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 Spot

 

Dead
Blind
A zone without range
Empty
Void

We cross it each morning
Cursing and laughing
We wait
Calmly
Patiently
For life to 
Beat
    again

And it does
           Always
it does

But 
   there are 
            times
Other times

The underworld 
              Arises 
without warning

Signals disappear
Signs are misconstrued
Codes long broken become
Impenetrable

And we are 
          Lost

Until

From the left
A light
A faint
       Blue
Pulse

A dichrotic throb
As though 
         doubling
Might make the difference

And so it does
So 
  something
does

And the impasse
Dissolves
     Fades
         Passes
into memory

Becoming nothing 
                more 
than the shimmering penumbra
of a once
         intractable
Pain


©sdrogers 20 june 2015




 






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 


 






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








Sitting with the Dead

Pain hangs
an unwelcome 
guest at the
edges of celebration

through lash spikes
I follow him
curled and quiet
on a pongee wave

silent reminder
that his power 
here is 
        no 
            more

She lies
an unbroken
beauty 
head back
mouth agape
as though she is
singing

singingsingingsinging
sing
     ing

and I
still curled
still quiet
applaud

and Pain
slithers shattered
out the blackened
door


©sdrogers 5 september 2014






Stillborn

in the box
on my side
knees pulled
up

twisted just
            enough
to face the
top

because

it is
through the top
the poriform
            top
of the box
that his 
        voice
will trickle 

teasing me 
with sunlight
bathing me 
in ashes

in the box
in the dark
in the quiet
I paint the
in
  side

using what
colours
I have

blood
mixes well
          better
than you might
expect

with ash
it shines like
oils

with tears
it runs like
waters

and sweat will
bind
it almost like
gouache

in the box
I paint 
with fingers
with eyes
         closed

dried and candied
flowers
fingerprints
feathers
and 
   always

the faceless figures
that fall and float
breathless and blue
atop the wide
lemniscate 
          waves



©sdrogers 17 may 2014