For Regina

I am the damp sponge
on his fevered head.
Here I am loving Søren.
It’s wretched work
to push away his despair,
but he tells me,
The task must be made difficult
for only the difficult
inspires the noble-hearted.
Here I am loving Søren yet again.

2:27 A.M.

 

I need sleep
but I will not close my eyes
not tonight.

Not when you are here
and I could speak
if I had words
instead of depression
and discontent with
where I live
and how seldom I see you.
So I will suffer in the morning
for a few more minutes hours
of sharing stories
and acting silly
and you doing your best
to cheer me up.

The Oracle

The two following poems are going to be published in the Oracle, a publication of the USA English and Art departments. 

The Bright Lights In Her Eyes

“Then as now the decibels of nature
can crush an artist’s brain.
I have seen it happen.
So I lock the door and paint interiors.”
~Dorothea Tanning

 

I. The Sunflower and The Girl

I’m naked enough.
I’ve still got a piece of it.
How many of them are there?
One dead here,
another through the open door.
I think I hear another coming up the stairs.

I open my eyes just a slit,
she doesn’t know what lies in wait.
She just stares, mouth agape
at the yellow carcass on the floor.
My hair stood up like hers once,
and my dress was just as white.

I’m going to keep walking now.
Hopefully I’ll find something better
than these cracked walls
in room 207. After all, everyone knows
the worst thing in the world is in room 101.

 

II.  What She Found in Room 207

I’ve hated flowers
and I’ve hated light
ever since I was a child.
There is something monstrous
in a substance that exposes you
for what you really are.
I hate the light.
There is something monstrous
in something that exists
only to show me how ugly I am.
I hate the flowers
for what they’ve done to me
and what they’ll do to every little girl.

-----

Bogart Syndrome

The plot stays the same,
it’s just the characters that change.
The fundamental things apply:
Characters push plot
and conflict pushes characters
to their breaking point.
Worn out Cynic
meets young Idealist.
Their faces make a contrast.
Cynic’s sad eyes and wrinkled face
against Idealist’s fresh scars and patch
of shock white hair.
The Cynic sticks his neck out for nobody
but he gives up the girl for a cause
over and over again, as time goes by.

I want to be Victor Lazlo,
but in my heart I think I’m Rick.