Poems
by Mark J. Mitchell
Color Translation
He changed colors to sound. With his guitar
at first, Then his mouth opened. Letters rose
towards a sky no longer blue. He knows
it has a name. He lost it to the stars
when he prayed to hear their words. Theyre too far
away to make sense of tones but they showed
him changed colors, how to stroke his guitar
first slowan unkissed mouth. Opened letters rose
and formed definitions, His pen would scar
paper and wayward tints took off their clothes
just for him. Then he could write what they know
and you would feel them. Youd lower your guard,
change to the color of his cruel guitar.
To An Old Tune
He forgave your forgiving him
with his last smilesweetbitter, hard
as his lost tooth. Time called you both
and both answered, agile, abrupt.
You knew that he knew what comes now.
You pardon his past. This present
still stingslong silence and short stays
here. Hopeless hospital. Now
it keeps, unsaid. All your unfound
lore lost. Like love. Like his last breath.
Damascus
She took her sudden vow seriously,
setting the eggplant on top of a trash can.
It looked flat as an altar.
She bowed east, to the hill, then west,
towards another hill. South
at the vanishing bus, then north.
She left her brand new shoes
outside a perfectly red door.
She dropped her keys in the left shoe.
She smiled before sealing the room
behind her. Her last words are
These are my last words.
Not Exactly A Villanelle
First picture standing stones, rough rocks, hand-hewn,
time-smoothed. Then the avenue they outline.
Its real. Tonight. Under this waning moon.
Breathe in: Wild rosemary, twining vines
embrace the glyphs. Now listen: Far away
a song is fading. Walk forward: Youll find
memories like marbles. Pick them up and play
a game with your pastpersonal, racial
that you wont lose or win (this is today
and true. A breeze off rocks tickles facial
nervesdreams dont do that). You know you cant stay.
The path will vanish like so much moonshine,
leaving an itch, a match, an herb, a tune.
Card Game
The Jack of Diamonds is wounded by dreams:
A silver moon whispers silver light
and his sword has moved from his left to right.
Asleep, his lips are burned by a black queen
whose kingly spouse is already in sight.
He knows hell suffer for his pasteboard sins
(Though chessboard bishops might grant him their grace).
He will always be thrilled by that dark face,
tortured by the club she carries. She wins
each trick, each hand. She keeps the moon in place.
The red knaves troubles have only begun
because hes trapped in the queens dream and her
visions hold more terror than his. She stirs
his fear and he comes to know what shes won:
The Jack of Diamonds shines on her finger.
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