Apparition

He reeks
Of age and stale booze;
She fights her gag reflex,
Appearing not to notice.

His face,
As rough as the glass-strewn sidewalk
Where he lays,
Scratches her delicate palm
As she strokes

Undaunted she remains

He sputters
Wracked with convulsions
She dares not wipe from her lovely face
The spit and sweat of his frenzy

His fingers
caked with grime
yellow-stained from borrowed cigarettes
cracked from cold and neglect
bowed; joints stiff and swollen
She caresses the stone-cold hands in hers.

His eyes bloodshot
and devoid of lustre
Fight hard
to focus on her gaze
The pity he sees there
Stirs in him
The hint of a smile

Before sleep captures him,
A fleeting memory flashes
of bedtime prayers recited
decades ago
A sparkle dances
In a tear he sheds

Wrapped in her embrace.

(Is it really 2 years since I added anything to this blog? I guess because all of my writing has been entered into my personal, hand-written journals where it happily co-exists with my art madness. OK. These are not new; however, they represent my passion for writing. --SuzyOzone)

Larval Compositions  

When you hear the distant song
Of naked cicadas composing
Beneath cold, dark rock of December,
Fly/flee at once to the refuge of your pen
Let their melodies echo in your ink
Warming the notes to a thaw.
Here upon the rough, lined bark
Your soul emerges, where
You, too, must discard your shell
And climb to chant a summer's eve
Across Eternity
            Beyond Mortality.

(SPOZ-12/2002-from the inside cover of a new journal)

Misplaced Muse

(The irony of this one's title is that I only found page One (of 2?) in my mammoth collection of saved papers; a date printed on the back is April 2007, but who knows if it has anything to do with when I printed the poem on the other side in my feeble attempt to save the Rainforest by conserving paper.)

I've misplaced my Muse once more.
Cleared clutter from my closets
De-junked demons and dumpster dives
Shredded reams of scribbled papers
---she never showed up.

I folded a heap of laundry
As deep as a sigh
But she didn't dance from inside the basket
Of forlorn, un-mated socks.

The sink, piled to the window ledge
With dirty dinner dishes
Didn't disclose the muse
Under the muck covering the counter top.

As I bleached the basin to beaming,
And moisturized my hands,
I wondered why no rhymes had come;
No imagery; neither metaphor or similie;
Not a peep of onomatopoeia, or even
A little alliteration.

In the grumbling hum of the garbage disposal,
I thought I heard her groan to me
Perhaps she's sliding through sewers,
Searching through slimy sludge,
Seeking a spark of inspiration
To share with me.

Maybe not.

The last time I remember playing with her
(and I SHOULD have put her back where she belongs)
I cannot recall--
Was I stewing in a seething saucepan of solitude,
Icy in my isolation,
Frozen in fear?

(To be continued if I can find the next page of this poem; but not right now; I have chores to do first!)
SPOZ