The walk

Between broken cobblestones,
and shattered wedding china,
a discarded oak cane 
soaks in the mist.

I walk

for lichens,

ferns and bread crumbs.

An empty leash pendulates,
as clocks unwind
on clasped hands. 
Rust hollows
a proud bust.
I return-
famished,
having fed that thing,
called hope.

Hiatus

She fills the void between I and You.

When I leave them unattended

for months and years and

then a few.

With words we had left unsaid.

Departure

She had just left.
The lock, still trembling
like the hand
of a clock, stuck in time.
Or was it mine? 

The Fine Print

don't write much,
one, not more.
I have a habit
of reading, 

between

your lines.


which one?

What if?

Would I have loved her just as much,

Had her hair been less than perfect,

that evening or had autumn arrived

a day late? 

Had the warm, halogen glow  

cast an odd shadow

on her freckled face?

Would I have tickled her cat’s scruff,

Had it not purred and rolled  

like my own or had I missed the  black patch

on his left eye?

Had her bed smelled

of suds and dead roses, would I

have bid goodbye?

that night. Would she have noticed me ‘walking-by’,

through the limpid reflections on the pane,

had the smog set in early or had I

lit a cigar?

Had the knot around my neck,  

with the fresh mustard stain revealed

a deeper scar?

Would she have locked the door behind

and left the welcome mat askew,

Had I crossed the dingy alley and leapt over

the fence?

Had I turned the knob clockwise,

She perhaps would have answered

in morbid silence.

Photo Credits:

 Some rights reserved by Daniel Dionne

  

The Tram Ride

Today, the tram traveled backwards

The pantograph rope swayed, like her

cat, Misha’s tail, when he walks on

nail, glass and moss covered walls.

She pressed my hand every time,

the bell rang. It startled her, just like

the worn out rope tied to the bell.

Or when Misha stepped on a nail.

‘Two round trip tickets’, she said.

Or so I remember. We untangled

our fingers, to reach for change.

My cold hands still longing for hers.  

‘There he is’, she exclaimed.

 Pointed at two dull red dots  
 and pulled the chafed rope. The bell 

resonated, while she faded in the fog.  

As the empty shining wooden seats,

old bell and cabin door rattled in cold.

I found two laundried, sun dried tickets

in a deep warm corner of my pocket. 

Photo Credits: © Gerard Stolk

Parallelism

Two lines met at

infinity.

And then, diverged

eternally.

Alter Ego

The other one of me,

The one that lives with

the girl next door,

and her imperfections;

Seems happier.

The other one of her,

The one who lives with

me. Makes my bed and

me love her perfection;

Seems happier.

The two of us,

Seem happier,

with the other one.

One that never was

and never will be. 

Slithering Dreams

She knows I can never be,
the man in dream she often sees.
Her touch, like tattered gloves in rain:
Warm but wanting, yearn in vain. 
Her nails like crescent moon at night.
She savors on the darker side.
Ploughing through my thick dark thews,
a skin deep scar with crimson hues.
Light trickle down my endless pores,
hairs dancing to her overtures.
Whispers, rustling like a rattle snake;
in cold blood, venom, she injects.
She knows who I often see,
dreaming of someone but me.

Dank

This cold feeling on my neck
Little fingers running across

A restive soul has connived
for long and that explains,

Explains my predicament,
I call it fate but He designs...

If only those hands were warm,
Warm enough to melt my heart,

I might have turned and held
your hand in love and despair...