There are men who make everything anew
and in their own washed out image, the glare
blanco. They are everywhere. Do not touch
the earth on which they walk, or you will die,
they need you only if you do their will.
(5 August 2011)
copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander
Friday, August 5, 2011
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Still
For the sake of no one
the winds refuse to move.
Bird claws grip tree limbs
and can’t let go. Wings
flutter like a dying lover.
The winds hang in the air.
(4 August 2011)
copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander
the winds refuse to move.
Bird claws grip tree limbs
and can’t let go. Wings
flutter like a dying lover.
The winds hang in the air.
(4 August 2011)
copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander
Making the News
. . . we become hightoned riffraff who need comeuppance from surrogate fathers directing their megabeggar corps comprising one person en toto: welcome back to serfdom, . . .
(4 August 2011)
copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander
(4 August 2011)
copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Romance
We have wood to kindle, flame to blow high,
the dark is light enough to see in now.
Be patient. The rose by the creek is sweet
under moonlight. Leave a little for me.
We will love the darkness as light itself.
Let braille invent what we can’t uncover.
Touch me, you ask. The orange crayfish glides
at dawn back of where it was when we woke.
Some voice is calling through the trees, Come home!
We do not know of whom they speak, nor care.
We keep far from any home. Our bodies
are one body with doors we never lock.
All day the cities smolder. Night is our time,
far off from where love vanishes with life.
(3 August 2011)
copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander
the dark is light enough to see in now.
Be patient. The rose by the creek is sweet
under moonlight. Leave a little for me.
We will love the darkness as light itself.
Let braille invent what we can’t uncover.
Touch me, you ask. The orange crayfish glides
at dawn back of where it was when we woke.
Some voice is calling through the trees, Come home!
We do not know of whom they speak, nor care.
We keep far from any home. Our bodies
are one body with doors we never lock.
All day the cities smolder. Night is our time,
far off from where love vanishes with life.
(3 August 2011)
copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
In Her Shotgun House
From the lake to river and then back home
they stroll. I would like to tell you who walks
with them, God or the Reaper . . . I don’t know.
The front door is open, the back door too.
If you look you can see all the way through.
Lock the front door. Close the back door. Silence
after footsteps. Their clothes adorn the floor.
They do what they know will please their bodies.
Water is deep or it flows by. Baptize
the devil and watch it shrivel to dust.
Even the Reaper has a human shape.
God walks on the roof. He calls up Thunder,
whose fingers are lightning and his words rain:
She would love me once more if it’s my turn.
(3 August 2011)
copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander
they stroll. I would like to tell you who walks
with them, God or the Reaper . . . I don’t know.
The front door is open, the back door too.
If you look you can see all the way through.
Lock the front door. Close the back door. Silence
after footsteps. Their clothes adorn the floor.
They do what they know will please their bodies.
Water is deep or it flows by. Baptize
the devil and watch it shrivel to dust.
Even the Reaper has a human shape.
God walks on the roof. He calls up Thunder,
whose fingers are lightning and his words rain:
She would love me once more if it’s my turn.
(3 August 2011)
copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander
Adore Blues
We went walking all the way to the wharf
On a red hot day the last of July,
Just to hear your blues through an open door
I’m an orphan child New Orleans style,
I’m as wild as hell the older I get,
With this body you’d think I was a girl
Adore, Adore, you taught me to love you,
I can’t stay out of your house or your bed,
I don’t know what I’ll do when you are dead
She says if you don’t love yourself, who will
I stare down in the water where God was
She takes my hand, she puts it where we love
(2 August 2011)
copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander
On a red hot day the last of July,
Just to hear your blues through an open door
I’m an orphan child New Orleans style,
I’m as wild as hell the older I get,
With this body you’d think I was a girl
Adore, Adore, you taught me to love you,
I can’t stay out of your house or your bed,
I don’t know what I’ll do when you are dead
She says if you don’t love yourself, who will
I stare down in the water where God was
She takes my hand, she puts it where we love
(2 August 2011)
copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander
Monday, August 1, 2011
Before I Disappear
He’s looking rapt at her long gray hair. Love
is a weak word known for its lack of strength
to keep a heart whole. Her face full of sheen
off the lake surface makes her body glow.
The light flows through shadows down to her feet.
Somebody’s voice is coming through the door,
"Before I disappear," he touches her
on the elbow. She turns to him. She gives
him a hand to hold, her eyes filled with shine
open into whirlpools. He doesn’t know
where he’s going next but it will be here.
He just can’t tell what it will be like when
she goes. Is there a sound in that deep well
that will surround the figure of her soul?
(1 August 2011)
copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander
is a weak word known for its lack of strength
to keep a heart whole. Her face full of sheen
off the lake surface makes her body glow.
The light flows through shadows down to her feet.
Somebody’s voice is coming through the door,
"Before I disappear," he touches her
on the elbow. She turns to him. She gives
him a hand to hold, her eyes filled with shine
open into whirlpools. He doesn’t know
where he’s going next but it will be here.
He just can’t tell what it will be like when
she goes. Is there a sound in that deep well
that will surround the figure of her soul?
(1 August 2011)
copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander
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