Grandma’s face…

Faces are like complex metaphors

to life,

Happy like a child’s

first solo bicycle ride,

Or grim like Patty the parrot

buried in the backyard,

Treacherous like frozen ice

on your doorstep,

or innocent like a ticklish cackle.

Faces are like dreams

altering reality, and

reality altering dreams.

Playing my life in reverse

I see a fanfare of

faces.

Yours is a face I see over and over.

Your skin so light as if bleached by time

And your silver hair so thin

I can feel The ebb and flow of blood

in your scalp.

In my dream you are always wobbling

toward me unsteady like a ship

wavering side to side.

School’s just out and I am running to you

with outstretched arms eager to run into your

embrace like a hungry seagull.

But then like always

I wake up.

If faces are like metaphors, then

the memory of yours is like a quilt;

warming me

with it’s comforting  familiarity.

I pull it over me like a tent

and sleep in its dream-like embrace.

Short lives of Wives

Henry VIII wives

The illusionist packs two tricks,
Carefully placing the ‘i’ before ‘e’, except after ‘c’,
Countless rhymes estranged from its poem,
Encoding a simple meaning into warped confusion.

Crafting a wide angle shot of a marble temple,
Where the fates of the six wives of Henry VIII,
Turned into ornate statues,
Stand on guard outside the grand palace.

The insolence of the high power blades of time,
that make and break human spirit at a cellular level,
Pay a callous homage to these brilliant shadows,
Nicknamed by history; divorced, beheaded, died, divorced,
beheaded, survived.