Poems

12 x 12

there is only darkness ahead

the world closing in around me

faulted by my self-centered life

troubles waiting to trample me

clutching vines before the abyss

well it might be, to just let go;

but honeyed breaths sweeten what’s left

of the bleak and cheerless future

enough to cause my afflictions

to their own light, their own future

made-up world of dissolution

pain it might be, I can’t let go.

 

hardly has there not been worry

everything will at once be lost

gone in the unending struggle

down the untrue path, tired and lost

tripping rocks while eyes to the sky

ever it seems, missing my stride;

yet prodded on by judgment’s task

enduring all that goes the way

caused to show my limitations

to what remains, what in my way

comes and goes as absolution

faults may they be, I labor on.

 

A LIFE?

In the room lies

my granddaughter, still

tiny, premature from the womb.

 

A life?

 

In the room lies

the unborn, forsaken

tiny, aborted from the womb.

 

A life?

 

In the still one

my feelings confused

dead, apart from the world.

 

A life?

 

In the forsaken one

the principles confused —

dead, prevented from the world.

 

A life?

 

A TRILLION EYES FROM HOME

Fire burns a trillion eyes

caught in the fusion sun

earth destroyed, the age-old dies

no welcome sunrise

hello to the new-gone world

a trillion trillion pieces out of one.

 

Fire turns a trillion eyes

to the supernova star

nebula made, the new-wrought skies

no goodbyes

farewell to the old-world gone

a trillion trillion more out afar.

 

AEOLIAN PROCESS(ES)

worn down

abraded soul,

the perfect fluid shear flow

erodes even

at the strongest places,

resistance but

exposes momentum

to the churning rhythm,

the end’s cold, blowing destruction—

nothing of

the once-vibrant image remained,

to see and touch,

to be aware, and

feel the creep, ripples

in the winds of time.

 

ALL IS ORDERED

was the order perfect

for us to be;

or to the Earth was borne

our perfect order,

for our lives to be?

 

was the reason perfect

for why we think;

or from the God was born

our perfect reason,

for our brains to think?

 

AMBIENT NOISE

QUIETUS TOLLS

The wind sings its song for me,

calling me to myself, where

I listen to the drone;

its hum calming

the voices in my head;

 

while quietus tolls its bell for me,

inviting me aside myself, where

I give heed to the tone;

its sound silencing

the screams in my throat.

 

QUIETUS OF MYSELF

The noises in my head quiet the day,

set me aside myself; where

I listen to the drone,

in the maelstrom of calm—

in the peace of disorder;

 

while screams in my throat fill the time,

fix the quietus of myself; where

I give heed to the tone,

in the storm of silence—

in the solace of extinction.

 

THE ANCHOR DRAGS

(ROCK BOTTOM)

hands to the rope…

the anchor drags searching its place to hold along the bottom

scraping in the depths—

a sound peace bracing from the waves that whelm over…

drowning

 

hands at the line…

the cleat holds mooring a place to land along the shore

standing on the firma—

a brutal war living with the storms that rage within…

destroying

 

AND VISIONS I SAW

…imagine my surprise—

a mushroom

wrapped in paper

offered from the magic kiosk;

 

it came with a warning

“eat at your own risk”

pish-posh, I laughed,

downed it in one throw;

 

And visions I saw

bright and fine,

or dark and brooding—

by and by;

 

of myself over there,

or maybe still here

calling to each other

with silent shouts, so loud,

 

as to wake the moon

from its slumbered day;

toss it into the yet

shining blue-sun sky;

 

then talk to God

from on High,

rings of Saturn before me—

and I ask why,

 

happy and sad should

but both be the same;

crying and laughing

my two faces, one eye,

 

two mouths

three ears

ten fingers, clutching

the earth, to root as a stone.

 

And more visions I saw

‘ere I was down,

I was down, come down,

from psilocybin, nigh—

 

wanting only to return

to the ethereal world

of mushroomed currents

eddy and torrent

 

where I hear myself breathe,

hear my blood flowing,

feel the universe—

kiss the sky.

 

ANNO DOMINI

I went to sleep on Monday night —

and woke up Sunday morning.

In the space of just one day

I lived an entire week.

I blinked my eyes

and time sped by;

winking as it passed.

 

I looked out my window —

and noticed the tree was bare.

In the instant I turned round

I saw the tree grow leaves.

I wiped my eyes

and spring flew by;

chirping as it passed.

 

I lit a fire in the hearth —

and felt it warm my skin.

In the transiency of the flames

I sensed a strong affinity.

I closed my eyes

and smoke drifted by;

choking me as it passed.

 

I reach a hand to the page —

and turn it to next month.

In the counting of the dates

I lose the Year of the Lord.

I squint my eyes

and years decade by;

blurring as they pass.

 

APRIL SNOW

the many electric lights

in the dark illuminating

the silent sound of it

alighting on my face,

gathering in my hands—

April snow;

hardy welcomer to spring,

as November’s first fall

a whiff of winter’s go…

seasons in bow to each other.

 

the countless silvered streaks

in the night shimmering

the warm chill of it

delighting to my eyes,

refreshing in my thoughts—

April snow;

lovely harbinger to spring,

as May’s open blossoms

a bud of summer’s run…

moments in peace unbothered.

 

UNDER THE ARBORED

WALKWAY WITH YOU

(for Renee)

Your arm around mine,

holding tight

while we walked in the night

 

clouds luminescent

from moonshine somewhere,

while stars behind

winked at us, there to there

 

until treetops arched to

steal away the sky with

fingered branches entwined

across the dark lane

 

under the arbored walkway we strolled,

to tease we two, alone in the world,

secluded and sheltered,

Eden stretching its solemnity,

its glorious virgin ardor

 

Adam to your Eve,

your arms in the darkness tight around me,

drawing forth,

to make me feel the greatest man

I shall ever be

 

that night beneath

the stars

the moon

the clouds,

under the trees

that boughed for us

 

under the arbored walkway

with you.

 

AT GOD’S KNEE

I shall not be made unknown,

lain low and hushed;

turned from the womb,

extracted and tossed;

to mother and father gone,

bequeathed to those lost…

But be born of soul, shone,

and to Judgment forever live on.

 

I shall be at God’s knee,

brought high and righteous;

transfixed from the world,

borne and cradled;

to Mother and Father come,

bestowed to those found…

As a spark in heaven, home,

and to undying Spirit live on.

 

BLACK AND BLUE

my sight recedes from the mask

falling away to an age where

time is gifted in ageless moments

taken a lifetime of sorrows to see

a lifetime apart of

golden suns eclipsing black days

 

I see them now

feel them with my eyes

see them with my heart that

suffers in crushing love and pain

 

face my ceasing-tide ebb

my end drawing nearer

blessed with nights of bright gathering darkness

where I dream of when the silver moon

looks down its face to watch

in the blue sky of day

 

to make me learn the twilight graces

the counterpart hours

reminding and announcing lifetimes

black and blue

that come into

the ceaseless course and

bring ceaseless breath to lives

to take their place upon the sands that

break but for their moments

for their steps along

the way…

 

my understanding concedes

when I can see no more

weighing gold and silver as

black iron in my hands

 

BLACK RIVER

the black river waits

cold, stinging warmth

my skin to peel

blood to flow among

the silver shapes of

souls flashing

while eternity then

whispers its icy chant

sounding

in the depths

for what was

pain and suffering—

death therein

quiet release to

bliss

nothingness.

 

BLASPHEMY ON THE ROCKS

God is my salvation;

I find Him at the bottom

of every glass of Scotch.

 

BREAK DOWN

how many times can one be broken down

the real and fine crushed under hammer blows

struck at the plinth of destruction brought low

on hands and knees in pieces kicked around;

undone again under a fragile crown

that balances upon the one who knows

only endless days in unsteady throe

dragged through rubble of foundation rundown?

over and over absorbing the blows

body and mind suffering in ruin

that pounds and pounds with the weighing of soul,

over and over immersed in dark woes

blood and guts spilling in execution

that sounds and sounds a relentless bell’s toll.

 

BREATH OF GHOSTS

The depression is more than palpable now.

Held away all the years by distractions;

safe amongst the crowd of family and friends,

carried in the sway,

that can no longer mask the pain.

The curtain pulled aside

revealing ghosts and demons

of my selves nursing their time;

awaiting the moment of

a spirit broken and alone;

awaiting the call to surrender

after all

to the welcoming arms of sadness.

 

The dejection has come for me now.

Holding all the years in a tally of columns;

fear amongst the room of one,

trapped in the thrall,

that lays bare the hidden pain.

The walls close in

bringing breaths upon themselves

of my own volition nurtured;

accepting the finality of

a fate broken and done;

accepting the will to give in

after all

to the creeping place of darkness.

 

BROKEN PIECES

I shattered…

the broken pieces spread across my world;

light shines from the shards,

the seven wisdoms of my soul

—count them—

to touch,

to taste,

to smell,

to see,

to hear,

to wonder,

to think—

I. am. God.

 

God am I

—to think—

to wonder,

to hear,

to see,

to smell,

to taste,

to touch,

count them—

the seven wisdoms of my soul

light shone from the shards,

my broken pieces spread across the world;

I…shattered.

 

BROUGHT FORTH IN PAIN

maybe it’s not a bad thing to die,

for birth is brought forth in pain

(and separation)

and it would be a going

back to that

foretold then.

 

CAN I BUT KNOW

can I but know

the day’s telling of night’s repose

can I but know

where sun’s shadows embrace moon’s glow

and twilight to twilight appose

the thoughts that may well be supposed

can I but know?

 

how shall I be

after I cease to dream and wake

how shall I be

when stars wink at what eyes did see

in minutes and hours that forsake

themselves, constant future to make

how shall I be?

 

might I but ask

what of my sore life in advance

might I but ask

to ease the worry of the task

through the cynical macabre dance

with death, always leading its chance

might I but ask?

