The Birth of Venus From a Hotel Room
A room, the cold of night, a cup of wine. A chair, he sits, a pair of eyes, the stare. A gulp into lips, a hand of gold, the touch. A neck, the crane of it, the hair of golden. The sea of love, of drowning, of glowing, of sun. The time, he stops, a god, he laughs, a dream, he scoffs, of beauty he nears, the bed of white. The sleep, he falls, by noon, he is up like the tide. The earth, the warmth, the soul of belle and grace, a myth of Zeus, the paint and hue of Gogh, the tune of Nicks. The wail, the cry, the shock, the quake of finding: A grail, a praise, a saint, a priest of sin. I find this is the birth of Venus.
Red-Winged Blackbird
Green and brown on his body
Drag his weight down
He looks up to find
A red-winged blackbird
Shrugs, and moves on
Eyes hazel, hands rough
Pink lips that have tasted
Crimson blood
His face wilting, holding
A gun so tenderly
Wishing it was his six month old
He comes home to a warm wife
He holds an innocent newborn
Soft skin and little fingers
Grasping For his
He wears blue linen as he cooks and cleans
And ties a tie adeptly with honour
He proudly brings his daughter to school
He smokes, teary-eyed
Before walking his daughter down the aisle
His teeth crooked and on display
Blue veins branching across his face
This time he is nervously shaking
And pacing in a hospital room, this time
He is here, as she is born with
The same hazel eyes
His belt loop expands, as his chest does when breathing
His beard now white
Time marks and scars his face
A puzzle piece of stories
He does not dare to speak of
He swings his granddaughter through the air
His back groaning like a wounded soldier laying in the mud
The sky looms over him
Devouring his white and wrinkly skin
Dragging him up, up, up
He is tired of fighting
The gods claim him as their own
Now he finds that he has become
A red-winged blackbird
Perched on a tree
Whistling gleefully
Singing his tunes
