Happy New Year

The voice rises across the cold
falling gently along her brow,
lolling cool atop the heart-thump
bomp-de-bomp-de-bomb
of a thumb-thudding bass
She smiles.
Splintered post cold against her
naked thigh, flanneled feet
                           warm 
against the breathing concrete.
Thank you,
She calls
For the fireworks, 
for the glittering, shimmering
firefly 
       works, 
that hang
         suspended
in the deepening dark
to mark 
the cloudless, blackened, frozen
End
of such a Year.
He smiles.
She knows 
He smiles
Though she cannot 
                 see 
Separated 
as they are

By night
only night
so much 
       Night
Still

He smiles.

Its warmth,
his warmth,
drifting 
        frozen 
over time, 
wraps itself
               warm
across her cheek.

And
for a moment
she thinks 
           Go
Go
   Join
Join him.
But 
   No.
It is enough
enough
      Enough
to call
       Thank
You
(oh, Beautiful One)

to smile
         Happy
(oh, Beloved One)

to mean
        It
to mean
       So
much more;

to be glad
          Together
across the night

That the year, 
this year,
          this 
wonderfulhorribleinterminable

Year
    Is 
      Done.
Thank you
Thank You
Thank
     You
Done
    Done
         Done.

 

 

The Unborn

I wrap it in my arms
Cuddling, swaddling
Cherishing the child
I could never quite
carry

At times I relinquish
Watch it shrink and dwindle and
fade
to almost nothing

Then comes fear

Who am I
without it
What am I
beyond it

And so I feed it
again
and again
again
and again
again
and again

Until it grows
Until it swells
Until it covers
past hope

Suffocating the host
In the guise of
Protection

Armor over armor
Steel over steel
Impenetrable
Unyielding
Stultifying

Safe

 

 

At the End of the Day

a hackneyed
     trite
        bromidic
phrase
we are become
we are become
we are 
      be
come

but, oh
shame 
     on you
shame on you
shame 
     on you

for making me 
believe
for working so 
hard
at making me
believe

for being
         such 
A Good Liar

your body 
full of 
Old Man Strength
your words 
full of 
Young Man Charm

yes
shame shame shame
on
  you, Papi

you oh so Graven
image

my Death lies too
beyond that line
across that hill
down that road you
ride
to 
  ward 
      me

never so close
never so far
            away

my Death rises
flat head hooded 
Siddhartha's Cobra 
an evanculous embrace
cooing me close with the 
crook of each bend

my Death is
kinder than you

it has promised
Nothing
and shall deliver
All

just as it did
in Dachau
when your fingers 
closed 
so lovingly
so cravenly
around my
         throat

At the End of the Day
At the End of the Day
At the
      End
of the
Day 


 






Ghost Stories

Pocketknife picking at the sideways
8. Though mine is not. So. So, the
blood pricks vertically, that is up
and down, running the length like 
tears from a hollow blue eye. Apollo never fails me. In his musical aspect at least. As the god of fortune, of prophecy. Not
so much. No, not so much at all. But in this, in this, this music. Yes, oh, yes, godlike, he is. For how could I have continued, one

rickety foot in front of the other, as it were, along the bone- spiked back of what was left of life, without this. This Music.
With these bobbles in the dark. Anything is possible. Dying in your arms. Yes, that, even that is possible.
The bodies of small men. Compact. Compartmentalized. Sharpened staves from the tips of my fingers slicing sinewy scars into their closely packed
flesh. Closely packed. Roomless flesh. So many of them marked. That way. Marked. One hidden blue track. And there is
nothing, nothing, nothing, no- thing to match, not ever, to match, the sad, swollen rolling legato of what we might have been.
Temple veins popping with gold. Treasure. Trappings. Snares. And we are undone forever. Forever. Always. For always. Undone.
So they tell me. Maybe one day. Maybe one day. We shall rise. In a howling, a howling, a howling, a screaming
murmuration we shall rise. Then, not even the bones of the ancients, not even the smoke of their prayers before dawn, will tether us to the
Earth. ©sdrogers 24 october 2014

Out of the Window

Out of the Window






















There are endings.
Then there are
              Endings.

Thirty days of silence
Fall from the window 
Of my throat in a 
Shroud of linen so soiled
Not even
         Blue
Can cleanse it.

Thirty years of silence
Stretch from the ledge
Of my heart in a 
Frozen sea so vast
Not even 
        Red
Can forge it.

I am come awake now, 
Awash in 
         Indigo
A black-eye bruise 
Where once there was
So much laughter.

It is the
         Ending
And soon all will be
The not quite white
                  Grey 
Of winter.


©sdrogers 14 october 2014


Exile

Think not the king did banish thee,
But thou the king.
       --The Life and Death of Richard the Second
         Act I, Scene 3
         William Shakespeare


the old weighs
upon me
 
blue moon
light falls
too fast
too often
its shadows
show
too much

the cast is
pall
the fall is
all
and the strand
by which I stand
still
before you frays
and fells me
altogether

the poor 
are ever marked
and the fat man's 
day is done


©sdrogers 5 october 2014


A New Word

Oh, let me write
no more of
you

let me write
instead of 
him

his sadness
his strength
his talent
for 
shepherding
the disparate
the dissolute
the un
      invited

let me write
no more of
her

no

let me for
get you both
writhing wild 
upon the floor
the hyena stripes
of her hair throttling
us all

no

let me write
instead of 
his legs

long and lean and 
hooked
across whatever 
he holds dear
locked
around whatever
he refuses to 
lose

Thunder Forth!

yes, rain
there should be
rain
rolling like a
low-rider bass
along the avenue

but there is 
only
cloud-grey ice 
and a sliver of 
yellow

pooling in perfect 
Euclidean symmetry
along a bottom 
of temperant glass


©sdrogers 3 october 2014