Photo (CC) John Carlin @ Flickr
*
Scarecrow
Out of a tent of wind
came a tuxedoed scarecrow
dancing for me
with hinged limbs of broom
whistling a dirge
through the bearded straw of his chin
His tongue was laughing black
His eye the shadow of crow
The silken knot at his throat
the strangled heart of a bow
Still he danced
His cane steps tapped their song
until I cried that I could not dance
with the murmur and shiver of silk
’till my toes had nails of bone
my eyes
the curdle
of milk
*
When the Shadows Fall Like Drapes Across the Living Room Floor
Death comes tiptoeing in on soft feet
like some 19th century French Romantic poet
at the cocktail hour
in pointed-toed shoes
half-suede and alligator skin
with three-inch heels
because he is a small man
and wants to look well with the ladies
He wants them to look up to him
and is artful in speech
and can charm a heart or two
and lose at poker
with a smile
but he is a small man
and wants the women
to look up to him
Now
when the shadows fall like drapes
across the living room floor
and hollows appear
under my fair lady’s eyes
the hint of the doom to come
and the wine is poured sparkling
into the slender-stemmed glasses
pale as the powder
on the anemic cheeks of my lady
and there is the chatter of smiling teeth
Death the uninvited guest comes slowly in
stalking the soft carpet
crushing the pattern of roses
under his polished heel
a glint to his monocle
a jealous green in his eye
Who will die?
You
or I?
*
Elegy To A Betrayer By An Outlaw Prophet
When the cock crows twice
and the finger of a maid
pounds like a gavel
ache for my wishbone in your breast
for I foresaw this
Yet I wear no crown of mocking thorn
nor sun on my brow
with disciples of stars in the suck of its orbit
My halo is the bad breath of the dispossessed
There is vinegar in my blood
For clad in prickly robes of woolen ash,
shackle scars and stigmata
the blemish of one burning hand
raised as high as the green fingers of a sunday palm
left fingers crossed
the knot of tongues cracks the seal of my lip
quakes the grim still of the square
Its many pebbled verbs ricochet like sling shot
from the Goliath mace
the hilt of the sword that is worshipped as cross
For I sound the omen’s sigh
There is a beast in the market place
a brick-fleshed idol with chalk bones
plumed and vested
in the mail bonds of patriotism
banners of blood
and streamers
of sheer white
Break his legal joints
Dismantle the linked letters of his laws
that fetter the revolt of conscience
bind the spirit
in the hip-high shafts and labyrinths
of the martial code
sacrifice sons
stunt man’s spine
Because I cannot love the Christ
and this Caesar too
I submit to my fate
and so must you
You will find it easy
For in the breast cage of most men
neither love’s dove
nor spur of hate
but hawk of fear!
And when the draft and rumor of war
sharp as a saber’s swipe
rips my robe
reveals the cuff burn on my wrist
the convict twist of my ankle
the pimple’s taint of whore on my groin
my cut-purse girdle
surely you’ll swear
I mask a traitor’s face
One eye is odd!
No sunday riser
Does he believe in God?
But I will be an easy prey
and in the noon light of an open square
with a bending ear and turning cheek
I’ll welcome the chapped snare
of your seduction there
Then when the cock crows twice
at the blasphemous wound cramped in my palm
ache for my wishbone in your breast
for I foresaw this
***
ABOUT THE POET
Floyd Salas is an award-winning and critically-acclaimed author of seven books, including the novels Tattoo the Wicked Cross, What Now My Love, Lay My Body on the Line and State of Emergency, the memoir Buffalo Nickel, and two books of poetry, Color of My Living Heart and, most recently, Love Bites: Poetry in Celebration of Dogs and Cats. Also an artist and sculptor, he was 2002-2003 Regent’s Lecturer at University of California, Berkeley, as well as staff writer for the NBC drama series Kingpin and the recipient of NEA, California Arts Council, Rockefeller Foundation and other fellowships and awards. Visit his website: www.floydsalas.com
Contrappasso Magazine: International Writing 