For the Love

in the basement of a colorado bungalow
in drywall plaster sculpted
with a cheapass trowel from home depot
my honorific oblige to van Gough
*starry night* in relief
not simply to his opus
but to the life the man the mania
art for art and beauties’ sake
because life is light flung against
dark nothing and the light will out
it finds a way through leonard cohen cracks
through pinholes and brush strokes
through seams dissected by poets
sculptors architects composers
fueled ever by love
love of the art, of the self, of light and life
love of a woman all women
love of a man all men
love of humanity and being
human . . . .

David M Pitchford
11 Feb 2014

Saved by Moonlight

days like these my tongue sticks to my cheek and teeth
hiding from every banal word, every clichéd
thought, every remonstrance against a stingy
universe overheated with summer
and stifled with ubiquitous stupid
doing, done, potential and realized   .  .  .
but then some unuttered thought springs forward
begging audience and expression,   not
a great thought, deep or philosophical,
but a thought as real as moonlight on water   —
something true if simple in its beauty,
and my heart surges, eyes alight with stars,
hand reaches for stylus as my voice frees
itself from clenched silence to say and sing.

Her Diagnosis

your brain is just wrong,   she tells me.     people
don’t think the way you do.   nobody.   you
should get help with that.   maybe.   still   . . .   it does
amuse sometimes the strange twists,   ironic
divergences and impossible tangents   —
have you ever once thought in a straight line?
how can you accomplish anything at all
with that symphony of worry you call
inner dialogue?     you know what they call
that?     neurosis.     you’ve got the full-hand trump!
maybe hypnosis would help;   have you tried
that?     are you depressed?     you don’t seem too glum;
it’s sometimes hard to tell,   you know,   mental
illness tends to mask itself and fool us.

Parking in the Rain

soft raindrops pattering on your windshield
lent the night such a surreal cushion;          strange
memories of being a teen     (so long
ago)     and fancy free,   all the time you
excitedly telling me about pets
you raised growing up,     and me watching you,
plotting stolen kisses should you pause to breathe
or even look directly at me a moment.

but you went on and on without meeting
my eye.     I got bored from lack of attention,
though being polite tried to hold my end
of that conversation about you, just you.
we said goodnight and parted and I still
wonder what the hell went on here tonight.

Friday Morning, 2 P.M.

sightless I climb from sleeping to greet day
kiss the sundrenched sky and laze a moment
on a soft cumulus couch as my coffee
brews itself black in the magic carafe.
rumor has it this is friday, thank god,
and one workday closer to my day off.
a yawn and stretch capture me as I fall
from the sky to ground myself in today
and its necessities:    bills are due and chores
need chored and the shower beckons wet-cold
wakefulness and moist heat to unclench sore
muscles after wrestling angels and dreams
oddly dark and sinister under daylight
cool breezes and these passing cumulus.

Nights & Underground: a Fibonacci Sonnet

red
smoking
pretty face
smiles electric glow
lights the voyeur’s heart, excites heat
here in this hollow where the underground dance to live

we pretend to be what we wish
here to be fully what we are

under cover of shadows not from shame but from hope
this ambience makes dream more real
to wash away day
boring day
smoking
gray