Urge Bohemian

From under my torn beret,

I surveyed my poem’s travels

From cold hand to air to puddle

To dancing petroleum stains, to filth, to suburbs forgotten

To the funerals where rookies mourn the muse of their young age.

Ahead I looked, far ahead,

When my eyes absorbed the sun,

Vibrant and queer on the panel,

Eyelashes that touched the real,

Scarlet blotches for cheeks

The style of Matrioshka dolls.

Fluctuating golden limbs

That soothed the fear of large masses,

That cleansed the poem, the alley,

Discouragement’ rusty chains.

Almond eyes had savior sun,

Broad smile with diamond dimples,

The round child of vandalism

That toyed with her half of wall.

I saw the moon, then, ambiguous,

Giving me his proud profile,

His shut eyelid mothered tears

That shook the salt of my core.

I cried, blurring the majestic nose

Into the length of a needle

That through crests of lace and sorrow  

Pierced and nursed my artist self.

Detaching logic from me

I lived in the sensual magic.

I could feel beyond the banal, at last.

Jewels they had, the patrons of avant-garde,

Charms and bindis on their foreheads,

Vines of pendants, interlacing, whimsical proof of time.

With more grace than even women

They wore them.

Never had celestial portraits

So well wounded and healed hearts.

Author's Note

This is a very personal and special poem...