Lying on a Rock

I disengaged myself

And let every tender vertebra

Feel as pious as

The stone

They were held upon

And reaching overhead

In my supinated situation

I gasped

And let my hands fall to

The pate of the rock

Connecting them like

A halo

Twisting my fingers

Around my own locks

Tangling them between the crown

On my head

Where the coolness of

The stone had met my skull

Supporting it

 

TDM

Daisy

When my daisy

Came to life

I hinged myself forward and tickled her petals

Then plucking her up forcefully

I cradled her and twirled her up overhead

Dangling her between sky and ground

And like a rabid saltshaker

Her pollen milled through the cracks on my fingers

And seeped into my skin.

 

T DM

Marble Head

I would take

this big head of mine

and shrink it to the size of a glass marble

if I could,

and not even think twice

if it were to roll away

off the side of a cliff

and shatter,

at least then my head could

be of some use

the scattered fragments

could reflect the sun

create sparkling flicks of twinkle,

or cut someone.

TDM

Skipping Rocks

I would skip

rocks

with my feet plunged into moss

curl my toes underneath mud

grip myself

turning a stone over in my hand

weighing it with every rotation

to make sure it wouldn’t just

plunk

to the bottom of the brook

though if it did

it would not be lonely

because there are plenty of others

who have

sunk

to the

bottom

and nestled themselves

even after they’ve skidded the rapids.

 

TDM

A Little Nature

If only i could lie

in the grass for more

than just a little while

I could graze the atmosphere

with my drifting eyes

turning my head this way and

that way

I’d twitch my ears

to tune them to the sound

of daffodils being kissed

by tiny insects

I could wipe my nose clean and

inhale perfumed stardust

that would shake itself off

and hitch a ride on currents

golden flecks falling through my hair

hovering first like a halo

and I would not mind nibbles

from creatures polite enough

to make their presence known

take what they need and then leave.

 

TDM

Wings And Tied

It has been a long time

Since I have listened to chirping or

A flutter

A far cry from usual territory

Out of range by a long

Shot

 

Beats

Like a propeller, where there is a chill

In the air

Retreat

Or do not if your bones permit

If your fragility

Has not caught up with you

And your garb is puffed and fluffed

 

In flight you are

Formidable

On solid ground

You are canvass and backdrop

All in one

Swoop

 

Glide

In a most translucent way

That there may be less chance

Of foul and etched irritants

From gilded feathers

Plucked

Of a nuisance

 

TDM

Polite Love

the trees are polite

 

they bow to the wind

whenever it pushes through clouds

and knocks upon their cracked bark,

their aged and writhed skin,

contours of time shaped by the hand

of everything,

blushes as gusts brush upon them

like the touch of a lover’s face

pressed against a lover’s face,

comfort, sweet and warm

to contrast rough and gritty,

overwhelm these monuments,

make their leaves shake and whisper

to one another, excitedly.

 

TDM

Nostalgia

I thought it was about time I posted something, so here is a poem I wrote that was published in “Hearing Voices,” an anthology of poetry released by Bareback Press.

When we were young

we scraped our knees

and it felt good.

We looked to the street

lamps like golden lanterns

to light our way home,

as luminaries with promises

of warm blankets

and sweet delights,

and for that, we knew

when the day had ended,

when our breath finally

caught up with us,

for we were certainly

more inclined to hold

warm hands and

turn over our beds

while our hair clung

to sheets of perfumed lilac,

the last trace of warm weather,

and covering our eyes to

hide from the harvest moon,

we laughed ourselves

to sleep through thin walls

of in-jokes and outcomes.

T. DM

A Window With A View

Do I look upon a wintry night?

From a window with a view?

From a frosty ledge with chattering teeth,

All snuggled up in wool, and wear?

Or do I look upon a wintry night

From a rooftop high in the city’s core?

Leaning against a chimney with sniffles

Of ice, dripping from my frosty nose?

Surely I am bound to see more stars

With the sky as my canvasing frame

rather than if I were looking through layers

of glass and window pane,

for what is a perfect night

behind a wall?

Nothing but vicarious meandering

And wishful thinking,

No frosty breaths or rosy cheeks

To conjure the season’s spirits,

What a shame to let the

frost dissipate in that way.

 

T. DM

The TLC on Sherbourne and Nowhere

The True Love Café stood out. Though I had never been inside, it seemed to capture my attention. It was not particularly attractive on the outside, painted a deep shade of purple, with a giant heart scaling the front of its building. The inside, which I could only gather from looking through the windows, was just the same. Unattractive under dim lights (and probably more so amidst bright lights), chairs and tables could be seen in the presence of tall plants, sad looking palm leaves and house shrubbery. Not as appealing to the eye as one would think or hope for a place with “love” in its name. Only the outlines of figures could be seen, like shadows blurred in the background. A man behind a counter, a few people spread among eight or so tables, moving slowly, making their time last in beats. It seemed quiet to me, as though anyone on the inside could be sheltered from the city sounds, from the noises of streetcars rolling along the tracks, people trudging down sidewalks, bikes, cars, trucks, horns honking, dogs barking, hollering for apologies and yelling for the sake of yelling. It just seemed as though time stood still here, and that it stood quietly with a grin of contentment. I had never seen anyone enter the café, nor had I ever seen anyone exit. Yet whenever I passed by there were always people inside, perhaps just a coincidence of timing, or perhaps not. Though I admired the pace that seemed to be present among them, the folks inside always seemed quite unwell from where I stood. Why were they able to be so still, so present in their moment? Were they not flooded with the commotion on the outside? How could they not see or hear the masses that passed them by beyond the walls of the café? What content they must have. T. DM