the treachery of mirrors
when the mirror began talking back
in the voice of the wind
each time i stood gazing at the ruin of my face
i turned it to the wall
all i heard was the music of time
whistling through the empty spaces of my life
as it flattened every flower struggling to bloom
in the sand of heartache
but there’s no hiding from the mirror of the soul
spitting the lava of truth
from the molten bedrock of what is
and cannot be changed
so i pray for the redemption of hope
that fragile flame wavering
in some small sheltered pocket
buried in my dreams
after the battle
i wake up
hung over my eyes
crusted with
leftover
dreams vague and disconnected
tongue furred with regret
the bed a
battlefield strewn with
the crumbs of
everything
i remember and want to
forget soaked in the
kiss of gin
slowly untangling
myself from
the bedclothes
disarranged by armies of
heartbreak and desire
i rise as
i reassemble
myself best
i can to
get on with the business of
living leaving the
bed unmade
so all the carnage
will dry in
the hot sun
streaming in as though it were
a beautiful day
agent provocateur
you can stop
dancing now i see
you putting
your best foot
forward trying to impress
me with whatever
it is you
think i want to see
a tired mix
of clichés
and the unspectacular
legerdemain of
a man who
isn’t quite sure of
who he is
and i know
damn well you’ve got no clue of
who i am you’ve dressed
me in the
smoke of wishes and
all your dreams
that never
came true but even though i’m
not interested
for i know who and
what i am
the agent
provocateur of many
lonely wishful hearts
9 Lines for June 9
I spent the day trying to bury the dead
But the weather was fine
And they lounged in the back yard all
afternoon
Sipping margaritas and laughing at my
feeble attempts
With the shovel and spade until soaked
with sweat
I surrendered
Threw down that useless tool
Mixed myself a drink
And toasted their immortality
moving day
there’s nothing delicious left
in my amusement park of a life
each door i open reveals nothing but clutter
all that glitters is tin
the shoes are mismatched
and the silk of that glamorous shawl
is pocked with holes
thanks to the moths that feasted on it
that charming man i found in a perfectly
respectable ordinary lies under my bed
just beyond reach singing drunken snatches
of off colour sea chanties so i can’t drag
him
out the door and be done with him and
even if i could it would just be more
fodder
for nosy old neighbours with nothing better
to do than gossip
perhaps this is the perfect time
to pack up the car and go
anywhere would be better than here
and though the car is questionable – it is
30 years old after all – it has a trunk
large enough to hold four bodies good tires
and an air conditioner that won’t quit
and let’s face it – i don’t have much to pack
who needs junk jewellery tatty shawls
and a drunk when the whole world is waiting
i’ll stuff the trunk full of books and clothes
plug the phone into the lighter – gotta
have gps! –
and the computer can ride on the floor in
the back
as long as the social security checks keep
coming
and the car holds out i can drive until i
find
a new neighbourhood to entertain
RC deWinter’s poetry is widely anthologized, notably in "New York City Haiku" (NY Times, 2/2017), Sentient Souls – Lothlorien Poetry Journal Volume 4 (10/2021),"easing the edges: a collection of everyday miracles" (Patrick Heath Public Library of Boerne , 11/2021), "The Connecticut Shakespeare Festival Anthology" (River Bend Bookshop Press, 12/2021) in print: 2River, Event, Gargoyle Magazine, the minnesota review, Night Picnic Journal, Plainsongs, Prairie Schooner, Southword, The Ogham Stone, Twelve Mile Review, York Literary Review among many others and appears in numerous online literary journals.
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