Banana Split
 (Inspired by Beacon Creamery)

A shop window cafe, a soft candle lit stage, 
where the young dining couple's brief drama is played,
The desert has been served, two banana sundaes.
Once consumed, marking doom for their sweet brief romance.
When the meal is complete, she is going to leave, 
He will be let down gently, but quite undeceived.
And despite her kind efforts to not let him see,
He is quite well aware of his sad circumstance.

Though he knows it must end, he still seeks to extend,
These fleet moments he holds her as more than just friends.
So he pokes his confection, he sections and blends,
By some chance this transfigurement may change their fate.
As the scoop's combination, once separate and savored,
Comes loose and reduces, replacing their nature,
With rude, goopy, stew, soft, dissolved and distasteful, 
The vibrant bright dyes combined grey on his plate.

The whipped cream once pure white, teased to tempting  delight,
Now deflates, without substance to hold it on high,
while it's cherry peak beacon who's brightness enticed,
Seems contrived, and so stilted, now wilted and stale.
Still he smooths and he smears, syrup running like tears,
And she shifts in her seat, for the check has appeared,
He stares down at his blob, his mind melting, unclear,
And just can't understand why the whole affair failed.

Enchantment
 (Inspired by Notions and Potions)

We uttered our enciphered dreams in lilting, sanguine, litanies,
And offered talisman's protections from frustration and despair.
Our astral graphs and charted paths revealed magnetic destinies,
By spells begot from simmer pots and savored incantations shared.
We vanquished all we were in smoky incense blur and ritual,
And draining draughts our souls detached to night-fly inkblot skies of fall.
Through jumps in time, we came to find such charms were ineffectual.
We called our folly magic.  Though perhaps it was that, after all.

Wanderlust
 (Inspired by Mountain tops Outfitters)

With flint-strike light, he first ignites the bed of desiccated stems, 
While muttering in quiet sighs, his 'oft recounted epic tales,
And as the sparks embark to march upon their destined turns and bends,
Their snaps reflect pack laden steps as men once wandered winding trails,

To unknown climes, through brush and vines, traversing vales of bleeding brooks,  
Emerged from cuts of covered earth.  They blaze the trees to charted paths,
Permitting passage like the parted pages of a secret book,
Which illustrate the peaceful rage that nature makes convey her wrath,

To those invaders of far places, still remote, alone, unseen,
Though counted known, kept never owned, left uncontrolled and unopposed.
Bright shining embers- watched, remembered, yet untouched, as jewels in dreams.
Such sights described, while painted eyes reflect them as the fire grows.

Flea Market
 (Inspired by Beacon Flea Market

Nothing is bought, only borrowed,
Nothing is kept, only held,
All things are owned by tomorrow,
And each time we purchase, we barter as well.
We are but stewards and watch-keeps,
Caught in a cloakroom of days,
Filled by rich princes who now sleep,
For only our bones shall this world put away.

Satiation
 (Inspired by Café Amarcord)

By candlelight, life flickered clarity,
A moment broken off from rigid days, 
And separated from disparity,
As momentary wholeness filled my gaze.
With tunneled focus, through the tempest's eye,
I spied an island touchstone, safe, and strange,
So, once the waitress asked me what I'd like,
I thought to say I would have nothing change.

Nails
 (Inspired by Sexy Nails)

The table tap anger as I arrive late.
The flint point, as stabbed accusations malign.
The sharp clawing pressure, stopped just at skin's break, 
As she tenderly nestles her palm against mine.

Remedy
 (Inspired by Vogel Pharmacy)

Our darkest moments strike,
By bright florescent lights,
To seek malignancies relief,
While limping up and down the aisles. 
Our veined, inflated eyes,
Leaks, spots, sprains, aches and trials,
Rude maladies as melodies,
Weep softly from the ceiling tiles,
And here we join tonight,
As walking wounds unite,
A death's door army march complete,
With banners, gauze-surrender-white.
At this most private time,
So raw, so sensitized, 
Bleak, weakened vulnerabilities,
Our ailments treated with disease,
This illness: other's company,
That soothes the soul and heals the mind. 

Eliza Street
 (Inspired by the corner of Eliza St. and Main St.)

The craning necks of yellow metal beasts,
Which loll and swing, then raise, prepared to strike,
Upon the concrete meat, and wood framed feast,
Of prey condemned to suffer sacrifice.

Like Low-fi, Sci-fi creature carnivores,
They masticate, through man-made edifice.
Facades collapse revealing vacant floors,
Exposed as they erode, and crack and twist,

And crumble. Joints undone, cement unfixed,
Glass shattered, like a waterfall of shards,
Beams split and splintered into jagged sticks,
As slaughter sounds the switching of the guard.

Pedestrians approve the violent change,
The maul of progress, praised, the past betrayed,
Enticed by sights of currency exchanged,
And scalpel strikes rewriting yesterday.

They cheer this tear-down triumph over time,
Evolving in divine trajectory,
While clouds of rubble dust obscure their eyes,
From wider sights of death and destiny 

For all perceived advancement we enjoy,
This whitewash rapture yields persistent stains.
we act as nature's agents. We destroy,
At her own pleasure, within her domain,

To represent our own impermanence,
Removing our own trace from history,
With bricks forged frail and indeterminate,
We master worlds devoid of memory. 

La Bella Rose
 (Inspired by La Bella Rosa)

With a light Spring-wind gasp, arms extending to grasp,
The long stem which her palm shall receive,
Her desire comes alive with delight and surprise,
Like unfolding of buds into leaves.
And her cheeks become flush, tinted lovely and lush,
As the deep inner bowl of a bloom,
Her eyes glassy and wet, like the way petals get, 
As the sky cries goodbye to the moon.
At her fingers first touch, her pure pleasure erupts,
In sweet cooing like birdsong at dawn,
And this trifle I give pales against what I live,
As she blossoms and thrives in the sun.

Pugilists
 (Inspired by Max's On Main   - Max's Story)

Brothers who fight the good fight,
Who battle life's beatings by song and soft lights,
We combat with kinship and memorable nights,
The woes of the corners to which we belong. 

Strategy, talent and might,
We go round for round with the world's appetites,
And punch-drunk with love we restore paradise.
Each jovial jab, granting strength to push on. 

Quick on our feet, we are spry,
We are bruised, we are bloodied, yet holding the prize,
Knocked down for the count when we first had arrived,
we leave here as champions, standing and strong.