Lulla-Bile

Bye, baby bunting,
Daddy's gone a-cunting,
He brought with him a lamby skin,
To wrap Priap-parat-us in.

Sayonara, my erstwhile Sky Bride

You entered the corner cafe
smiling idly;
cradling lazily
an armful of
fresh-cut flowers;
an effortless,
feline, ambly ease
all about you.

Among my (somewhat)
funky days of then
did heaven's very own hands
plunk you designedly down
in the radius of my
modest meanderings;
fortune ladled crazily
into my peasant bowl.

That I would eventually wed
my wimbled heart to yours
was a tone dumb-luckily struck,
a fifth of the finest sort,
leading toward untold tonics;
it sent me skipping
through this unlocked life
of doors and days
to the universal key of song.

You were
love’s slimsweet instrument,
a concise and pretty
prose-piece of non-friction
that efficiently jimmied
all my internal tumblers.

You were,to this heliotrope head,
(so sunswarmth seeking)
to these blood-rooted,hydrophile feet
(so long/lone following
the waters way)
a blessing undisguised.

Now this.

Subpoenaed.

Fucking divorce papers.

There's no snazzy, brushed-steel
year-reeling-in device,
no jazzy, dapper Dan
who can witchily recreate
the wide/wet-eyed ceremony,
the ephemeral physics
of your bashfully batted lashes,
who can intimate
the knowing I now possess,
rewrite the score which was
the moving music of your hands
with sacramental art adorned.

Hands which I held and
trembly kissed betwixt my own
when I bowed and knelt and vowed.

Ever-present and gone
is the honey-headed,moon-drunk,
years-long afterward
during which I allowed
(or watched)
the precious pigment fade,
your bride's-bloom go
scentless, withered, bowed.

I shall miss the hands
which have lain my restlessness abed
(as if by palm fronds balmed)
so very many a night;
which have punctuated
many a restive retort,
chopped and cajoled untold foods
into love-laden dishes,
hands which have,
(more to the point)
of late,
signed our loves
death sentence.

For what its worth,
I assure you I’ve not
(though I’d know HOW)
lost all my mirth.
I’ll return to the bosom
of The Book of Changes,
my wintry, bachelor days and ways.

PS and/or
Perfunctory Punctuation

No accusatory demonization
(in legalese)
can, like a rogue scirocco,
blow the mandala
from my minds memory;
taint the forever fixed,
solemn symbols for
god’s unions, by priestess
designed and painted.