Lone Wolf

 

The moon at full yawn leans out of an indigo sky

Shimmering beams reach down to catch your eye.

Against the black cold, a spark ignites,

suddenly the fervor is burning bright.

The wolf in the woman is howling tonight

She’s alone and proud, and ready to fight.

Scarred but not skittish, marred but not mad—

Her pain’s making you forget all you’ve had.

Sacrificing her soul at the sound of your call.

She’ll lay down her heart in the shadows that fall

Never to be caged, she’s destined for the kill

And you know it will be your greatest thrill.

Hearts in the Half Moon

Cheshire smile, hangs cock-eyed high on black and smoky canvas,

throws subtle light on misty trail, the maiden finds her way.

Over rocks and ruts, and branches low, she dips and bends—

a ribbon woven over the path tied to her lover’s heart.

She has no fear; she feels him near—her breast a cadence beating.

Now breathless in her joy she sees their hidden place of meeting.

A shadow shifts and pulls her close. The air is passion-laden.

Cocooned in reverent arms, he lays her upon the earth

Their murmurs rise sewn into sounds the midnight creatures make.

Bared flesh becomes a ghostly glow upon a bed of moss—

side by side and palm to palm, soft lips brush sweetly lips,

and eyes to eyes like heaven’s stars that fall across the sky.

Small minutes in small hours, emotions, secret, swell.

The song thrush sings: Time is short and dawn will soon reveal

infinite love branded bright as holy souls hold tight.

A parting promise—this journey made—gone into the night.

 

GRACE

A circuitous journey is the sum of our days—

Between heaven and hell, we endeavor towards grace.

Dominion surrendered; must life be defined

By insignificant sanity or madness sublime?

 

Is heaven a few drops of what we most wish,

Delightfully licked from the holy chalice?

Hell is the interim, mournfully sown,

Like Anna on the tracks and Dulcinea unknown.

 

When our corporal concerns are extinguished by death,

Do our energies on earth amount to chaff?

Slammed between the polar extremes we’ve been given,

We accept that pain is so much of living.

 

Courageous men have faced cowardice;

Success without failure, cannot exist.

Love must be known for hate to breed;

Ecstasy mingles with agony.

 

Truth balances upon the lies that we wield.

In the darkest of hours, bright hope is revealed.

As the sun sets ablaze the epic we’ve lived,

The end of pain is a sanctified gift.

 

 

 

Cutting Board

Fragile ridges of viridity pulse under vitreous skin.

Rapacious compulsion, rapier plunges—straight and deep.

Satisfied in her release, as scarlet cells diffuse-to-seep

Precious ruby bracelets—down her arm, adorn so warm.

Glassy-eyed and mesmerized, she’s subdued by steady calm.

 

Premeditated deceptions conceal designs of childhood crime.    

Mitigated madness shadows her shame, so sadly worn:

Rose garden with its razor thorns; quickly caught—purposely torn.

Her pain set free—she lives to see—another day to come;

Scarred and marred: a cutting board, is what she has become.