Broken

Between us, on a tabletop of glass,
a working hand becomes a hammer.

A man wants his way.
He won’t take no.

Blood, though not spilled, boils.
Shards ring out and sing

the ways we will not mend—
how the heart, like a fractal,
repeats a pattern of breaks
and splits when magnified.

My heart rages.  It pushes blood
along a crooked line of strife

until I heed the rattle-crack
and attend the bang of anger.

The embittered rackets rise until
the broken pieces lay at rest between us.

Amid Old Friends

Amid old friends, a working hand
comes down hard.  Fear falls on the land,
as a fist becomes a hammer,
a glass tabletop to shatter.
A man, afraid, will take a stand

when, not according to his plan,
he receives a humble brand
and is loath to drop the matter
amid old friends.

Shards sing out how rage will expand
into violence, will demand,
with a loud rattle of anger
and a bang of bad behavior,
that we heed a fool’s reprimand
amid old friends.

The Rising Of The Lake

Early morning, the lake is rising.
A shroud of mists veils
sullen surface tensions and conceals
murky passions.

A cold and weary night withdraws
from the slight granite moon
hung high, despite approaching dawn.
The hunkered sun, provoked and taunted,
once again confronts the darkness;
languid vapors, daunted, turn to run.

A forlorn host winks shyly
and nods to the yellow spy
now preparing to reveal
blue bright sky.

Generous, drab, the lake donates
an evolving portrait:
The Triumphant Return
(of wind and light, cloud and song).
Strains of “No Night There” are ringing
twixt the glints and ruffles of the offered painting.

Elephant

The elephant, the thick-heavy
Wrinkle, shows no movement.  He
Stands in the room like a defendant.
Like boots put in a box, he may
Never walk again.

I’d like to read, or watch TV, but
Everywhere is his—the crushed
Sofa, the love seat; there’s
No place to be—so, busily,
We make the elephant a pet.

Busily, busily we ignore; and
He remains.  Once,
I reach around him.  Twice,
You try to find me and (I know)
There’s almost-absolutely-no-one

There.  The ghost of my shadow
Tells you to not worry the beast;
To not even think of mice or
Make a move that might disrupt
The elephanty peace.

And though we want to forgive,
We cannot forget HIM.  So,
We go on tiptoe; and he stands
There: a sad-sturdy brow and
Four enormous feet.

Death By Disagreement

We didn’t see it coming—our death
by disagreement—could not concur
to build up or tear down. So
we gave up on our labors,
cursed our dying saviors,
packed the bags and turned the car around.

We left a cairn to our dispute:
bricks unused and neatly waiting,
neatly sitting in their stacks in quietude.
They eyed our cold defiance and
the looming clouds of violence;
They glared at us in speechless rectitude.

We plunged our leaking pitchers into
murky broken cisterns then
washed our wounds beside the bitter
well. We rubbed our chafing hands
one against the other. A crooked,
stiff and silent spirit fell.

We diminished peace and wisdom
like the leaving out from Eden left
a rotting core of too-much-knowledge fruit.
The temptation, when it rose,
hit us squarely in the nose. Awful
be-less-human freedom set its root.

We were quick to take no action and
the tree of satisfaction, though
eager to show bloom did not produce.
We bit down on ripe deceit,
brushed aside the harvest wheat;
from our chins ran mingled tears and juice.

“You will not die,” the clever words by which
we suddenly drew swords. Bitter
grief did not regain the loss of life.
As builders we despised the tested
stone that, for our lives, has become the
shelter stone against all strife.