Door Song Flowers smell like music, They sing a tune of entry. The door swings wide, greeting all who choose to come. It shines in slant light, echoes blue, cool. Listen, it’s calling to you. Your name thrills under creamy sun. This wide blue door is never locked. Flowers sing through table talk, calling you in. Come, take your seat in this white room. A goddess kissed you all, touched this light. Do not miss the ceremony. Sit. Heal. Eat.
Impermanence Close the box now. Your breathless fear is enough to crumble snapshots. Don’t sort through them. Today is not the time for last names or lost years. This terrible fragility fixes your eyes on small faces, misplaced in mutability, in distance. Let time erase this. You need to absolve time itself— Now. It’s about to swallow you. Dust’s our end. Nothing allows you to hide treasures on some back shelf.
Mark J. Mitchel was born in Chicago and grew up in southern California. His latest poetry collection, Roshi San Francisco, was just published by Norfolk Publishing. Starting from Tu Fu was recently published by Encircle Publications. A new collection, Something to Be, and a novel are forthcoming. He is very fond of baseball, Louis Aragon, Miles Davis, Kafka and Dante. He lives in San Francisco.
Pulsebeat Poetry Journal 