Broken

Small hands
weave stories,
wispy waves, she
quiets shackles
under garment graves.
A slave to
selfish ambition no
premonition of
wrath seeds,
soiled path
thwarted by one
she needs. He
holds the shimmer
keys for this
slave girl amiss,
calms fears as
she feebly walks. Yet
keeps looking down,
phantoms nip at feet.
Frail wings
too week.
Rays of bright
light
still
bleak,
bittersweet.

Dirty Hands

He arrives at ten past the hour,
other good fellows bow heads and
sneak peaks at the man who's
streaked jeans emit a odor of offense.
Slice of meet and greet served, thick paws
stained and bruised handshakes.
Eyes squint smiles, lips mumble names.
Salutation games. Sit, listen, hope
to have the heart quicken.
Swift sermon, he missed the good
music. The band will drum up some
more for dad and clan to
worship the Maker with dirty hands.

Memorial Day at the Mall

I'm a wandering zombie, I mindlessly
choose tacos, beans and rice and
watch other mice at eating stations.
Sliced, diced or minced, flesh offerings
consumed by hungry eyes starving for
more than the warmth of a pita pocket.
I stagger towards sales and
get sideswiped in a dragnet of shoes,
two cougar Barbies hoping to find
redemption in six inch heels and
perceptions of sun kissed calves.
Magnets draw me to
miniature clothing,
red, white and blue.
Drag bags through
Babylonian alleyways
Memorial day's modern function.
New toys in the cage of consumption.

Communion

Gaze upon the bleak color of wine.
Whispering I tear a piece,
soft from the larger body.
Like Jonah, I thrust bread into
dark seas,
God's mercies.
Haunts of His voice chill,
soul still.
Grape and crust
thrust into mouth,
promises swallowed, believed.
Received, tart treasure,
forgiveness, praying to
survive the storm.

All That Jazz

Baby's boogers blow.
Daughter's disdain grows,
little brother flairs his nose.
Doors slam,
crashing cymbals of symphony.
Strings of whining whimpers
Horns belt out bellows.
Percussion of pattering feet.
This is no symphony,
it's all jazz baby.
Mom snaps her fingers,
the chaotic
beauty,
beat of family.

Truth?

Soft blanket of fabrication,
curtains drawn, dim implication.
Cool breeze, cling more.
Dragnet of unholy gore.
Sweet and clean, morning rains.
Peer out through glass, pains.
Cranium throbs, introspection.
Soft blankets of fabrication.

The Struggle

Foggy facts made fiction,
paint pictures of deception.
Stained glass perception.
Steely smiles slide past truth,
funeral orbs that lament youth.
Haunted by an immaculate Ghost,
harrowing host heckled by
flesh force collision.