The Magic Brooms

One morning, all the brooms
decided to be magic again.

Across the world, one by one,
straw by straw, all
awoke to their calling.

In closets, they twitched,
In hardware stores, they nestled

As one, the brooms arose,
guided by mysterious radar
to find their rider.

Dust, freed, arose as well,
and alas,
the brooms returned to work,
sweeping clean the skies.

Ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust,
Magic does as magic must.


The Ninth

This kiss for the whole wide world, he wrote,
but without an embrace of his own
to quiet the klaxons between his useless ears,
he continued conducting to a silent hall.

Tortured and divine, and in the end merely mortal,
his unhappiness and hopefulness is eternal.

Embrace each other now, you millions.



Hot Sweet Nirvana (for Ian)

The only thing that makes me rise
Is the pull of a cuppa hot joe.
I’m pretty much a shambling schmoe
‘Til its molecules unshutter my eyes.

I know it should be clear blue skies,
or the hectoring of a morning crow,
or my lover’s touch so sweet and slow,
or the cat’s plaintive, spoilish cries.

But: what if nature abhorred caffeine?
And suddenly: no more java.
What then of this shallow, de rigueur routine?

Could I make do with a bean that is fava?
I feel that would force the golden mean
fallacy; so no sacred bean, no nirvana.

Headlights (for Becca)

The road before seemed light
highbeams snicked to lowbeams,
clear lines to follow right
and center.

A glance, a smile exchanged
(seconds, no more), and the night
clicked to sadness.

We watched the sight dim in its eyes.

Nothing to be done
but drive on,
blinding all oncomers
with unwavering brights.

Spring Storm

The air is gravid with possibility today.
Clouds chase the humidity to ground, their grey
sending the neighborhood cats
home early.

Dogwoods light the woods from within,
though not rare, somehow
barely there.

Cardinals arrow through the gathering branches,
against a brief punch-out of blue.

Tiny goblets of rain toast this day,
the sound and fury it will make,