 

why should I pale

before the wide uncharted course

why should I pale

from the horizon’s unseen gales

that blow as much a wisp as force

and make my bother to remorse

why should I pale?

 

CARPE DIEM

(AN IDLING AMOUNT)

 

I set my rage upon the day,

arms to flail with fists of hate

to crush the hours away,

rip apart the poor moments of late,

remake time to clutch in my hand,

dash the minutes against the wall,

stomp and kick as fallen sand,

seconds with the nerve to gall

my ire, my wrath, with their infinity;

to live beyond my life of little note,

maligning dissonance teasing mortality—

ticking, tocking, by taunting rote.

 

I rest my bloodied hands and glory

in the epic struggle fulfilled,

the new exalted prophet’s story,

time destroyed and stilled;

never again shadow around the dial,

the sun in constant rise,

while moon is halted in its trial—

no more waning to my sighs,

or waxing to my end—

ceased the random final count,

at eternity’s broken clock to spend,

watching, waiting, an idling amount.

 

CITY ZOO

There in the road,

a kitten, scarcely more than a handful;

 

I drive past and notice its tail twitching—

Is it yet alive? Or just being stirred

by the cars breezing by?

I haunt my emotions with the horror it must have felt

caught in the whirl,

too afraid to move, then dashed about the street,

body smashed and bleeding,

helpless in its suffering, tiny breast heaving,

gasping life’s last breaths;

dying all alone.

 

Should I turn around and…

…what?

 

I look in the mirror, its image disappearing

behind me.

 

CLICK CLACK

it starts with a single click

then a clack;

four hours later, a sentence,

paragraph

paragraph’s if I’m lucky…

and this but on the re-write,

something four hours (and more)

already spent months (months) ago,

when the universe

was young (and beautiful) not

dark, moody, brooding,

needling at my precious life;

as tonight,

a dungeon of torture

blinding mental obliteration

exhausting physical descent into

the pit of dissolution…

 

and for what—

a few thoughts of clarity

blurred,

a few words of order

rearranged,

a few moments of satisfaction

reserved?

 

no…

a writer I shall not be

a writer I shall not be…

 

click

clack.

 

CONTACT POINTS

Eyes gaze along the figure

I await for myself;

stares join in concert,

flash,

wink,

attune with the other.

 

Faces lean into the place

I seek for myself;

lips join in union,

press,

kiss,

alone with the other.

 

Hands move across the figure

I know for myself;

fingers dance in rhythms,

touch,

tingle,

embrace with the other.

 

Mouths open inside the place

I arouse for myself;

breaths come in bursts,

moan,

lick,

swallow with my other.

 

DARK NIGHT

(CONSTELLATIONS)

 

In my dark night the stars bewitch me

pin pricks of small light in a death parade

while the moon looks down its face to see

the shape of my frightened soul stayed

shadow of my shadow lain

in the cool dew grass of the night

searching the sky’s compass in vain

for what might consecrate me in its rite

add my shape to the elliptic plane

stars of stars raised

to the constant of the zodiac train

where in my absence I may be praised

in the forever of the celestial wonder

and smile down to the ones who stare

at the night sky and ponder

fates for which the universe has no care.

 

If I could but stand and reach

for those of the far far star plan

or on my knees beseech

to forswear my short lifespan

in a promise of remembrance

for those I’ve loved to look upon

see my great design and entrance

in their search after I am gone

for ease of their own frightened souls

and find that I am there to guide

when their own death parades begin to stroll

then forever constellations, in our dark night side by side.

 

DARK SIDE

moon smiled his

tilted half-smile, so vain in

the morning twilight,

a smirk maybe

for those below, fated to live

and love, hope and die…

I smiled back, yes,

ever to be the last laugh,

he with a face, yet

no light of his own,

dark barren world of nothingness,

mere reflection of creation,

lifeless, unborn,

spark of God unknown,

to be gone when I close my eyes to sleep

and disappear forever, when I can

open them no more;

 

smile, moon, smile your

inconstant smile, so bright

and dark your stays,

a moment perhaps

for tides below, to wash alive

and well, high and low…

I smiled then, lest

forgetting how to laugh,

to hide my face, grim

no light on my cheeks,

sad indifferent way of loneliness,

bare façade of being,

listless, unmoved,

light of goodness unlit,

begone when I close my eyes in sleep

and disappear forever, when I will to

open them no more.

 

DAY AFTER DAY

every day but

a yesterday for

tomorrow

every breath yet

a sigh of

sorrow

time, for each borrowed;

 

every June but

a moment for

September

every May yet

a cry of

December

gone, none remembered.

 

DAYDREAM

drifting in a swarm of discoveries

every one bright and small and exciting,

the air electric, alive, inviting

rendezvous with elated reveries;

sunlight, moonlight, starlight, all remedies—

sight to sound a wonderful uniting

for a masterpiece concert, skywriting

my day in mystic choral melodies…

where I hear and feel the colors embrace

around me while I soar aloft dreamy,

swimming in the sweeping splendor, hailing

glorious scenes of a somewhere someplace

arousing cool and warm and steamy,

lifting spirits as a full wind sailing.

 

Lifting spirits as a full wind sailing

to feel the joy and contentment rising,

a tide of new and light, galvanizing

a soul misplaced and long adrift wailing;

darkness, blindness, sadness, all assailing—

hopes to dreams a bare thread held uprising

for the bolt to strike then, energizing

my thoughts in spectacular unveiling…

where I see and feel the visions in place

around me while I cheer away bother,

shining in a wave of epiphanies

brilliant moments of a soulful solace

amusing this and that and other,

drifting in a swarm of discoveries.

 

DAYTIME MOON

I turned my eyes from the daytime moon

its cheery face too much

in the bright sky—

itself the wrong color blue

for my feelings of despair.

 

I turned my gaze to the steepled cross

its symbol there as such

in the light on high—

itself not the right hue

for my pleasures to repair.

 

I turned my mind from the world

its hope to give worth

in the vast universe—

itself the black shade

for my life of discontent.

 

I turned my thoughts to the Holy Spirit

its eternal going forth

in the breadth of recurrent verse—

itself the dark prayer made

for my soul to lament.

 

DEEP CUT

The cutting away was deep

to cure me,

but I was hollowed out in turn

to my brittle core;

leaving me soft, spiritless, spent,

an old man before my time,

rotting in a tired, broken shell,

waiting in fear for recurrence

to start the cycle again—

in the darkened place of borrowed time;

 

(thanks doc, may I please have another)

 

needles poked in earnest

to bleed me,

and radiation, hallowed trinity in turn

to my bitter end;

stripping me of disease and strength,

each their share,

while I live and unlive,

waiting in the allotted space

of narrowed existence—

in the dulled place of cancer time.

 

DOUBLE NICKELS

Rolling down the road at such a speed

Tedium to the fore, mayhem at the rear

On a journey the Fates thus decreed

A lifetime of directions for the soul to bear

Engine tuned to a monotonous purr

Rusted chassis carrying its load

Slowing, even as the sights start to blur

plying the same old, same road

Stops along the way beckon with their respite

tempting with souvenirs, memory trinkets

pursuing oblations of the sacrificial rite

ever on a quest—for overflowing buckets

The trek ahead inclines to the peak

As chasms threaten deep wells of truth

Skirting by the fountains in a slow sneak

While tossing a coin for eternal youth.

 

Smiles and laughter amid tears and fears

Wheels squeak to the rings of bells

Four tires; two tires; handles, sprockets, gears

Rolling mayhem shouting tedium a yell

Gathering momentum, the world opens wide

for the intrepid explorer barreling down the lane

passing others as they pull to the side

their aging power starting to wane

Happy celebrations invite, yet portend

the voyage pauses for no one

Candles burn quick to their end

One to start, at the finish line, none

A well-traveled man was the boy

Old before young, too learned ere wise

Driven headlong, life but a toy

teasing immortality’s disguise.

 

DOUBLE NICKELS (2)

They say my friend Nicky died

Nicola passed away

I knew him but for three High School years,

a lifetime ago

crossing paths a few last times

until our roads led opposite ways

gone to each other—forevermore, the

universe has now decreed

Not brothers, no—not of blood anyway

cousins maybe, breathing the same air

as mates do, each traveling life’s

directed course

Firm handholds, goading into

rough sport, exchanging sweat

heaving breaths of challenge called

challenge accepted; challenge met

And then gone, gone away

a sliver from his cross to bear

to jab into my side

Father, Son and Holy Ghost

amen.

 

A reflective thought for him,

my friend—Nick

reflecting gloomy self-thought

for my own life of graying years.

We were the future, once

forever, we measured our time

heirs to that which we’d become

in some far off world of evermore

Shoulder to shoulder, astride

down the halls that brought us together

led us to each our own doors of fate

calling back with but distant memories

Gone now, another tendon in the construct

of a life built from pieces of the whole

the connectors of camaraderie

I’ve no right to say I’ll miss knowing him—not

like those who held Nicola dear in their hearts

who stood close to feel his fear

waited for his pain to release at death’s call

But I’ll sure miss knowing he’s around

Nicky, my friend.

 

“THESE ARE NOT THE DROIDS

YOU’RE LOOKING FOR…”

I know (exactly) what

happened to the dinosaurs—

they died…move along.

