a furrowed field

a furrowed field
wet with mist
kisses clouds full and low
the red-winged bird
timed and slow steps
steps to hop
upon the wind

and light falls through
the morning air
stumbles to a meadow-ed place
where lamb and calf
timeless stand
move through life
face to face

grass and grace caught
webbed and woven
behold the days -
count their run
budding limbs and furrowed fields
a sacred race
blessings from an earth
and her sun

and who should
know
this sweet
as i?
tis' the lark that
knows - i heard her cry...

bkmackenzie

unattended

historically, i have
left myself unattended
rating decades
of decadence always underestimated

one's will
or experiment, can never
make time their
own

a Capote
can not be founded by default
an imitation of life
proves false positive - historically

a photograph
is a timed capsule still born
and souled, a separate
evidence

of unrepeatable
reality

bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2012

d'Verse Open Link Night

Candice Bergen at the Capote Black and White Ball

glass weeps

the face
or phases of a world
imitates life

a branched elm or
elderberry is not alone
in duplication
of the cosmos--press thought
to leaf, page to pen
inked, blotted

that
glass weeps to center
sanctifies
water dies still

bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2012

Magpie tales 

hours

a sun traces
a walkway between hours
folded neat black
over grey

the day has now found
itself in the candles quiet flame
reflects
a moon held captive
by the hourglass
of night

you? as i love
these hours

the carnation red loves the vase

you? as i have
come to love the warmth
of the flame

so why?  need dawn ever
come again
when the glass has been emptied
and loves hours have
been filled

bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2012

a human cholera

i found ripe

a human cholera of petrified
hope

called upon, relied 

upon by an informed dilated

world 

the seed is simple, but

infertile and unfounded here

history tells

a fatherland gropes

a mother - cuts and divides

decades layer
rivers bed

visions erode, expose anti-christs

messiahs and bones 

in birthplaces 

ripe and fertile, infertile

thoughts lay waste- write youth
rally - streets

paint and mark a beast, seed

falls from

the ripened - hope buried

proves fertile
in the chaotic

bearing witness
to our social

disease

bkmackenzie

copyrighted 2012

wet makes grey

lay something beautiful
out for me - a walkway caught
between slate
seasons

the wet makes grey
seem a melting jewel - a morsel
of sun, a cut of clay; wet makes
grey

a play yard, a meeting
place for spring, in the dance of
blossom stilled by wet there
a robin dances in-
stead, wobbles, wallows, to
wipe its wing wide

there pools the last days, there
points the worm to hide its
face from soon sunlight - wet is good
and warm when held
in-between, all
while

grey laughs
at the days it has left
to display

bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2013

contraband

there is contraband
on my tongue
the taste
of cigarette on my mind -
not all space is equal, squared
the leveling of our soul is weighed
unfair -
degrees of reference left
unkempt

i walk cement you have
laid, crawl the cracks you
lie between - there lives the mark
of memory made - a world
you shared with me

the tattoo i wear is permanent
internal - covered by my skin in printed sight -a world
to bright to feel its flame

i drink (drunk) on the love
you gave to me - addicted deep
to loves memory- of which i
can not, can never be free...a world
to lost to feel its flame

there is contraband
on my tongue - the laughter of a song
unsung - no one to blame or call
upon - to save a world you shared
with me - and as i collect the
words (the gift few
the days we had) the fire that we knew

not all space is equal
squared the leveling of our soul
it is weighed unfair

bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2012

photo by Taryn Simon