuckle

looms on huckleberries

protecting sweet blossoms

bent between pages. 


In thunderous erupt

Hot lava overcomes me,

Oozing warm must

From giant volcanoes

Over raisined vineyards long without.  

My belly aches like grapes

Swollen under solar streams

Until it bursts

The wine of fire

And I am drunken ash.  

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