i know i'd feel right at home
on your chenille bed spread
sinking into a plucked poem
 |
| edna's garden~steepletop-photo by kate lamberg(c) |
as you did, figs raw
cut open to expose
sweet female central
freshly brought in
from the asian grocer, just below;
your hard floor to whisper ceiling windows,
with wild cut flowers of purple, blues, yellows--
arranged disobediently
wearing red chinese slippers,
you sneer at the news, finding ideas
on your fire escape, a view
only you share with pigeons
who know your brave baring-
the black and white and black
you wear to dine on leaves, rich soil;
cardinals keep for centuries behind glass,
as yellow butterflies pinned
at high school prom fly
to the steep le chase-
far from the fashionable
yet you gleam, currently
the rage; a feathered hat signals
your've been picked to write ; purely
write the night and day away, wearing
the soles of those burnished chinese slippers
down a rose bower:
in a life time, disgised as an hour;
you're a shower of rubies,
colored planets that land
only to sit and write
all night, and into green goddesss
dawn's hour
your piccolo cleanly sweeps
away all unnecessary verbiage;
a bit of gold mica shines
in the never ending doorways,
worshipping your abilities to say
what pops corn without electricity
what glows in the dark
without being exposed to nuclear energy
what leaves men, women, children
cats rabbits, dogs, deer
still in their tunneled vision
hitchhiking your beauty
from riding boot
to rainbowed heart
to dark sun out
your illumination
shall not be blown away
it was written
in the holy book of love
once lit
you live though
the purple flame
of St. Germaine
Kate Lamberg (c) all rights reserved
July 14, '13
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