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On Other Days Than Sundays

On other days than Sundays
choirs voice a common praise.
Wren-songs sweep clean unkempt alleys,
at first gospel of sun's rays.

Beak's quick pick between a bundle
of newspapers and a shoe,
find not breakfast, but a tumble
down the crosswords turned askew.

Twig-legs twitch, then thin feet running,
claws soon rake a festive curve
in confetti new year's morning,
and in my face as I observe.

© Brenneman T. January 3, 2004

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The Beginnings of Ends

Life is unpaved.
The dust of history gathers in my once-clear sinus.

Blowing out the microscopic magic of yesterday,
I make wet room for tomorrow's random stories.

A wheel has stopped, and a worn pedal is still.
It's power, only cinders now, moves me.

Dust and ashes, light as whispers,
wisp along a timeless path toward an unplanned mingling.

As a child cries, and an Italian greyhound
sticks his nose in an old man's pocket.

Finding comfort in strange places,
I eat my grief into a moment's peace.

In an awkward stillness, a memory,
his passion, guides my day.

His wheel must turn again,
as the beginnings of ends will always disappear.

© Brenneman T. January 13, 2003
In Fond Memory of Phil P.

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Annabelle

Hotdog legs and golden fur
pulled your heart, and I concur.
She'll soon know what I'll learn well.
Your soft sweet ways call Annabelle.

© Brenneman T. January 13, 2003

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Begging Peace

Love wears out socks,
and soon shoes end up soleless straps.
Feet bleed against the rough edges of passion.

Sleepless eyes search my face,
begging peace to an overwhelmed mind.
My feet are tough.

© Brenneman T. January 16,, 2004

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The Most Devine

Sweetness comes in chocolates,
candy canes and wine,
but the sugar of her smile
is to me the most devine!

© Brenneman T. January 20,, 2004

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A Certain Semblance

A certain semblance binds a face
of character to commonplace.
In mix of eye, and ear or nose,
discern what mind has done with those.

Who is the soul behind the mask?
See, hear, smell, bleed, dry, then bask.
When is the coating more than shell,
that spirals back from spring to well?

A crevice in the edge of eye,
it crinkles with a soft good-bye.
As twirl of laugh with scent of breath
resurrect the subtle joys from death.


© Brenneman T. January 22, 2004

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Organic Song

Make love to me in fine organic song,
with chords as wholesome winter wheat;
stems of gold, strong and long.

The days are cold and voices bright.
My seed falls from the chaff.
Stars hide in guise of day for night.

A moment passes unforeseen.
A vessel clear, then opaque, will guide me.
Oh what my grains of sand might sing!

© Brenneman T. January 29, 2004

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Blue Again

Seems to me,
the answer's plain,
there are no rainbows
without rain.

I see yellow, red,
she; purple, green.
Our eyes paint dreams
in between.

The choices we make,
both wet and dry,
parch her heart,
and drown my sky.

Sun-dried clouds
with rain-soaked rays,
teardrops fall mixed
on our Sundays.

A dribble melts
her thirsty heart.
It's blue again,
or torn apart.

© Brenneman T. January 29, 2004

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