Ode To A Doorknob

Just something I whipped up today…An Ode To A Doorknob

Well rounded and depending on the day, brightly shining from the sun’s brilliant bronze cacophony.

Sometimes you’re cold, at other times you’re too hot to touch.  And there are times when you’re image reflects much brighter than any mirror could ever hope.  And then, there are also those times that you’re so smeared with dirty prints and dustiness, that nothing can be seen at all.

We touch you, and each time you allow us in. Or you don’t. 

You touch us; each time you let us out. Or you won’t.

You’re there. 

When you’re working you never seem to move.

Yet when you’re working, you always seem to move for those who take the time to turn and see. And still, because of our love or neglect, you, like us, change completely, again and again, through the ins and outs, cyclicality persists, again and again and through and through.

Life in a Turkish Prison

Bow scratches turn of phrase

etchings in the sounds that bare

forgiveness in a misguided mar

Hollow point, shells of heart

delineated barracks in a song

less known than the emotions it follows

Ravenous, maestros of delectability

evening scars protrude, as seams often encounter

an atlas unseen, where if one would’ve

gleamed, the circled sect would indicate the x inside

Swish about the sunken sediment

refurbishing its place in the swirls

in a game, of cat and mouse, moments

before the tilt back ends the misery from which

its momma swells/in the language she’s feigned ignorance for

A Turkish prison is not known as your epitome of grace

Life in the bowels of deceit can easily mistake a smile

From what is nothing but a variation of the frown

The Ghosts of Past Lives

Like footfalls and hammocks

And snails and cured salmon,

The hoof, then the roe flits undertow,

To the peen of the hammer’s red, red ends

Old gypsum and christening

The newest glad tiding to

Bestow, ill-flavored pathways

Marked by delicately placate hues

Fairy dust and prawn shells

And magicians in stairwells,

That knew the words,

 Yet to stain the cellar’s dwelt

Chamois and lilies

So softly knitted, giddily we

Sip, upon cola and sloe gin, fizziest

When beside tall grass and silted sand

                                    Where a tomorrow’s yet been dealt

                                                      And a future’s yet to dry

A presence can be present, even for the ghosts of our past lives