Poems
by Terry Brinkman

 

When I look in the Eight Sided Mirror I see

 

An alabaster rich silk webbed crucified hand

A shoals oval face an uneven smile

My eight legs playing an acoustic Base

Ghost woman’s maladroit spider silk skirt

Spider’s mind dancing on Treeless Grave Dirt

Tobacco shop-girl’s spider shop lace

Blue Irish blue eyes Black-Widow’s embrace

Shattered relationship pane spider web

Gyasi unshed tears, from spider’s eyes

Twilight ceiling spiders walking in their sleep

Pouter perfect web’s lies

Tide sheeting Dandy-Long-Legs I sweep

Jess of sunshade over last night’s bite at sunrise

Over her shoulder hang-gliding spider Bar Keep

 

 

 

 

 

Seven Churches

 

Adobe nether-world hades Shel

Angels of each, seven churches

I know it’s not your works, Impostors

Endurance have sufficed

She, can’t tolerated wicked

Christens exhortation promised

Realized how far you have fallen

Member of the Ephesus Praise Church

False virtues, Teachers for their work

Tree of life, Garden of God

Great ancient city, Antioch

 

 

 

 

 

Eyes of Youth

 

Spiritual in its ivory like purity delight

A charmed woman such eyes of youth

Primeval forest unnipped her aluminiferous

Uneven unpolished dark surface of truth

Unexpected Post Woman’s double knock wit

Absence of light disturbs her never more

More light would disturb her sight of the

Lower middle and upper hills of stone

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet CCVIV

 

Eager anticipation of everything rising

Solemnities a slightly ironical pitfall

Hymns to heavenly noisy church drawl

Meadows of murmuring waters harmonizing

Unmentionables full of sand scrutinizing

Shadow-less early morning philosophical crawl

Gun-whale of her boat left stuck in the mud last fall

She allowed her bowels to ease without compromising

Smelling like fresh printed rag paper from Budapest

Darkness shining in the brightness of the navel nurse

Shadow lay over the rock under the Purse

Bristles shining wirily in the weak infest

Her hat was hanging on the floor of the Hearse

 

 

 

 

 

Lost Moon

 

Jolly good Irish Rose Blood Moon

My moon and my sun run cajole

Sabastian sitting beyond her lung’s control

Wide brim hat to hide the Ozone sun from her alabaster skin

She plays in filth an old Black Forest Violin

Looking under the bed for what’s not there patrol

Snotty nose Deacon, no longer climbs the Maypole

Juices of the Olive Press now spoiling

Hiding the gray grass, is a bed roll

 

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