X

he took a trip
to a place covered in wonderful weeds
and spotted with rusting cars
with dusty windshields
adorned with the names of couples.
the animals all around him
oblivious
ducking in and out of the towering flowers.
the wood chips that lined the paths in the weeds
were wet and stuck to his bare, calloused, dirty soles.
he opened a door of handhewn boards
and
there she was.

- Jon Brodie

(added 05.06.09)

Tears

her words
like little dancing crystals
lit upon my ear
and told me tales of time and
love.

her lips soon followed
touching and reassuring
leaving
hope and a racing heart.

i lingered
head full of wonder
at the song sung
for me.

but right now
we sit dressed in a
syrupy silence

waiting for the silky
evening air to fill in the room
around us. and the notes

crept
in through the door,
bowed by lively salt air.
and its lecherous

velvet hands traced down my neck
and did a softshoe on the
small of my back.

I knew the song
needed
work.

- Jon Brodie

(added 05.06.09)

Just for today…

I.
tear-welling sting
inside
nicotine calm surrounds
my eyes

II.
Sunday was
longer than the
day you died

III.
sea air dances
on seagull wingtips

IV.
the rooster waits for me to finish
dreaming

V.
oboes sound
like a tired
lecture

VI.
metallic guitar
notes plucked
drift

VII.
she sees red
apples drop
she wants to fly

VIII.
oil-slick
algae bright
with sun

IX.
jaundiced
evening sun
feeble as a
knife-edge

X. (softshoe)
scratching scritching
leather on sand on concrete
delights the children of tourists

XI.
foggy silence
hovers between
pages of the musty
reference section

XII.
people in raincoats who don't care
wait for a bus to take them away

XIII.
sounds of morning
many
help spread the many
hues of day

XIV.
wanting more
wind giggles through
her hair

XV.
I step off
cold slate
platforms-
her eyes

XVI.
giving in
to curses,
invocations,
an obese freedom

XVII.
dressed in
a loose fitting
sky drips
from His hands

XVIII.
a polished
purple laugh
rings out

XIX.
a young girl
traced by the
sharpened morning sun-
arms limp.

XX.
she shakes dreams from her
hair (like) epileptic lighting

XXI.
he takes his gloves off
to shake with hands
moist with guilt

- Jon Brodie

(featured in the poetry forum 05.06.09)