Feste's Lute

Appendix A. (Revision)

There’s a mirror-man,
with dark, rough hands,
in the theatre of retrospect
cueing our fine intros.

His cane swings to still stuttering lips,
his over-weight pride en-lightens.

Destroyer and builder
in turns I smile and fight him
as his bruised hands beckon the next act.

Stage lights flare precisely
as our players praise the night,
the curtain falls amid
each improv soliloquy.

“This play you inhabit, says he,
is deadly serious.
You lament the things that uproot you,
but if lightning suits your complexion
you celebrate the ruining storms.”

pseud0nymph:

Rest in peace, Maurice Sendak.

We need more Wild Things like him…

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/05/09/books/maurice-sendak-childrens-author-dies-at-83.html

Express/Shun

Sometimes outlets
are a perilous affair.
Flirting fixtures,
wary wall-plates—
edges stained with paint.
But floorboards are
better than bookshelves.
Carpet than cabinet
and vanity.
I swore off Swarovski
long ago.

Mid-Spring

A sunny, April day
should never be spent stressing
more than syllables.

Currently

Under the crests,
into the trough,
succumbing to
a lesser loss.

You’re fielding crops
as the soil
exhausts.

Salt water
on our heads,
and in our eyes,
withers every stalk.

Why, Elle? Why? - or Riley and Shyla

Wryly, the bashful.
Shyly, the rash.
Slipped on a part
when roles were cast.

Wry, to cry and to sigh.
Shy, to fight not take flight.

Writhing and Shriven,
their fate is a given.