 

ELECTRIC RAIN

here and here we are, reveling

in the storm-struck night

the torrent upon our rushing flesh

upon our arms, in our hands

upon our faces, revealed

now and now by lightning bursts

breaking the black sky

electric rain, silvered…

 

we rejoice, submerged

in ancient rhythm

din of rolling sheets, roar of swaying trees

the only sound stirring downpour

overfilling our voices in our ears…

 

and then, to cling and grasp

and touch and feel

and breathe together

into our soaking lungs

into our flooding tides

that drown the old, and

new away

 

PURPLE’S MAJESTY

where is that place

I’ve searched so beguiled

where the atmospheric colors come

together, in that unbounded union of

sky and sky, where

gathers their memories

pink and blue,

charms them seamlessly…

one, and yet the other,

and yet themselves

 

where is that place

I’ve captivated so brilliantly

where the faraway firmament

intoxicates, in the muted rush of

infinite sky, where

morphs the colors

tone and hue,

mixes them perfectly…

one, and set upon the other

and set upon my eyes

 

HAPPY 11:55

I am at the precipice

in five minutes I’ll be

an entire year older

 

EVOLUTION

there is no logic to thought,

created in the ether of

nothingness, matter neither

to be made nor unmade;

 

but a golden spark

of divinity

across the building blocks

of humanity…

 

it turns the Cartesian

dictum on its head,

to be instead—

 

“I think,

therefore that which I came,

could think”

 

EXISTING FRAGMENTS

yesterday hails tomorrow

with regret to sorrow

the beautiful morning with laments

to tease today with existing fragments

of moments wrapped in blurred glimpses,

of time gone in shadowed eclipses

where the day sets melancholy

and the future laughs its folly.

 

and now, the night denies

with trouble to belie

the wonderful evening with resentments

to mourn existence with teasing remnants

of decades unraveled in disjointed ambition,

of life past in sheltered volition

where the present falls fruitless

and legacy dies thus rootless.

 

FIELD MICE

the small squad of boys

marching across the field,

halted at an ambush place—

a large square of discarded

plywood; printing shows

some “vote for me” sign.

whatever

you and you,

on a count of when,

to overturn the board to

show them under…

when!

there! and there! we all join

the assault, our troop stomping

at them as they run from

our raid, their channels

through the grass snaking

this way and that.

there! again,

until the channels are still.

and on we trudge

to make it home by dinner.

 

FINGER KNITTING

Her eyes inside mine

liquid, flowing; the dream

in the space between us

half across her lap

half a tattered heap on the floor

waiting for her beautiful hands

fingers

to gather in, and

work the strands

until we come

together, perfectly

unmatched patterns

of years and decades

(years and decades)

woven time suspended

for the instant

of forever held

in her joining

we two

longing, feeling;

my desire for her touch

to knot our infinite circles.

 

FIRE IN MY HEAD

The memory sparked

 

fire in my head

 

a conflagration of

immense proportions

burning uncontrolled

burning through my mind

burning uncontrolled

burning through my spirit

 

how I once had

 

the flame in my hand

to touch with burning desire

the flame in my heart

to feel with burning desire

the flame in my soul

to sense the gods desire

 

my world muted

the sights and pleasures

 

smoldering somewhere unseen

unfelt in

the narrowed passage

of existence in

the narrowed passage

of measure of

 

what I can recall

 

to kindle fires whose flames

catch with flickers

here and there

and spark the fire wild

burning in the mind

burning uncontrolled

burning in the spirit

burning uncontrolled

 

the memory sparks

 

fire in my head.

 

MORE FUN WITH BUGS AND BIRDS

the firefly was caught out

in the open in the hard rain. I

watched it struggle to

make it to the safety under

the tree. I wondered (lightly)

how the rain might put out its light,

as it would a candle flame.

————

the cicadas were buzzing in

the hot afternoon. I heard a drone

turned clicking, saw its danger—

the sparrow chasing its circle,

catching the noisemaker on

the fly, taking it off to kill and

eat. I championed the expert

hunting—then the escape—when

another sparrow came in to

steal, and the cicada flew off

(still clicking) in the confusion.

————

the hawk was on the fence

watching me watch her, while

everywhere was bird noise,

raucous warning and admonition

for the raptor. I’ve never seen a

hawk so close for so long, and

wondered that it was used to me,

as the blackbirds, blue jays,

cardinals, chickadees, finch’s,

flickers, nuthatches, robins,

sparrows, starlings, woodpeckers,

wrens…

I hushed my neighbor when he

came out his back door, but my

hawk was spooked and swept

her wings away. I listened as the

neighbor told of a dead squirrel

in his yard. I understood then the

hawk’s free meal, interrupted.

————

the cricket in the garage was

driving me nuts, and I finally

found out its hiding place,

sheltered so out of reach I could

not catch it to throw out into the

yard. I had to spray it dead, instead.

I wondered how it might lie there, its

body so poisoned that nothing but

the air itself might eat it.

————

the crows were loud, and flew about,

trading places high and low, above

and below, almost calculating in their

murder. I traced their paths through

the air, the utter blackness of them

seeming to steal sun’s light from the

very day, and leave trails in the

invisible ether.

————

the little lime-green spider, shaped so

like its crab cousins, skittered from my

camera, running to this side then that

along the back of the patio chair.

I persisted and thought I spied why—

its reflection in the Android glass.

I wondered then if it was afraid of

the other, or just shy of its kind.

————

the bites on my legs were terrible;

itching and burning, burning and

itching, clear hard scabs of pus

reforming after each scratch.

I suspected chiggers but was made

rudely mistaken. I caught one of the

offending little buggers while biting

my leg. I studied it under a magnifying

glass, found its bugger story on-line:

antlion— fierce little ant-hunting bugger

larvae of some bugger lacewing fly,

bugger scissor-pincers slashing at my

skin, injecting its bugger venom and

enzymes (not the good kind).

I read it liked the dry, sandy conditions

of my thin, un-watered grass. I knew

they didn’t mind, either, that I don’t use

pesticide on my yard.

 

FLAWED SOUL

The night sky dismissed me to

my perfection—

to gaze unto my

self and think myself a god.

 

I seized the reflection in my god hands, and

grappled with my flawed soul

screaming to the inconstant stars,

to shout down the beasts and beings that

draw me ever, even now,

from whom I was to be

at the Creation of the world;

 

to be the One, then,

to bend the heaven sent

for life after life, and

shape the firmament to my

self.

 

Wherein, thereafter,

day after,

ever after,

My will be done.

 

POEM

I stood naked, awash in the sunshower rain

brilliant glory easing my mind to sane

quelling the knell to death’s hearkening toll

caressing and stilling my anguished soul;

arms out, hands up, God’s fortunate one

giving over, blood, guts and bone

anointing cure in pouring sway

this wondrous peace brought today;

And, stilled in its wake, the quiet

low-chanted song in my ear

settles my mind’s mad riot,

all the dread tempers that bear…

this moment of worries to wane, within

the hymnal Mass of sun and rain.

 

GRAY SKIES BLUE

only you

let my gray skies blue

springtide opened

for sparkling sun-rain

upon your glistening waters,

where earth will pause

its celestial way,

cause the night

to wait its stay;

and gods will summon the

royal cupbearers to

pour their nectar honeyed

hearty drafts to drink,

to toast our reflections

and call the nymphs away,

to cease their idle play

and revel in the new-made shine

of our lovers’ golden light.

 

HALOES OF WAX

My haloes ever made of wax

to affix now and then and tax

bad and good, wrong and right,

bend them to a shifting bearing

hiding from the sun god’s searing

perfect revealing light;

 

and covet my unchecked free will

to make and remake for my fill

sin and virtue the same,

caress every drifting feeling

shouting, the world to spin, reeling

from the sound of my name.

 

 

My wings with ersatz feathers bound

to arms that flail and push and pound

with brutal unchecked blows

the closest who would fly away

from under my transcendent sway

of moving stagnant flow;

 

and thus to scratch the bloodied ground

where those I love and hate are wound

by might of selfish dreams

my vain longing for where is best

or worst, no earnest life to test

the stitching at the seams.

 

THE HEART OF CHANGE

The pith of change is as a heart;

blood flowing in, life pumping out.

But what of those who do not alter

the courses of their lives?

What of them who cannot?

The day is a day, is a day, is a day.

 

PYGMALION AND ERATO

Her beauty struck me

and I stepped back…

I wonder if she saw

reflected in my eyes

my life to her.

 

If only fleeting moment

could be fashioned,

made unto the visions

of sculptor’s hands,

who see into the core

for the image there

in marble, made to last,

revered so forever.

 

Her smile caught me

and I warmed inside…

I thought she spoke

echoed in my ears

her love to me.

 

If only daring whisper

could be captured,

made into the legends

of lovers grand,

who peer into the heart

for the beauty fair

in passage, for the ages,

regaled so forever.

 

SABRINA

she’s ever there

graces the space

just behind my eyes

her smile

a wisp, along the breaks of my mind

along the seams of fantasy

and what’s real

a dream of wonder

and I drift away, on the thought of

she before me

we together,

we two, young and old

in love

and I wish for years again

not many just a few

enough to tell her

to chance the rest

 

HER IN THE WORLD

I see only her in the world

spread out and cradled

in the field of grass, sunlight

washing its virgin caress

across her lovely skin.

 

HER BEAUTY

Her beauty rises in me

I can not turn away

I reach to bring her close

my hands shake,

hot fire in my chest.

 

POEM

the angels

dark and lovely

the souls

light and dreadful

heaven

bright and mysterious

 

The Ascent…

ghostly and magnificent

 

HOMEBOUND SON

another wasted morning

in a life of wasted nights

beats upon the forehead,

at the temples pounds its rot

as the world goes humming on

not a care, not a moment’s jot

for the slothful prodigal son;

 

no need to return from far

or near, never having left

cold comfort for daily bread,

warm bed for a cot

nor a chance at running won

or lost a race, but a diluted sot

for such, the homebound son;

 

first born of the last-born’s

glass baby for their spoil

only free when they were dead,

yet feeling but the tot

with baby steps jigging on

creaky dance alone, his lot

for the trifling half-grown son;

 

now then hasted evening

in the life of hasted days

cheats away instead,

the painted daughters of Lot

who slender grooming won

by leaking member’s taste, a plot

for ruin, the self-indulgent son.

