Beside the Lagoon

 

Does the river have tongue

To stick out in rudeness?

White desolate miles

Broken, firing the cold sun

Against the hard morning mist

Enlightening my immense shore

Disturbingly green.

 

Watery mermaid voices

querying, "Is poverty so rich?"

 

I run from this rootless faith

And yet I turn,

Holding my wishes by the ears

Dipping my hopes in salty waters

My breath hanging like a question mark

Querying, "Is poverty so rich?"

 

 

 

Nausea

 

Sharp sighs murder the air.

Christ! a sad thought

Transfigured

Hangs over my hung head

On the cross

 

Grey silences,

Happy moments sadly dead.

 

 

 

Picture on the Wall

 

A dead man sits on the wall

Staring at me

His chair of soldierly fame in flames

History's sad solemn burning sun-dimmed eyes

Trapped

The time-wrecked sleeves and epaulette

Awkward and rank

Shadow figures

across time's retina

Leaving no lasting impressions;

Fixtures on our walls

In their natural states

Of unnatural paralysis.