Poet's Dance - M.Weisgerber

watch the little swallow, delicate
hobble from toe to toe in the cold
oh, the illusion that i could fall for such a pretty thing
just rub a finger against her breast

such delusions of my mind
only mean that i have gotten caught up in the movement
the tight constriction that comes from an angry, vocal taunt
much as in her heart

this evil nymph, i'm afraid she has come to steal my soul
seeking the color of a flushed cheek
a color i'm sure that will trail after her when she flies
startled now, such a jittery thing

Trust in It - M.Weisgerber

.................................I write while poised in a guise of chastity,
heart now lying fallow somewhere out beyond the game fields.
Shadowed by corrugated steel raised high on a pylon
barely within sight of the river quay; constantly weathering the elements.

It huddles: a talisman, a gravemarker.

I mean that honestly, I have cut out my heart this time.
Felt the arteries sigh, and dribble their contents when placed upon the soil.
Then incision upon moist clay, staining loafers and corduroy suit
followed by a slow walk across a stretched plain of stardust.

It is done, with only the mudwruckles to burp and giggle as I pass them.
Tie flapping with the wind, hoping to jump ship
or scamper away into the highgrass.
I covered the package & spit twice, pondered a different sort of outcome.

For my imaginary girl was a temporal tool, now out molting in the weed bed.
Pushing my need for love into a habiliment of grass (oh I ask how it can last):
this time I used her to whack it; to shorten its span into something useful.

Hatred makes my poetry white, a desire; a flight into a right wing adventure
alone, wishing to confide folded Confucius tales discovered wrapped in a Malabar.
The kind that glow yellow when unraveled.

Review title.
It’s the feeling I get while standing with stained shovel along the waterbed,
head hanging low with noonday sun held high; sighing
while expecting some different sort of destiny.

Tales - M.Weisgerber

Glass rose, not an enchantment for noses;
your a guilded tome for the woe-filled tale,
open only with a converse tickle.

Be worthy of my siren song to sing.

I knew a Gnome, entangled in your folds,
one who scurried with each new birth of day
away from the hurries of the light, but soft
what distant beastly noises did she flee?
No creatures, trolls, or others that make sound.
No. It was the subtleties that dawn brings:

Dry glow, diamond dew; the halo mounting
'round the Son I pray to with each passing.
She was beautiful, no less than darkness
falling fast, ensnaring toes first, then heart
held to the last. Playful rouse then to rest.
I know her only by your hanging, rose.

Lost her no less where the trail-head foundered.
Yet every eve to take the silent gaurd,
strike out amoungst the briar patch that grows;
follow that sing song drifting through the boughs.
Search wearily till the daybreak blossoms,
again somewhere beyond the twilight fauns.

Tome, hold me close with lips that press to sip;
take this breath, let each petal drift & flow,
released upon a pinna found most worthy.
Grow upon that breast, where my longing ends.

Stolen From Carrie - M.Weisgerber

There is a girl of industrial coffee make.
I long to know her outside the grind,
glimpsed at the window seat this morning,
while my cup grows warm.
Then cool; moving towards chill.

The percolator tempered fingers so keen
to curl around the edges
while she shuffles. To smile with sadness.

Place emphasis upon the sigh
as the words drip;
expressions caught,

bitterness held.
I never enjoy after that first sip.
Glare at the rinds collecting at the bottom
only meant to throw away; nestle somewhere in a waste basket.

...for Elliott - M.Weisgerber

The horizen is lightest on thunderstorm days
rain dampering windows only as long as you let it.

Its simple mathematics to break glass & stroll through;
window panes cannot contain thee.

Private lawns become only a symbol of image crisis'
with disregaurd for public places & rain kissed sand

sticking to balls of feet; it's an adventure tossed.
Barriers jumped!

Freedom is powdered stone nestled between
briar patches and aquadic conditions.

It's the place for your soul to go
the lowest point of a gravity pull.

Lucy, I've come home now,
to stick toes in soil or ozone
and simply sit and cry.

Its an expanding ball most easy first to swallow. - M.Weisgerber

Tonight, I play this evil santa;
fly through the night on a steed of pure steel,
across dusty moors & melting snow.
Deliverance of two cards, love;
in the other, a second wolf named omittance.

I will not allow myself
tonight, to be driven by desire.
One can create a quite night,
with bullets or hellfire second:
my first choice again is love.

Love that does speak its name
each night, at nine-thirty,
reminding me we could always be.
Something more in store for the cutter,
the man who flies in a chariot with windows down.

Thinking of frozen motion, while the wind nips.

I felt a forearm once, felt the bone quiver beneathe,
setting my heart in motion, in fear
fear that I could once again fall for a supple frame,
breasts that could quiet even this still night air;
make me listen to just the sound of breathing.

Watch the exhale as a crafted smoke,
knowing that cold and heat meet to provide fug;
a misty sound that invades her navel.
I've never known how to love an artist,
yet always craft on every day myself.

It's why one card remains now in mailbox,
the other is destined for the waste bin.