 

HONEYED WORDS

sings a chorus and I follow

a little behind the refrain

verses of salvation hollow

catching in my throat, and again;

I feel the welling, taste the pain

at once on my tongue so fallow

bitter words in the mouth of Cain

I choke on them, forced to swallow;

and try once more, the hymn’s reprise

inviting me to its canon

beset and silent on my knees

voices echo with abandon

hums in my head a swarm of bees

mouth open and I falter on

honeyed words sweet and sticky tease

I spit at them, manna undone.

 

HOPE DULLED ETERNAL

Despair crawls apace along

the knife-edge of my spirit;

today

tomorrow

yesterday, together —

the same dark hours dulling.

A constant dulling

constant grinding

blunting what strength there was

in the beginning of a life well formed.

Unformed

reformed,

eroded from the core.

 

Malaise clouds ever over

the inner-place of my hope;

months

decades

years, together —

the same long view hiding.

A continual hiding

continual shrouding

blurring what vision there was

in the genesis of a life well born.

Unborn

reborn,

ejected from the self.

 

HOT AND COLD SHE COMES

(Song of Songs)

I feel her in my dreams

in the night (cold)

as I caress the moon in my desire

in the day (hot)

as the sun blushes to my pleasure;

as the times alone go on and on,

dusk and dawn

ebbs and flows

forever…never, arouse at my fixation.

 

I see her in my arms

in the summer (hot)

as I hold the desert in my hands

in the winter (cold)

as the snow quivers to my touch;

as the cycles long go on and on,

fair and foul

comes and wanes

today…tomorrow, callous at my sensation.

 

POEM

how many times shall I make her come

to me

to my thoughts

to tingle, to whet my lucid dreams?

and make me feel myself…

in another time

another place

where skin to skin we lay

ourselves, abreast the touches

between us, our eyes

orbs of wonder

 

THE DEVIL CAME

the devil came to tease

with food and drink;

I grabbed him harsh and

stuck my tongue

down his throat

to suck out the manna

from deep within;

it tasted of blood salt

tasted of tin,

while he howled to God

and I spat out my sin.

 

the angel came to taunt

with love and kindness;

I squeezed at her raw and

rammed myself

into her mouth

to pump in the vim

running hot within;

it tasted of bittered salt

tasted of sweated skin,

while she moaned to herself

and I licked at her chin.

 

“HANSEL AND GRETEL”

I hope to find myself one day

along the way, and in some kind

of state that shows my story bold,

now that I’m old, that now I know

looking back, down the fruitless track

the withered path of littered self,

that I will never have again

the chance for immortality,

to see my soul returned in kind

for a generation or two

 

I KNOW WHO I AM

the mirror returns my image back to me

in hazy reflective dream

teasing constancy

of who I am, and who I was

and who I am again,

when I return the gaze

the lazy glance that falls away

from my own self true

and false I am

to see though blind

the darkest dream—

today,

tomorrow’s yesterday.

 

AFLOAT

I linger on the waves

as if alive, as if my drowning breaths

are enough to show myself

to the world, lain weightless,

asleep until the ocean

caresses me awake,

pours itself into my soul to

call its forever song, and

crash me upon its shore

singing in my tide;

where

echoes in the hollowed caves,

as if dirges, as if crowning death

might somehow be the self

be the world, slain voiceless,

sunk into the ocean

depths for our wake,

floods itself unto all souls to

quiet their forgotten songs, and

swell us onto the moors

bemoaning in our pride.

 

MY MEASUREMENTS THESE DAYS

I wonder where all the time has gone,

the inches and miles

light years

the swings around earth and sun

yards in hours in my fractions

heavy on my mind

…my measurements these days

divided and made small…

how then, to the only solace left to me,

the seconds and hours

eternal

the intimacies round you and me

moments in steps in my memory

easy on my mind

 

CHASING SHADOWS

who are they, in my skin

those dark shapes

moving where they will

slithering seething

never wanting, always needing

always in their sneaking way

ever for themselves

the ghosts in my machine;

shall I fight them

these furies

shall I bruise them

and torture myself

beat them, with

their death, and mine;

what then, in the time passed

and when, in the future past

the tolerable moments of

lucid half-thoughts

sparks between sweated dreams

and constant needling nightmares;

I breathe

and feel their strength

in the recesses

shadows, just there

in the phantoms of my mind

shadows, with their

darkenings, chasing

day by day

 

S W

standing before my image face to face

staring at the many demons who swarm,

shapes that rage their quietus in my mind

searching for the way to my destruction;

while I hope and pray for the resurrection

where the next life my brooding soul may find,

welcoming death then, feel it cold and warm

waiting for release to both time and place

 

WITH WHO? OR WHOM? AM I?

the cancer’s always there

in the background

pushing my thoughts around

it pricks its way in the background

settled in-between and ingrown

ever pushing my thoughts around

demoralization its own

constant takeover day by day

 

OVERRIPE FLESH

(LORICH)

 

I remember her flesh

the flesh of her flesh, inside—

how readily she gave it to me

how greedily I wanted it,

boy I was (to her girl);

 

we were new, fresh, yet tasting

of ancient sweat

and secret, clotted flow;

 

we lapped it up, pounded it hard

coveted it to ourselves,

for two years teen lovers,

come together in a whirl

(and for some times later,

reprise after-show);

 

I think of her almost always,

now that I’m grown old—

and wonder how it might

yet spell between us,

if she were yet alive;

 

how we might clandestine

with our low-hung

overripe flesh,

how easy we’d keep on

copulated to each other,

for two lovers all these years

to continually contrive;

to keep our lust as fresh

 

PUNISHING ROD

I murder outright, in the name of God

yet stay my hand for the Grace of the same

mercy and vengeance, absolved of the blame

my own Inquisition, punishing rod,

to make the world over in my image

Dictator, everyone bent to my will

knelt before my godhead, in my name, kill

while vying to cling to my lineage;

then will I clamor to hear their death throes

then will I dance on the bones of my foes

and desecrate the ground of their mass graves

no matter their age, elderly or youths

kicking dust into their dead open mouths

 

LOVE RAIN

it is my muse

perfect pleasure

standing naked

tortured feelings

wanton abuse

 

I love the rain

perfect pleasure

standing naked

rising feelings

coming again

 

POEM

no matter where I go,

I’m alone with my thoughts…

God may be listening,

but, He’s no conversationalist;

Comedian, maybe; but,

who likes a Jokester, whose

gags are always on us, and

whose punch lines include

fire and brimstone, plague

and pestilence?

 

no matter how I pray,

I’m alone in the end…

God may be answering,

but, not as sensationalist;

Creator, of course; but,

we’d like a Director, whose

scenes cut perfect for us, and

whose first takes include

comfort and ease, health

and happiness.

 

WHEN I’M FORTY-SIX

a simple matter of arithmetic

plays games in my head—am I middle age?

or past the half-way point, the unscrewed gage,

leaking air, and let’s face it, arthritic;

the unnerving thing, when adding subtracts,

when more years lived sums to the less remain

divided by nothing for equal gain

percentages ever zero, in fact;

so, I smash my calculator and sigh

maybe an abacas will give more thrift

the counting slowed by my creaking old hand;

and cheat the measuring over to high,

to numbers more tallying than short shrift

dividing into means, the fool’s gold-strand.

 

I MISSED MY CHANCE

I missed my chance at greatness,

my one and only chance

never to come again,

never, to come again

the life of noble Ulysses—

proud life of the one

who struggles against the self

and wins the world as prize,

to reap the just deserts

of a spent, but glorious time.

 

I wasted the gift from on High

the prayed for and granted gift

ever for my soul,

ever, for my soul

the life with fertile Lucina—

proud life with those ones

who exalt beyond the self

and give the future as present,

to sow the very rewards

of the time, most productively spent.

 

WHERE I SEE MOST CLEAR

In the night, where I see most clear

the demons and ghosts that haunt me—

my hungers, I so long to hide

from the sober light of the day.

 

Searching for the devil in me

the taste for dark sticky places

pleasures of myself to expose

to the angel who dares to watch

me as I profane the person

(the one whom I suppose to be),

the one whom I bare to the glass.

There where reflected I undress

façade of the saints’ procession,

(the way of the upright and fine),

the way of that, sordid, which I seek.

Keen but to bend on hands and knees

to serve at the altar unclean;

stripped naked for the waiting pyre

the place where I most compromise

the citadel of my virtue.

Where ill fire burns intense my skin

the offering of flesh impure,

(to that I satisfy my thirst),

to that, I swallow choking hot.

 

From the sober light of the day

I hide my ghosts and demons for

the hungers I so long to haunt

in the night where, I see most clear.

 

IF I COULD SPEAK TO ETERNITY

If I could speak to eternity

might it still not be enough,

to say of my love

for you;

dearest of my heart,

in wondrous feelings, more

than I know words, more

than I have breath to give

in the sharing of

your life,

the small time we are here—

a wisp of cloud,

drops of summer rain

a blink,

a wink,

eyes together gazed

loving you;

 

if I could speak to eternity

might heaven yet be too slight,

to tell my adoration

for you;

brightest of the angels,

in rapturous shining, more

than I can bear, more

than I have breadth to grasp

in the counting(deeming) of

your life,

the infinite moment we are one—

a twist of wind,

ferns of winter frost

a kiss,

a kiss,

lips together pressed

loving you.

 

ILLNESS/CONFIDENTIAL

They tried to keep her illness confidential;

as the HIPAA laws required.

But it leaked out through social media—

She thought it a pain in her ass.

 

Because, it was for her you see—

a matter of some delicacy;

that her condition remain unknown;

to the public en masse.

 

Alas, alack and by the by gosh darn;

The lady’s malady was too delicious—

For those needing pap vicarious

In the form of rude trespass.

 

Tee-hee and ha ha went the joke;

Around the world so fast;

That here was a person thus indisposed

With a case of rose-scented gas.

 

Ferreted out and hacked;

U-tubed, tweeted, Insta-grammed;

Our heroine hides at home,

Less a bonny, than sheltered lass.

