Puffin
The puffin holds not virgins in high regard.
It likes the pounding soft spray, the
Salt of all night sweats; the
Dawn that fingers the sky,
Beckoning ships to
Wreck upon beaches and
Deliver sweet slime.
Tiny druid in a cold place, he
Rests on heather carpets
Where sleep brings
Twined dreams of mermaids,
Men with beards, and
Caves that sing
Of Mendelssohn.
But rarely do mermaids or beards
(Or mermaids with beards)
Wash up on these lonesome shores. So the
Puffin throws back his head,
Flings lonesome grunts into silent seas,
Eyes, hungry whirlpools longing for miracles
Atop the barren clifftops of Treshnish.
He Came Bearing a Flower In A Pot.
Hawks circle above
The bully city whose
Ritual violence
And asphalt heat
No sermon can break.
Yet a flower,
Shimmering,
Deep-rooted
In his hands
Has the power
To requiem these
Locust days.
Born in the grave of his desire
She is corpse matter
In fancy attire.
Petals and pink,
She asks us to sink
Into flower worlds,
Where lovers are never losers.
Where kisses are in bloom,
Where we shall have
Our share of poetry
Once and for all
On this bed
In this room
Under this hectic full moon
‘Til the greater part of us,
Nothing can touch.