The Stage and the Illusion

The stage is set;

chestnut door, banister, and staircase

crescent window lined with lime

black metallic contraption

stacks of brown mesh sacks

cupboards adorned with technology

a flattened globe of mist and water

gray barrel on roller-skates

a drum set, of all things

(for added rhythm or

to keep the monster on track)

silver handle and small latch latched

blue jeans and a ponytail.

The illusion hovers;

wide white archway like a bony crutch

shiny green plant glossing the pages

a neglected stack of borrowed books

white painted pipes and seven sets of eyes

(on the ceiling gazing downward)

festive art hung, colorful yet transparent

bricks built on nothing leading nowhere

an empty room full of shadows.

We were here,

and for the time being

remain so.

But how did we miss the door

that leads to the outside?

Jennifer Burnside

Deceptive Sunday

Beyond the green spider wall

tightly wound men compete

with enthusiastic sincerity.

Past the fluttering fairy wasps

and straining metallic criss-crosses

move scarlet twin birds

grinning and dusty.

The hills observe with dry approval

as the drones of biplanes

scrutinize the game plan

wailing a subtle accompaniment.

Light brown puffs chalk the air

and to top it all off,

is an upside down bowl

of clear and uninterrupted

Blue sky

cool in color

but damn that’s hot.

Jennifer Burnside

Within becomes Without

The earth misplaced her lid today

the sky has released his sheep.

Your heart might lurch with sharp dismay

you’ll cry from lack of sleep.

The trees will shed their bark today

for want of cooling down.

You’ll rise from where you sleepless lay

as dream’s charred embers calmly drown.

Last night cruel beasts raged in your mind

pursuing hope with fears.

When terror chews down to the rind

your soul will shift its gears.

You’ll see beyond imaginings

of all that used to be.

Dark truths will unfold crusty wings

to bare the present’s golden key.

The ground is sponge beneath our feet

sparse grass a patchwork drought.

Dry shells of time bake in the heat

as within becomes without.

Jennifer Burnside

Canopy of Stars

After mastering the role of hero at dawn,

the memory of your existence awakens to fame.

While you have crashed into eternal slumber,

scattered remnants of your life garnish the roadside.

Your mysterious end chokes the day with tears

and your blood stains many pairs of penitent hands,

sticky with sweet love and sour remorse.

You were a child caught between force and obstruction.

You rode the angry bull with a boyish grin,

waving your cowboy hat to the rhythm of the ride.

Shy with the ladies but ever so kind, you jammed

on the dance floor with your eyes on the stage.

Conjunto Rio Grande serenaded your merry-making.

Surfing waves of melody, chasing the day and

passing the time, deep intrigues bloomed and settled

within the dark hollows of your secret mind.

Much of your life was lived beneath the stars.

From behind the wheel, you greeted countless sunrises

and sadly breathed your final breath.

Though you tried to be, you were never alone.

Thoughts and prayers paved your life path

no matter how far you wandered off.

The love of your family lit your heart with

a hope that bravely flickered through the storm.

Now you will soar across the border in a cold

cargo hold, to open arms weary from waiting.

You were often a driver and at times a passenger,

but you will always remain a beloved son.

Jennifer Burnside

Breaking Grounds

Within a colorful room lit by hope,

the reflection of sun’s glare

proves too much for the naked eye.

This present brilliance defies forward gaze

while a backstage wall resides

as blinders barring the peripheral.

Such conditions might seem obstructive,

yet wispy strips of pale blue crown

the olive-robed entity with quiet honor.

Her spirit shimmers in defense

as she wards off a hazardous threat;

the gnashing steel teeth of the machine.

Spinning slowly, the monster is tamed

as she calms him with her patience,

tenderly stroking his whirlwind of a spine.

The floor is red lava, frozen cold by

the frigid footsteps of so many visitors;

a facial surface pocked with time.

The door to the passage of sky looming above

lies prone, preventing alternate dimensions

from adorning our humble tables.

And a solitary phantom of green leafy life

garnishes this industrial stage

with vibrantly unabashed affection.

Jennifer Burnside