 

That she should know better we all can say;

When found that the meme was shared—

From her smart phone to the dumb cloud—

Is it any wonder the trolls so crass?

 

Tis not enough that she smell so sweet;

As goes fair Juliet’s line.

But the world would bend down behind her now

Cue up for a whiff of her odoriferous crevasse.

 

ILLUSIONS OF GRANDEUR

I slept—and dreamed I was asleep and dreaming;

imagining likeness after likeness in a great confusion of reflections.

Reflections mirroring back onto themselves—

with my selves staring on, to my other selves.

Which of me is the delusion—

the one that is, the real delusion?

 

I thought—and mulled the thoughts I was thinking;

brooding hints in a great brood of ideas.

Ideas relearning from alternate theories—

with my theories shifting, to dispel other theories.

How much of what I perceive is my own—

the only judgment revealed, my own?

 

I spoke—and my words called while speaking;

shouting a tirade over the tirades of the great speeches.

Speeches repeating decrepit old lectures—

with my lectures orating rhetorical lectures.

Who but me, drones the loudest voice—

the whispering in my head, the only voice?

 

I searched—and found an unknown worth searching;

discovering truth upon truth in a great whorl of lies.

Lies unraveling threads of beliefs—

with my beliefs falling apart from others’ beliefs.

Where can I revive a fractured soul—

the lost and not found, prodigal soul?

 

I died—and my life continued on dying;

fading echoes of echoes, in the great moments.

Moments receding from dear loved ones’ memories—

with my memories passing to forgotten memories.

Why was I imparted this life—

the starting of but, a departed life?

 

IMMORTAL

when a memory in my little girl’s mind

a shining spark my life to be,

surrendered the brightness over

to the spark of her life to be.

 

IN MY DISQUIET

The warm humid evening draws me outside;

where fireflies spark my future

(I can almost hear them),

while the moon peeks, early risen…

 

dark visions haunt, filling

the light spaces between

leaves and branches—

the trees swallowed;

stars in their struggle to their small places

hinting of the past shining,

billions of years to my sight, to the

consciousness of my discord…

 

to my lips then, and swallow

to hold back the tide for a time,

drinking

in the backwash lee of the flood,

the numbing alcohol bringing me

closer to the farther away of

my bothered mind, and…

 

in my disquiet,

I fall away from the flashing lightning bugs,

away from the waxing moon,

away from the brightening stars;

from past and future, yet…

 

until when I shall retire;

the bitter taste of the sleeping narcotic

to sweep its soma,

its dead peace in the night…

 

perchance to dream?

 

IN PIECES COMES A LIFE

In pieces comes a life—

crawling,

running,

limping,

rolling Lying, kneeling

          youth and dying;

in pieces comes a life.

 

In pieces comes a life—

having,

wanting,

needing,

craving         Loving, hating

          great and failing;

in pieces comes a life.

 

In pieces comes a life—

stacking,

scattering,

hoarding,

wasting         Pushing, pulling

          balanced and slipping;

in pieces comes a life.

 

In pieces comes a life—

boxing,

burying,

burning,

decaying       Drifting, finding

          endless and passing;

in pieces comes a life.

 

IN THE MIRROR

my corpse, just here

as it stands in the mirror

my soul, just there

as it reflects in the glass

 

IN THOSE LEFT BEHIND

To feel again

other than regret

other than the wasting

of life gone away

 

the time by time crush of

creeping years in

rushing breaths in

years not awake to

the fleeting moment

the present moment

moments in between

 

to gather instead

to spread instead

in golden bowls

on ripened fruit

to plant that

instead

spilled into the dirt

 

of gardens there

of God’s gifts there

of idle fingers here

 

that work themselves

to pleasures often

to most often

to always shallow skin

 

and made not

the future promised

 

and made not

the pain allayed

 

and made not

the end welcomed

 

in those left behind.

 

IN WHAT GUISE

in what guise of god was I today—

with what faultless divinity

did I reign, lord and Lord;

to what planet, or star

were my thoughts arrayed,

for the universe knelt before me

in homage to my perfection…

indeed…

what man or men was I today?—

what fractured sum of days and

nights, spilled from my

creation’s hands, to fall at

feet of clay, to shod with

golden sandals, will

add up to the eternal life of

immortal soul;

in what guise of god was I today

 

JANUS DAY

Choral Concert air waves flow

blunting hard edges away;

the heavy stone grinds in tow

awake to the easy, lazy way.

Seventh Heaven this rested bliss,

tomorrow's toil its commands dismiss.

Least until the even hours —

Elysium, a brief moment is ours.

the best of days

the worst of days

Trapped in the Janus sway.

 

Peaceful in the morning glow

secure in the Host's blessed ray;

no cares the rain, nor wind-blow

aloof to the happy, sad way.

Sabbath to our labor's lost life,

a respite from the work-clock's strife.

Before the storm, the calm —

ephemeral, yet boundless balm.

skipping away

plodding away

Caught up in this Janus day.

 

JOB’S RAZOR

God has always been there for me;

in equal measure am I for Him?

 

JOY’S DEFINE

I sit aside my baby girl

and watch her fall asleep;

a finger wrapped inside the curl

of her hand, my love to keep—

while she breathes, my mind a whirl…

 

to the moment in the bliss

and true and perfect adoration;

of a moment in reminisce,

the most high exaltation—

the last before dreams, a kiss…

 

to lay the night’s darkling veil

and await the morning come;

the sun to wink its first pale

into the warm and loving home—

where I awaken, to the hail…

 

of her soft cry fair and fine

and bright and clear elation;

of her soft hand yet in mine

the most lofty relation—

her life to my soul, joy’s define.

 

KISSES MEASURED IN TEARS

kisses measured in tears to judge

resurrection of life and death

the seeing world,

and telling faith—

alpha and omega

for those who hurt,

for those who mend,

together cry and wait

and hope of restored love—

for other in their own

each their fate,

dreams and terror,

nightmares and desire

 

and kisses with sweet tastes,

to suffocate with tender,

with, crushing embrace

with arms that cry,

through storms that scream

and pull apart the seams

of raiment’s sown in silver thread,

linings of the self.

 

KNIFE WOUNDS

every needling prick a stabbing thrust

the world’s hurts sharpened knives

through skin turned to dust

the many years yet alive,

the darkened passing’s set—

loss within, without

vanity striking constant regret

while emptiness voids its doubt;

 

all these things are thus

the self-imposed hurts slashing blades

inside armor gone to rust

the scars of battles assumed,

the far distance exile met—

pain within, without

truth coursing transient subset

where nothing remains its certainty.

 

LAY DOWN COMEDIAN

he stirs at

the sound,

children laughing

at his funeral

and remembers when

he was the one

in the merriment

innocent, to what

death was contained

in the sleeping forever box

with all the frills upon it;

 

rush now,

the angels summon

him from amidst

the crying mourners

interrupting his last bow,

the children paying

their wonderful disrespects

to his corpse that

has somehow seen to smile…

only that it was

no joke of his own.

 

LIFE IS HERE

Life is everywhere

          Life is here.

Life is everywhere

          Life is here.

Who cares the microbes of Mars?

Unless a cure for cancer.

Life on Mars?—Humans.

 

LORICH (in 33’s)

 

LORELEI

hark the siren call

first touch our young love

desire come of golden dawn

held, drawn

from warm hands to toss

into the sky and make

the daylight into being

to our pleasure.

 

NEW LIGHT

moonlight glazed between us

diffusing in our eyes

stars dripping from lips

galaxies, constellations

wondrous cosmic design of

celestial resonance

humming sensual discovery

hands and mouths wanton to join

together forever amor.

 

LOVERS WATCHING

stars from chaos immortal

shine a light across

the dark emptiness

sweeping, gathering

in shapes and forms of

wandering souls forever

finding each other

in the eyes of lovers watching

side by side.

 

KISS SUPERNOVA

milky way of sensuous

diaphanous clouds

swirl from nothingness

endless, ecstatic

harmony of our spiral arms

stretching to dance ever

in the cosmic ether

time itself counting our measure

while we kiss supernova.

 

SKY LOVERS

veins opened for each other

blood to ichor

now we too are gods

mythic, fabled

sky lovers named for us

universe in our ardent story

told whenever

warm touches embrace

skin to skin.

 

TO LINGER IN THE SPACE

they come for me at night, echoes

of my thoughts, in the hollows of my mind

I wrestle them awake to lie wet

sweated through my skin

chest heaving

heart in my shaking hands, while I let

the darkness comfort me away from

fantastical shadows of the

glaring world in my head

but my eyes close, to their will

and they come again, already

creeping, in the half-sleep of our synergy;

I drift with them

paradox of conscious delusion

too tired to dream them away

daring to remain on the gauzy edges

while the phantasms taunt;

I feel their teasing sensual fingers

drawing me into their sway

until the flashing lights prick

and I know to use the strobic stings

to stir awake once more

to prove the echoes false

even as the battering pounds

at the citadel of my breast;

to settle, then, when

the first gray of morning shows behind my eyes

and pause before I rise

to linger in the space of forgetful thoughts

the glorious instant of a voided mind

 

JOE AND KEN ARE GAY

Ken was always the best man

dressed and undressed hero

taken for the ride in hand

by the virgin bride

idol for the warm and moist

kisses here—vibrations there

perfect pretty plastic;

 

while G.I. Joe runs amok

armed and unarmed rogue

marched about the playroom floor

by the child soldier

martyr for the cold and ruthless

killing here—rampaging there

faultless fighting figure.

 

MARATHON

I watch them skip their old-age chairs

not hands and knees but wheels to crawl

shuffling feet to propel them fair

vying about the passing halls;

where it seems to be enough, just

to breathe, to count the very breaths

to tally them like strokes in dust

and win the winless race to death;

I wonder then, the dread of it

life’s enduring death denial

aged now into enfeebled con,

hour by hour, day by day with it

the longview stretching out for miles

while heels and toes go shuffling on.

