1:57 PM

- We're two minutes late! -

say some passersby.

I am one of them

as I marvel at

their odd meeting time.

Rain falls like dark angels

from eternally 

grey skies. Tomorrow

will be better I

silently surmise.

You are far from here.

Somewhere warmer, some-

where gold, giving no 

thought of me on some-

one else's shoulder.

--040714--

© 2014 vagrant moon

Crime & Punishment

Justice is forgiveness –
it is surely heard
in the bishop's song
to the con Jean Valjean;

for the brave melody
he sings to the cops –
that climbs like a prayer –
is the same sung by Javert:

the restless pursuer,

that relentless judge

who sorely assumed
justice equals judgment.

And justice surely does.
But where does it lie,
this judgment? On the
back of a thief or a

Priest? And who possesses
the privilege to try
and to deal out death
but God and God Himself?


© 2014 vagrant moon

Researching Moliére

Oh, the drama! 

Oh, how tragic!

That one would die

of a heaving cough

while playing a

hypochondriac.

Oh, what irony!

What a discovery!

How Argan's ghost must

have swooned upon seeing 

his imagined malady 

was not so imaginary.

© 2014 vagrant moon

Coffee Shop Talk

A crush betrays you –

your heart turns your face red

as you laugh off the truth 

like a child who just 

pulled his hand out 

of the cookie jar 

mommy told him 

not to touch before dinner.

Your lukewarm coffee sits

waiting beneath your shy chin,

desperate for another chance

to be thought of,

to be bought with the tongue

and enjoyed like water
to a desert rose – 

your countenance sharing it’s subtle

shade of color – pink like blush;

red like the heart’s thunder.

© 2014 vagrant moon

Our Love is a Slur

Our love is a slur;
I gotta walk away.
I've been grabbing at straws
And only leave with tragedy.

Our love is a slur,
can't you see it slip away?
It's drifting along like an
atmosphere in jilted space.

And I don't wanna
wake up like this,
With nothing but a
superficial kiss

on my lips.


© 2014 vagrant moon
[written in March 2014]

Threshold of Heaven

When we cross over
the threshold of heaven
I suppose our love will
be truer,
purer,
richer,
deeper,
immediate –

Immediately.

I suppose I won't care
when you don't write,
or rather visit me in
my marble mansion,
though I'm thinking
I'll be in a tent –

this is partly due
to how I view myself,
and partly due to how
I wish to live:

simply and with abandon.

I suppose this dream
will be easier to live
in paradise,

above the vacant skies
we now live under.


© 2014 vagrant moon

Promise Keeper

________________

"I am still livin' with your ghost,

lonely and dreamin' of the west coast."

- Art Alexakis

I visited you before

I flew across your

distant cousin

nearly two years ago.

I never dipped

my hand or foot

in you because

the air was cooler

than expected;

It's the same here.

Before I left

I told you

I would return

someday, to live

or simply visit,

to stroll

the bohemian streets

that bustle beside you.

I am keeping that promise;

come fall, I will deliver. 

© 2014 vagrant moon