The kings' men 

Men of gold

Men of coal

Men of tin.

Pass into another

Time zone

And freeze.

The city hurries by

But they remain rooted

Like the lampposts and benches.

Only the ringing of coins in the bucket

Wakes them for a precious moment.

Vendors sell

The field

Its colors

Its lusciousness

Its ripeness

All picked this morning

While great mother nature

Lay sleeping.

Rain in a Distant City

Speaks another language

Falls politely on the

Suit-filled street.

People,

Heavy set, weighted gaze,

Bearing burdens of the years,

Walk to and from in the squares

Past large buildings

Of days gone by.

Bullet fire

And red flags

Still fresh

On frozen faces.

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For twenty-three francs

You can wonder in jeans

Through the royal room

But at half-past five

They close the mirror.

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Babushkas

Rows on rows on rows

In their smiling wooden dresses

Faces nectarine

Kerchiefs cover

Their ginger hair

Full of flowers,

Full of body,

Arms folded

So very pretty

But their hearts are sealed.

Captive colors

Padlock flight

Dreams behind bars

Eyes -

Tears

That do not end.

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Asphalt  trees

Cut off midword

Flinging clenched limbs.

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Between the forest trees

And town houses

The master of stone

Crafts towers

From chameleons.

Woman of Renoir

pink-skinned

their eyes

piano and forest

adorn themselves on the second floor

of an old train station.

In the The Jewish Quarter of Prague,

The screams are now the whispers of

Tiny letters,

Of children's drawings sharing the horror,

The fading testimony of the moss.

Between shards of memories

The hand of time

Slipped into their lives

And the erased

The creases of their being.
 

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