 

Shall I cheer them, these bumblers on

these contestant geriatrics

homebound geezers with their come-on’s

diehards teasing their little kicks;

how they taunt and zip through those that

haven’t the force to move themselves

have lost the strength, rendered old hat

and play as imps like well-heeled elves?

Shall I praise now, their false hope cheek

immortality’s lie kept fresh

in minds whose bodies can yet bear,

day after days, week after weeks

in fleeting orthopedic flesh

hailing their sprints at sidetracked years?

 

LISTENING TO TRAFFIC

AT NIGHT IN THE RAIN

sometimes I feel so, nothing,

Uninspired

everything giving up

hardships and trouble in a following mind,

laughing while crying,

here, at the close of the day

tomorrow-sailing yesterday’s wind;

but the rain at night wants me,

reasons my failing to live again

(enough while dying);

and the song was brooding,

brought me up to my down,

running with the rhythm of the rain

spinning in my head to make me smile,

as the cool spray turned on my cheek,

caught me in desire, wired,

enough to speak,

to stand the light of day

 

AFTER THE STORM

the tap tap water

dripping in the downspout,

I count the beats

matched to my breaths

the blinkings of my eyes,

the cadence of my chaos

tempered and spent,

even as the rage of its

next fit, sounded in the

gutters of my mind

 

the tap tap goes on

drumming in its course,

I quiet the percussion

close my eyes

listen to my breaths,

the workings of my machine

steadied yet tense,

aware of the storm’s

sheer power, thundered at the

shutters of my repose

 

WISEMEN

I asked the first Wiseman, how to be happy—

have children, he said;

then the second Wiseman, how to be sad—

have children, he said;

the third, the way to eternity—

have children, he said.

 

FORGET-ME-NOT

it’s the half-thoughts at the edges weigh most

carried disordered and directionless

yet reached for, despite the hurtful cost

of pushed and pulled emotions purposeless;

and thus to remind, life’s pain and sorrow

hold as much as do joy and happiness

hour by hour, morrow after morrow

by memories stolen in weariness;

how then, to that most recent common place?

where a thousand words tell a knowing glance

stretched across the days, months, years and decades;

the storied stares from a familiar face

parent, sibling, loved one by fate or chance

made a stranger, as meaning blurs and fades.

 

PUSH-PULL

I pushed back against the line, where the sun

meets its shadow, alas to no avail,

holding where there is no hold, to prevail

against the time, to try and slow its run;

Atlas, weary, forced to hold up the sky

Sisyphus, tired, condemned to ceaseless chore

Canute, burdened, humbled at the tide shore

old man, faded, myself but to defy;

yet, I breathe, and whisper God to save me,

to rescue my life

from what (for how long), for what (for how long)?

 

EVERYDAY ICEBERG

 

it’s ever the same, adrift

hour of existence melting

gray thoughts confused

while chasing elusive pillars

of ice holding up the sky

 

MEAN TO ME

You were mean to me in my dream

so I woke to the lonely night

and spoke into the darkness—

to damn your place now,

among the legion others

of nightmares hot and cold,

that burn and freeze with fire

to disturb my sleep,

my repose,

from the day-thoughts of dread and horror.

I see you there,

hanging in the shadows—

I hear you there,

asking to forgive you.

 

You were mean to me in my dream

so I recede into the corner of myself

and pray into my prison—

to cast from my place now,

among others, the legions

of demons left and right,

that scratch and strike with pain

to haunt my thoughts,

my sanity,

from the night-sleep of calm and order.

I see my self there,

hanging from the gallows—

I hear my voice there,

asking to release me.

 

QUATRAINS TO THE DAY

 

MORNING MOON

Morning twilight shine

winking through the trees

the half-faced moon, promising

the once again new day’s sun

 

EVENING SUN

evening twilight shine

pinking in the sky

the red-faced sun, delighting

the cheery next day’s proof.

 

SETTING MOON

setting twilight shroud

giving way to stars

the radiant lights, revealing

the infinite expanse of night

 

RISING SUN

rising twilight shroud

arriving with its force

the radiance of life, energizing

the glorious return of faith.

 

LIFE ON HOLD

blood drawn

into the syringe;

it never looks

different, but only

testing will tell.

 

MY SIDE OF CREATION

the cherub on its back

knocked down

cast aside

now forgotten

in the rush to fall away

from that which duly held

in working hands and fingers

in wide-searching eyes…

 

no more need for

the guardian of Eden

caretakers gone for good;

 

where I stand

my side of creation

thoughts crossing over

for that once beautiful

lush with vivid color

wonder of virgin spring

teemed in hope and possibility

and summer

with sight and smell loud

against winter’s cold silence…

 

and feel then

(in the quietus)

one as with the detritus

of the old and broken garden.

 

DRIPPING ORGIASTIC

alone in the

world just for me

to strip off my

clothes and

forever in the rain

the thousand thousand

touches alighting on

my skin, smoothing

down my body, caressing

until I am one with the

sweet gray air

thick orgiastic.

 

NIGHT HALO STRIPPED

beneath the

darkened sky, moon

in my hand caressed

from the night

cool skin dancing

in electric shine

shimmering fingers of

borealis down my body

stars sparking behind

my euphoric eyes

magnetic midnight

aroused.

 

SNOW BREATHS

the gathering of it

to me exhilarating freezing

soft touches excite down

my body, everywhere

alive, by handfuls I caress

its pureness melting

through my fingers

chest heaving crisp

fresh air made to its

base element

for my wonder

breathing arctic fire.

 

JACK FROST

January’s glass

blurred reflection

brought open

in the night

winter’s feathery

icy caress sweeping

across my skin

frozen painted pattern

teasing anew

tracing ecstatic

warm hands

down my body.

 

NEITHER BLACK OR WHITE

my worried mind swims

in the ether of gray happiness

incorporeal

neither black or white

expected

unpromised

another six months to live.

 

POEM

Safe in the refuge of distraction

all the years deluded by denial

unthinking of the end that stills us all

unready for its powerful sting

when mortality came.

 

NIGHT WINDOW

I leave the night window open for

my thoughts to drift in and out

sighing whispers on the breeze

moving to their rhythm

while moonlight rain tease their beat

in each their turn for me

laughing crying all the same

for wishes and concerns

and pointed questions why

things that matter most

are pushed aside for

soaring heroic tales

and breezy sensual pleasures

fancied candied dollops

that float among the worriment

flagging ruminations of

what was once and future gone

clouding together in my gauzy mind

my constant windblown mind

strata-shifting earth and sky

where foundation and the firmament vie

for my mind’s very eye

 

while I breathe in the sway

the currents of my thoughts

the lungs of my brain

soul of my blood coursing visions

cells in their order

in their matrix

mood of my lucid logics

wisps storming

as I dare to fly…

to sail before my dreams

 

NOT FOR ME

The day shines

 

Not for me

 

The sun casting shadows

not aside

as I stand

but over

as I lie still instead

 

And sigh my absence in

the silence of the wind

no voice no

ears no

eyes in the

rotted slots for the coins

 

That hold in someone

else’s hand

fill the pocket for

their life of today

before tomorrow calls

yesterday’s end in

the death of breath

 

Within the chest that

opened full

closed creaking on

the life decayed

 

Decomposed

the darkness dank

and blood and guts and

skin and bones and

ash and dust

 

And fading memory

faded memories

as the days shine

for them

 

Not for me.

 

NOT OF THIS WORLD

When the animals came to me

I knew I was dead,

or alive, not of this world;

whichever is best.

But then I knew it was a thought,

or wish,

whichever is best;

 

NOT ONE MORE BREATH OR BEAT

Fracture comes most comfortable

when whispers echo loud in the

place of quiet thoughts;

where self is brought to the

crushing by,

crisis existential—

 

the push and pull of

hopes and dreams,

of death no more denied

by days of light

and nights of peace,

safe in the fool’s alchemy,

in the golden idea of

immortality.

 

Truth and verity alloy the

hardness of despair,

’tis all vanity under the sun

while the moon

shows not of its own stare,

but reflection of that which shines

from some other where;

 

some other place where comfort is

in the past of yesterday,

wide horizon of future narrowed

to when sunrise of last days

are counted but to add to those

gone and let slip through

the cracks of fingers dipped into

the brackish water of life;

 

but to wet the lips,

with none but wasteful sips.

Till there at the dry shore

before the fissure opened

waiting for the laying into

the ever, nevermore;

 

thief arrived to claim what

was never owned to keep,

from time’s dark arrow

shot a bolt to perfect pierce

the heart from ordered birth;

then taken from its mark,

pulled out soon or later,

fate written on the shaft

absolute every time…

 

fame or fortune

faith or fortune

belief of mind or dispirit,

none to gain the adding on

of minute, day, year to that

decreed by fortune’s trumpet,

the end’s reveille;

when will be done—

and then for none,

not one more breath or beat.

 

NOVA CORE

I coil tightly to hold my star

to its core even

as I feel the implosion

forces beyond my control;

and hope

(and hope and pray)

to well stay the

nebulous pieces for an age

when my star explodes.

 

NOW THAT DAD’S GONE

Who shall I talk to, now that dad’s gone?

Who will hear my days retold,

champion my victories, great or small;

listen to me complain when we’re alone—

now that dad’s gone?

 

Who can I feel young around, now that dad’s gone?

Who will call me son,

reflect pride in the mirror of his eyes;

scold or try to teach when I’m wrong—

now that dad’s gone?

 

Who gives life to the memories, now that dad’s gone?

Who will refocus times past,

animate the pictures, black and white;

him, me and my brother when we three were one—

now that dad’s gone?

 

Who will anchor as elder, now that dad’s gone?

Who will stand in his place,

steady presence even in old age;

for us to rally to when we yet could belong—

now that dad’s gone?

