Now that it’s almost Spring, I thought I’d honor my favorite part of Winter…

Snowflakes swirl down from a midnight sky,
whipped cream spirals in a bowl of indigo.
This glowing cornucopia unravels into silver needles
of splintered light, tiny crystalline doilies, saucered tales
from Pacific swells, Gulf Streams eons old,
phantom cauldrons rising up to bitter cold,
churned by Alberta Clippers, El Niños, Nor’ Easters,
mountains of air with volcanic force
as vicious and blue as hurled steel beams; yet
these latticed keys from distant rooms ride as
lightly as butterfly wings. Each hexagonal dream,
uniquely knitted by whispers of thought,
giggles down and adds its price to the muted ground,
to perhaps be wondered at briefly
before disappearing forever.

Bobbing freely
above the drowning,
briny sea,
they move with
the breeze yet
remain tethered
to solid ground beneath
darkly mysterious
still waters.
I look into those eyes,
such deeply rooted guides
which flow with every mood
yet never become lost
by my winding path.

Torn strips of silk flutter
in a light breeze, ’cause
someone left the freezer open
while scrounging late at night
for ice cream, shuffling the Samba
in a sprouted pink Teri-Cloth robe.
Cha cha cha, the lone curled figure
danced to scraps of dreams,
skin peels, Ephedra tonics, red satin
chiffon dresses, with a black lace slip
underneath, just in case.
The papers promised fame,
tuxedoed men lined the stage,
careful not to give names. But
floodlights fizzled, headlines
blurred with spilled champagne,
scratched records became static.
Muffled jazz could almost be heard
as the cold, dry air sifted
past the smiling face glowing
in the spotlight
while ice crackled
impatiently in the background.

Today is World AIDS Day, to remind us that AIDS is very much with us all. I would like to remind you that religious dogma is effectively discouraging and preventing condom use in the name of “encouraging abstinence”. Millions are dying while that kind of thinking still persists. I think it’s about time our karma ran over that dogma!

Partition

Shadow puppets
undress arms and legs
from under false skin.
Gestures sweep the sky,
pointing to roiling suns beyond
the flat life of black and white.
A disembodied voice
asks about private rooms.
The shadows frolic on, innocent.