A Phoenix Blue

How many times we have
                      risen
from the ashes
of some ruined
               dream
of some broken
               promise
of some word
            unspoken
some deed
         undone.

How many.

If I could
          draw
with other than the
words that so often fail me,
If I could
          paint
with other than the
ink that bleeds even here, even
                               now,
I would
       paint
            Her.

I would paint
             The Phoenix
Blue
that is
       Us.

Her wings are
             indigo
lemniscates.

Without beginning
without ending
they flow,
vast and heavy
              yet
light and clear,
from the steady cerulean
flame
that is her body.

Compact and strong
that body is,
diamond hard
             yet
downy soft,
Newborn
Everlasting.

Its supple spine
                extends
to a tail of limitless
measure that
trembles and falls,
quavers and drops
in perfect time with
those phospherant wings
like the quavering vibrato
of a coloratura just before the
                                shattering.

But silent.
So silent.

Not a sound rises
from wing or tail
as she cuts the smoke-filled
air of her latest,
most pain-filled
                Death.

Until
       Until

High aloft she opens her mouth,
that crystal-sharp edge of her
                              luminous
face, that has
withheld
guarded
swallowed
so much
so many
for all these
             endless
lifetimes.

But no more.

No More.

For this time,
from these ashes,
she rises full-voiced
sure and strong and
                   pure.

And the song she sings
is Ours and Ours alone,
a deafening silence 
to all other ears.

To us she calls
as never before,
her throaty cry
breathless, broken,
ragged from the
raging flames, but
certain, strong, and
                    true.

A song
of roads not taken
of paths not chosen
of endings
          Overcome.

A song of Love.
A song of Life.
A song of Hope.

Our Song
        Forever
Thanks to
          You.

Pablo Would Know

How to tell you
Goodbye

Quietly
Deftly
Each word a softly
Spoken missive
A lullabye

A lull
A bye

I can only prattle

Babbling on and on
Searching
As always
As ever
For the word
For the
       One
Word

That will make
Everything
What it is
          Not


©sdrogers 4 march 2014

Lassitude

Everyone is
beautiful at
20

aren’t they?

The first time I heard her
she was already middle aged

she walked in on his back
standing dirty in the doorway
a limewhite aura fuzzled
pink around his head

I’d like to hear you sing

and so would you
you say
but you don’t know
you don’t know
you don’t know
do you

what I mean
when I say
H A R M O N Y

an intensely personal narrative

my life
my words

there is no
culling
one from the other

an intensely boring personal narrative

which I write
in funky impossible
jazz shapes
which no one can
manage
to format
CORRECT

ly

hangtime
hangtime
there is no more
hangtime

and perhaps
I
am to be the one
who calls drunk
and not
the receiver

never
the receiver

my tongue curls
at the high notes
my dimples sink
at the memory

at the memory
at the memory
at

all

the memories

the crinkly satin
of what I almost
did not wear,
the curl
of his fingers
deep inside

and all of it all of it all of it
R E A L

as real as Tony Bennet’s
toupee

©sdrogers 20 february 2014

Plumbing

the bottle
tips
over
empty
always
so empty

a splash of
Jack
upon the glass
and all reflection
is
lost

Prompt me
Prompt me
Prompt me

You
do not understand
do you
my love of William
my Love
of William

Still
you must remember
a filtered lens for me
always
a filtered lens
shoot me blue
perhaps
blue
yes, blue

Yes
I am lost

once
I knew them
all of them
thirty-seven
chrono

logical

ly

now
I despair

yesterday
watching
I heard Hamlet
whine
a Skywalker
whine
in iambic pentameter
ad nauseum
ad infinitum

Broadway – v- Hollywood
a match that meant
so much
at one time
at one time

runs of laughter
down labyrinthine ways
have left me
shaken
and
empty

lying on my back
spoiled child that I am
a coward
a drunk
sun purring above
as they stash me
away

pressure of a pen
on my riven heart
while memory screens
the ghost of you
upon a page

your voice alive again
in the hashmarks and crosshairs
of E

nun

ci

a

tion

there lie
I

shrouded in Absinthe
all faerie green and silver sugar

nothing is as
dead
as I shall be
when lights unnamed
are finally dimmed
and the last and best
of the wormwood curtains
are finally struck
down

©sdrogers 1 february 2014

If Only We Were Close Enough

but we are not
close enough

be my Little Brother

the one who holds my
head
when I drink too much

the one who knows my
lyrics
when I cannot sing

the one who walks me
home
when I no longer remember
where
home is

be my Rememberer

when I forget
remind me
Who
I am meant
to be

thank you, Keith

©sdrogers 20 october 2013

And I Would Read

to you
in bed
at night

surrounded by
pillows,
afloat in plush

but for the
side
by you

there you
lie
pressed against

my opening

there you
pulse
firm and hot,

your smiling
head
flat atop a thin

white plane

Tonight?
Tonight is… let’s see…
Salinger

Yes, tonight is
Salinger.  Jerry.
No, not Catcher

but the Glasses
Franny.  Zooey.
not Seymour

Seymour is sad
and tonight is
not for sadness

So lie there, darling

Close your
eyes
while I try

to manage
Franny
whispering the

Jesus prayer,
Franny
running on

forever
for ever and
ever between

delight and despair.

 

©sdrogers 27 september 2013