 

Who do I care to, even, now that dad’s gone?

Who will cause me to bother,

gather my thoughts, good or bad;

away from my troubles when I fear to go on—

now that dad’s gone?

 

Who is there before me now, that dad’s gone?

Who but fate in the mirror,

grayed reflection of family;

to whom issue passes when destiny yawns…

now that dad’s gone.

 

DEATH OF A NOWHERE MAN

Coins paid, I take my place on the shore;

till the ferryman delivers me over to the Underworld evermore.

Through his realm my vagabond soul, Hades guides—

to the infinite where dead mortals remain, we stride.

 

Past the blessed and the heroes of the ages;

past the wicked souls whose eternal punishment rages;

rushed on with the hell-hound slashing at my back—

toward the pallid Meadows, on a straight tack.

 

No meaning awaits there, no beauty, no fair maids;

no companions to wed, or to storm palisades;

no warriors to stand proud and straight.

No one but one, resigned to my fate—

 

Thus commanded, for an unexamined life—

neither crawling the unpaved lanes of strife;

nor winning ascent on victory’s golden stairs.

Always in the middle ground was I, breathing stagnant air.

 

The dark shepherd begins to release his hold;

leaving only notions neither young nor old.

His icy hands the last trace of subsistence—

of the most obscure, commonplace existence.

 

Darkness descends its perpetual pall;

the last, the final, the ultimate fall.

Too late a visionary—nevermore a chance insight;

forever a castaway, from the universal light.

 

NUMBERED ROOMS

I CAN’T GET ENOUGH (SATISFACTION)

 

in rooms behind locked numbered doors

await my lust for pleasure—

brightly painted yin-yang whores…

hanging between their legs my treasure;

I stand before the golden idols sold

eyes wide with my own reflection

stripped and shaking hot and cold

minds and bodies in queer perfection;

 

on beds laid with stained sheets

comes my carnality spent—

sticky sweated girl-boy meets…

dripping between our legs my bent;

I lie beside the wooden totem crown

lips wet with my wild anticipation

sliding and soaring up and down

mouth and tongue in sheer satisfaction.

 

OCTOBER MIST

I feel the breeze sweep light upon my arms

see its breath arrive from there out afar

o’er the slate grey water rippled sea far,

morning daylight refracted fairy charms

that pique a flashing sense of unknown harms,

dragons from the silvered misty wonder

come to crush and drown, to bury under,

while the cool disc of the sun waits to warm.

 

But where am I that I have cause to fear

on my endeavor so away from land,

strength in muscles yet tested at the oars—

here in the cradle opened well to steer,

the Lady’s promise of her day’s calm hand,

with wind so perfect compassed to my shore?

 

With wind so perfect compassed to my shore

I ride the crests and slide into the troughs,

the undulations offering enough

to stay my thoughts and mind to nothing more

than morning’s quiet majesty splendor

that peels the listless muddle off as slough

and makes alive the deadened sense so rough,

and makes alive the heightened evermore.

 

Thus there I am to rove out on the lake

my searching much as under as within

to challenge silent in the fog, no qualms—

mesmerize in the disappearing wake

smile steady on, while to electric skin

I feel the breeze sweep light upon my arms.

 

O DEATH

O death

I have cheated you most grandly;

the little ones are big now,

the little little ones flit all around me—

while in my arms the little little little one

squirms its presence known.

You will take my body,

feed my soul to the netherworld,

have my end for your pleasure—

have me cold, my only company

decaying dust and bones.

But you have been deceived my friend,

robbed of your power to destroy.

 

THE ONE FOR THE ROAD

Sometimes I wonder, how it is I know

I’m on my last life, the one for the road

 

ONLY IN MY SKIN AM I

only in my skin am I

only outside looking in

where days and months and years go by

but for suffering there within

 

not ease and comfort, nay

not peace and rhythm to their call

never from them to the Way

but for the sting and gall

 

of that which sends new fears

of destruction in the wake

always with the threat of tears

but for life’s proof at stake

 

for that which cannot be set

for nothing (truly) to mine own

briefly to see and feel are met

but for a hazard’s moment known.

 

OR HAS IT BEEN FOREVER

three years

or has it been forever

my time in reincarnation

nine lives to an eternity

ten-hundred hundred

yet too few to understand

yearning for existence.

 

POEM

The past defines the future in my head

today marks the period of the end—

now and then warp at the seams…

time comes, goes and sends

its hands, at the hours to rend—

tearing apart, dreams of the dead.

 

The future taunts the past in my mind

today calls the infinite to the end—

always and never clutch at the beams…

fate comes, goes and lends

its fortunes, at the years to bend—

pushing along, memories of the kind.

 

 

The fall denies the rise in my chest

age blots the breadth to the end—

body and soul bleed at the edges…

breath comes, goes and sends

its gasps, at the heart to rend—

tearing apart, thoughts of the blessed.

 

The rise mocks the fall in my frame

age whispers the boundless to the end—

life and death hang at the ledge…

spirit comes, goes and lends

its prayers, at the core to bend—

pushing along, remembrances of the same.

 

PAST LIVES

sometimes

when I’m breathing

I feel them

hanging in the spaces

of my mind

shifting shining shadows

at the edges of

my selves, diffusing

elusive corporality’s;

 

are they come oftener

are their silent calls louder

when I’m stilled, ever-moving

through the thousand thousand

drifted lucidities

just behind my consciousness?

 

do they speak into my dreams

(shall I dare to hear them)

haunting echoes

hushed sirens tolling

desperation, pleading

madness, against the

immutable loans of time, the

too-many spokes in the wheel,

destination always circling

back, forward and reverse the same?

 

…I wonder at the task

if I can hate enough

this (last) life,

this last one for the corpus

with its mortal construction

self-awareness tempting

avarice, pride, the lost or gained

well-examined life, as the

incessant tortured soul,

always needling death

always taunting destruction

always teasing paradise

from the dregs of damning hell;

 

but then, the thought—

I’m dying (maybe I am dead already)

and shall I know their prodding at me

the one (hero for the ages)

to throw off the yoke to rebirth

stamp out the smoldering

remembrances, the fine tastes of breath

the touch and feel of

hand to hand

mouth to mouth

flesh to flesh;

 

and, to be determined

at my (our) going forth, to

see the path of no return, to

know enough then, to

give up

give in

give over

(trust)

and cause to cease the sufferings of

tormented selves between

the redress of (even)

simple contentment’s…

 

DREAM #21,915

plastic raindrops gather

at my leaden feet, stumbling

the macadam road,

burnt trees as

lifeless sentries mark the way

escape of my mind

sight and sound combined;

real is not real

pleasure is but pain

 

plastic raindrops gather

in my hardened hands, aching

the leaden load,

burnt offerings as

life talismans fall away

wearing of my senses

sight and touch misplaced;

pain is but pain

pleasure is not real

 

MONOLOGUE

wasn’t that I understood

but overwhelmed by it, the

feeling that I thought I knew

struck me where I would not go,

the somewhere that cries the soul

kept hidden by denial

that once turned out could never

hide its wreck away again,

and then, to be born again

or, dead, to begin again

karma wailing out its might

to break and then humble me,

to cause me to introspect

with thoughts feebly vain unknown

yet known, of course, some pity…

for he whose death bed has warmed.

 

in the world nothing new, but, so

for me, the first, and only

death watch to my existence

to my extinction even,

where non-existence lies foul

mere remembrance on trial

to think that I could ever

cheat my death to live again,

how then, to hear tell again

and, loved, to be there again

memory calling its fate

to shine and then honor me,

to well have me be esteemed

with ideas so wonderful

remembered, maybe, some while…

this he who will soon lie cold.

 

HONEYED WORDS

sings a chorus and I follow

a little behind the refrain

verses of salvation hollow

catching in my throat, and again;

I feel the welling, taste the pain

at once on my tongue so fallow

bitter words in the mouth of Cain

I choke on them, forced to swallow;

and hums once more, the hymn’s reprise

inviting me to its canon

beset and silent on my knees

voices echo their abandon;

I hear the droning, swarm of bees

mouth open while I falter on

honeyed words of sweet, sticky tease

I spit at them, manna undone.

 

UNDER THE LIMBO BAR

I dropped it and it made no sound

falling through silvered clouds, my soul,

to break upon the barren ground

as sterile rain, not quite so foul,

as that which brought me to my fate

to cause the storm that slipped my grasp

while hesitating at the gate

for the flicking tongue of the asp;

the sole feeling calling me back

to the world of pleasure and pain

arousal for the middle track

with the sense of myself so vain,

adrift forever in my place

half-life sensual damnation

no sight, no sound, only the trace

of god-spark in my creation.

 

MOSQUITO BITES

was a moment when I told myself I was brave enough

(some would say, coward)

there on the grass, among the pieces of my mother’s

cremation bone scattered, yet mineable in the hard,

unwatered sod, miniature urn of my father’s ashes loose

in one hand, fingers tight around annihilation in the other;

the grandkid’s swing hung, still, teasing on its rope

from the limb stretching out, the lowest arm,

of the many planted decades from my past…

 

night sky drew me away from myself, as the

insect buzz cried its best to ground me, replace my

displaced ego, my destroyed id, for the organism process

simple drive for life;

I cried myself, because I wanted to, sadness my friend,

the one who might take me in its grasp, help squeeze

what will remained—

to death

to release…

 

the moment fell away for the stabs at my arm, my face,

fell away then, where I breathed

into the dark ether and the small light of the stars,

into the vast wasteland, the echo of my mind…

 

I carried my exhaustion back inside, on leaden feet,

uncertain emotions before me, senses numbed

but for the two stings, itched then

with their simple drive to life.

