The Eighth Bell

Six in twos; the seventh rings alone

Unsheathed; a brazen shaft sped onward

By the rapt, frenetic silence, toward a meniscus film of sea and sky;

Like a streak of sulphur it speeds away

From swelling crests and troughs that jounce the deck: 

A hobby horse, whose every rock’s a single stitch from gentle mother’s hand 

On canvass innards gorged with frozen souls.

The Longshoreman’s Glove

Shadows

I think I caught our shadows holding hands

While walking with you down the garden path.

I heard an impish giggling behind, and quick

I spun around to wither with a scornful eye

The little child who had so easily revealed

A secret which I thought I’d carefully concealed

Behind a veil of quips and chatter.

The Trees Grow Out of the Air

The old contented gentlemen will say

That every tree that’s been begins from root

And over years of nurturing it may

Grow tall and broad from this established foot.

On this they will repose and gently sigh

When young men dare to question thoughts so high.

Christopher

I bought a Betta fish last week.

I named him Christopher, and I picked him out

Because he was white and pale grey.

But when I brought him home and put him in his new warm tank,

He erupted in reds and purples and blues over the next three days.

I never would have guessed.