City Nocturne                                       
                                                                                            
I’m going to have it my way this time. It’s my turn.          
What I see or feel can’t be quantified. Some themes          
no longer resonate. I cook up metaphors and tropes
then tie them together with an invisible bow. Surely
blood pulsing through the brain allows me to form
an ambient environment in which to lay my claims.

I was there once other than in a dream. That place
since hidden comes gushing as words proliferate.
Laden with possibility spontaneous synchronicity
spurts out images in most unpredictable phrases.
Streetlights glare within fog-infused atmosphere.
Like ice melting darkness slides on greased rails.

Fuzzy night, memories loom, I lift my collar as
a cable car disappears over the hill in dank mist.
Stanzas take shape on my tabula rasa. Next to
the street sign lovers embrace, rapt amazement
as lips lock in a long kiss. The foghorn doesn’t
disturb the flight of gulls cavorting in liquid air.

Oblivious am I to passersby and beaming cherry
that spins on a cop car’s steel roof as it sizzles in
suffused luminescence. Skyscrapers stretch way
to heaven. I’m not in the Louvre and won’t drink 
from an imagined fountain of youth I tell myself, 
for too many lives are spoiled by excessive folly.

Below the surface lost Atlantis may be located.
The city abides me, it has seen countless lovers 
during generations of its rollicking intoxication. 
Waves swish up against the ghostly ferry’s sides.
The poem hasn’t coalesced yet but getting there, 
just needs a little stirring and maybe savoir faire.

The moon yawns and from its wide mouth leak
shadows of tomorrow morning. Laughter streams
out of an apartment window as saxophone music
proliferates down a narrow alley. New love chips
away at calcified hearts. Revision is unnecessary
since a final draft appears to me clearly focused.

Lone Eagle

Cloistered in my lonely room
with undefinable smells hovering
the phantom bride and groom quit 
which peppers me with gloom.
Shadows are randy, no music,
and whir of ceiling fan a bore.

I get a knock on the door,
it’s a maintenance man
come to check my smoke alarm.
His duty to comply with statutes
so this inspection is thorough, dull
enough to make an elephant snore.

News on the net a little scary,
our ecosystem in jeopardy of collapse.
I channel attention to the view outside,
construction of a new strip mall:
the builders have best intentions,
allow for simple access and egress.

I whirl in luxurious dreamscape,
a path out of my lethargy like
zipping through worm holes in space
past galaxies in the blink of an eye.
Screech of brakes and a loud crash
when cars collide and windows rattle.

Strength emerges and bold as an eagle
swooping down on unsuspecting prey
despite absence of Mont Blanc
or any such pinnacle I’d scale
I set a goal to live carefree 
like a pollywog in an infinite sea.

Yet that would never pass muster
with modern quantum theory
nor alchemical wizardry.
“Hang it all” I mutter, “think 
I’ll pack my bags, ditch this place
and head for Mount Olympus.”

Thomas Piekarski is a former editor of the California State Poetry Quarterly. His poetry has appeared in such publications as Poetry Quarterly, Literature Today, The Journal, Poetry Salzburg, Modern Literature, South African Literary Journal, Home Planet News, and others.His books of poetry are Ballad of Billy the Kid, Monterey Bay Adventures, Mercurial World, and Aurora California.