Long Ago, at the Temple of Venus

We used to dance
under painted ceilings
–like night skies,
worshipping opuses
of your star rising.

Now I sit alone
watching the faded
paint chips fall, waiting
to hear a groan
–another old pipe

or

the moan of
ancient inlays rotting under
phantom footfalls;
proof your presence is
pacing the halls

–looking for the lost
vestiges of yourself.
When all have hidden in
the walls, collecting dust
or dead spiders; speaking

to

husk of how powerful
we lived. You burned
–like sun-fire.
By your light I built
temples for all your worth.

At altars I could hear
my name; haunted sounds
honeyed into Mulsum
wine, not tasted in eons since.
Still, I make my sacrifice and

wait.

The Full Stature of Memory or Like a Rock

Like a rock, the jagged edges of your inert face,
you will wither when winds blow and crack
when those heavy rains stream and pool down.

And I can hope the halos circle around you for your eternity,
that the pieces of you will roll into so green a pasture and land
face up to watch the wonderful stars dazzle in their long dance,
even though I am certain of other things.

You have fallen face down in the dirt never to think
of me, much as I cannot see you the same anymore;
a full granite face in a colossus
of mountain scraping pieces from the sun

The Crone and The Hourglass

The ingredients in her stew, they slip by

the spoon as she stirs, leaning into the boil

-in her pot and the one on her left foot

The concoction, a remedy she inhales as she waits, so impatient

to sate the ache in her bones, and keeping her one unclouded eye

on the hourglass in the corner, too suspicious of watches or clocks.

-While the gears and sprockets may rust to holds and stops

-The last sands in that tall hourglass will continue to drop.

I don’t know why, but its not posting the poem in the format that I want. I’m just going to give up.