A Few Lines of Poetry for Your Minds

These have all been written recently. As always, all comments welcome, even if you hate them.

A Light Quilt and Rainbow Eyes

My words, like fingerprints, have been wiped clean
from your touch, scent, tears --
I cannot light a candle of thought to guide your steps
Nor does the rainbow in your eyes need pruning.

My gardener-gnarled hands have dirt beneath the nails --
The soil from your insides is rich, dark, smooth.
But it is only residue of a time without hands
Suddenly, suddenly, the tattered light of broken
smiles and broken promises
is stitched together in a quilt of perfect color

And its premier, crystalline rays radiate the warmth
of your frame, small one,
and I am glad to lay beneath the covers of your skin,
untouched and trembling --
until you find me with a gasp, and I am undone
at your beauty and the peace of your rainbow eyes.

The Soldier's Death

The night atmosphere,
the quiet ferocity in the air,
the Defender's call --
those perfumed mortar shells
and sonatas of bombings, of brine
and bile
the last hill worth dying on,
where blood seeps into the dirt
and the earth is dark with fury.
He yells to the wind with whithered
mourning
a last gasp,
some spittle
and the soldier's face goes blank.

The Adventurous Type

With hammer and steel,
I will come to you --
I will chip away at your wall,
your fortress of solitude
until you see my ocean eyes --
and smile; unafraid.
brave.
because you, my love,
are worth adventuring for --
and I bring to you my bread,
my bones
my blood.

That Man

I fear that I have thought of you -- laid out beneath a canopy of stars, or the thatched roof ceilings of poor, brown Spanish-speaking folk, more than you have of yourself. Did you know that, when the sunlight catches your eyes just right, I think I can see the future in them? Or that you have this Cassiopaeia constellation of freckles beneath your cheekbone, just above that scar you can't stop talking about -- you're so proud of it, though I can't remember why.
Lying on the rooftop and looking at the sky, I remember how the frost left your lips in gasps last Autumn and you told me life isn't worth living without hot tea and good friends in perfect silence and I said you're crazy. And maybe you are. But maybe, maybe, I am the mad one -- because your life seems much simpler with its compass and knapsack, its bedrolls and shaggy hair while this land-locked prison keeps me working for wages I fear I'll never see.
I remembered once you told me your favorite smell in the world was good, clean dirt:
and I laughed right in your face.
I regret that now and I'd take it back if I could -- I wish my heart were as pure as that brown earth beneath your fingernails, but alas, I am as human as anyone and you're quiet, jagged smile has already forgiven me.