 

POEM

the world doesn’t care if I scream

neither, that I may live at all

the toughest lesson at the end

of life, the fragile waking dream;

I guess it should not matter, no

this indifference around me

around us all, in our loneness

the scores of voices silenced so—

quieted for the shouts of death

in thoughts so readily unheard

by muted rites of funeral mass

time’s tolling in each hiss of breath;

while shadows cast from sun and moon

pass days and nights in hazard’s fate

nothing ever to halt the spin

of parting midnight, parting noon;

and suffer on until I must

either, that I may death deny

or learn submission at the end

of life, ashes to molding dust;

I hope that it should matter, yes

this acceptance to what was me

what was anyone, our oneness

the countless others born to less—

hidden for the terrors of life

in wonders so easily displayed

by dancers of parading mirth

moment’s masking each fit of strife;

as weeks past from months and years

spent seconds and minutes in waste

nothing ever to lift the weight

of crushing worries, crushing fears.

 

COMFORTED CREATURE

sunrise and sunset all the same

to show the days and nights that come

and go, moments withered to blame

wasted in the comfort of home,

where warm and cold lay out their hand

to ease a life, hardship and pain

and offer joy to those who stand

dry and ordered out from the rain;

so, in this house of sturdy brick—

shall I be of so troubled mind

both for tempests within, without,

that may but irritate and prick

in measure of the needling kind

while softened so, from life’s hard bouts?

 

KILLER KING

I wonder how the sun will rise

the day I die

will it blaze red

will it shine at all

will it cast the shadow

of my body

so low to the ground

will it reflect in the smoke

of my ashes rising, or

beam in pride at

my passing,

king that I was

 

I wonder how the sun will set

this day I die

will it blush pink

will it glow at all

will it last the darkness

of my mind

so close to the peril

will it reveal in the sight

of my hopes falling, or

hide in shame at

my murder,

killer that I am

 

POEM

the whole of my world is that she loves me

calls me from myself, my subtractive mind

the thought of never another to find

who thinks it wondrous to love only me,

how miraculous then to hear her plea

reaching in for my heart, gentle and kind

holding it in her enduring love’s mind

and say her love mine, the only to be;

yes, she is the whole of my world, my love

more than if I lived forever could know

more than the breadth of all discovery,

yes, she has dragged the heavens from above

our new-made stars, time without end to show

our new-made world, for all eternity.

 

POEM

there you go again, stealing

my day for thoughts of you,

that you would be so easy, to

send me lovely pictures…

your stare, quite so flirting, in

your young woman way

 

53 MARY ME

I hold them just so in my hands

each one the same voice passing

through my waiting fingers smooth

and inviting lingering between

the one before and next while

the chant takes me on and on

not quite a circle seeks the arc,

yet by and by the mysteries

not quite interrupt but sign

the peaceful reverent procession

the silent whispers waxing on and on

touch by sliding touch, each

one the same still offering

I drift so in my harmony.

 

FOR MY BELLISSIMA

so much time I spent

simply loving you

the days on years only wanting you near

fearing to keep you safe

holding you close

breathing on the thought of

you falling asleep in my arms

the wonderful peace brought to my nights

and light happy mornings as you woke anew

bright hours playing, reaching for you

teaching and catching, kissing your nose…

it seems now

I don’t quite know what to do

that you’re a woman grown

what to say, what to ask

all that I do, to see the everywhere

my heart yet waits for you, my

sweetness and light

how to let go your little girl’s hand held…

perhaps enough, then

maybe no words are needed

to what goes on

what we have, what we share

unbroken space between us

 

“FEED YOUR HEAD”

if I could scour my brain free

of the memory,

hear again, for the first time

the simple, haunting words

vaulting, haunting voice

driving, haunting melody

 

if I could clear my eyes free

of the vision,

gaze anew, flawless image

the perfect, striking looks

dazzling, striking pose

stunning, striking beauty

 

INCARNATIONS

I think I can sometimes feel

the vibrations, evoking,

death come, again and again,

specters of lives past, pushing

forward to the otherness

of my reason, for our release;

I listen then, for their sounds,

keens I imagine,

sighing whisperings of tortured selves,

wanderers fraught and pleading

onward from the wilderness

of fate, for me to our end;

 

yet on they drone, dissonance,

asides to the selfish soul

of my vanities, that ring

in echoed ears, and tingle

at my fingertips, pleasures

of greedy senses, eager

across this skin that insists

to be my own, flesh desire, where

future breaths of ages past

in fearful prayers hoped for,

deny them to their places,

death’s cold, welcoming summons.

 

OMG

moon added its light to my soul

same as the darkness its shadow

everything in its order

in its proper place

absolute cause and effect,

by the scientific made discernible;

by math, by chemistry, by biology…

how could it be otherwise

in the perfect duality of the universe;

 

yet by evolutionary thinking then,

thought should be otherwise

by math, by chemistry, by biology…

by the scientific indiscernible;

no tangible effect by cause,

created in the ether between

Godspark and sapience

back to that was before all what

not how, but—why?

 

TREES

here, on this Easter Sunday

with thoughts of Jesus risen from the dead

there to hang up on my wall

cross of wood, made from that

at Gethsemane, olive tree,

to watch me (all my hidden faults)

to tend my soul

while I give remorseful prayers…

then, on this Easter Sunday

with thoughts of my descending to the dead

when to hang up on the wall

images of life, moments from that

at legacy, family tree,

to remember me (all my faults hidden)

to grant my soul

while they offer mournful prayers.

 

AMBIDEXTROUS

I see you through this solid door

shut tight and locked to the outside

in my house built ceiling to floor

with walls to segregate and hide

your world from stealing into mine

while I read my ism diatribes

against the wrong-view of your kind

corrupted (left-wing) (right-wing) tribes;

thus your cause, judgment, point of view

misaligned counter to my own—

how dare you breathe in my lifetime,

the faultless life of my purview

where sticks and stones gathered and thrown—

lay bloodied on the streets sublime.

 

AND AGAIN FOREVER

hope, shattered

failings push and prod

wear at

force down

break, and again

weakening strength

spirits smashed and lost

forever;

joy, inundated

troubles swamp and flood

rush at

drown under

erode, and again

submerging faith

pleasures swept and gone

forever.

 

SELFIE-STICK

colors black and blue

my self-portrait

dark dreary tones

gloom of my failings

unexamined life as such;

blurred impressionistic strokes

distort the mirrored image

staring back so clear, slit eyes

squinted against judgment’s harsh light

concealing

revealing

(so much, the self-pity);

how then, to frame myself

artist, patron

god or man

to hang on the wall

nailed to a beam

shrouded from others, yet

let opened when

I need to show to the world

the scars

(so proudly)

hidden within

 

POEM

I prayed that God might raise me from the dead

even while breathing, heart beating alive

struggling to my existence, to survive

to long cast away dread thoughts in my head,

just not enough left, my senses worn dead

not enough joy to lift me up alive

no spark remaining, prodding me survive

far past the hollow darkness in my head;

but there, emptiness echoes, and again

sounding and sounding the depths to despair

surrender offering peace at the end,

and there, fullness perhaps to live again

rising and rising devoid of despair

rapture shining salvation to my end.

 

FLASHING

head afire, thoughts burning bright

aurora flashing for me in the cool night

shimmering colors, teasing sight

bands of wondrous luminous light,

knees quiver, legs weaken and shake

sky pulled down right onto the lake

I sweep my hand and make myself

believe I stand awash in the wake;

heaven above, firmament’s widening span

borealis over the small space of my solitary man

towering notions, tracing divine plan

swirls of infinite spirits dance as they can,

emotions welled up charging my will

bared to the waist inviting night’s chill

electricity across my skin to thrill

I spread out my arms, gather soul’s fill.

 

DARK WINDOWS

inviting to the open window

sweet earthen clay smell

ancient, yet new-made for me

rain

to my senses, light upon my being

gentle pulse through the screen

on my face

empty eyes open to the nothingness

to my outer self, to see

the shapes of clouds brought cool

down to me on the wind

through windows bright and fine

fingers swept upon the panes awash

tears

the shape of rain

now soft and hard…

where I sit and feel the darkness opened.

 

POEM

it’s not until regained

then lost again, that

hope it is truly lost—gone,

for resignation

no one’s listening

none to answer prayers

 

POEM

the air around me grows lighter

perhaps this time, not so in vain

hands at my arms gripping tighter

squeezing for the beautiful pain

pain that takes me away from pain

dread thoughts in a vise grip tighter

 

the time around me falls unused

to empty air, to downcast years

despair squeezing a life abused

unrelenting hands clenched in fears

fears that grip me tighter with fears

dread thoughts in a vise let abused

 

NOT LONG TO BE

the pit opens wider in front of me

beckoning even as it terrifies

release as much annihilation’s cries

ceaseless dirge resounding—not long to be,

not much longer in the ways of living

not strength, nor quick of the mind anyway

day by day the timeless going away

age and infirmities unforgiving;

and as the yawning chasm echoes its taunt

I hear my own voices, laughing, crying

prayers the same into hands pressed to tears,

prostrate and lowing while elegies haunt

my life’s resignation, sighing, dying

lamentations surround, as the edge nears.

 

THE LAST RAID

the robin gave out its high-pitched warning

I wondered at it, took offense to it

working at my business aside, to wit

thinking maybe it but a forewarning

not to get too close, to where…I don’t know

from its perch atop the fence post nearby

turning its head to stare into my eyes

making it certain that I saw its show;

I went to it and it flew to the ground

looking back to me and squawking again

warning, no—it was alarm I saw then

the robin egg blue aside on the ground

while it implored me again and again

to be its savior, and not monster then;

 

but the egg was in a place hard to get

other side of the tall security fence

I knew in course, I couldn’t save it hence

not from the junkyard nighttime rodent set

and it seemed to know as I shook my head

the robin quieted, still standing guard

by the egg blue in the ugly scrap yard

instinct understanding its brood was dead;

I understood too, the screeching blackbird

saw it fly to where I found out the nest

where I chased it away from its new raid,

all afternoon round robin and blackbird

chase when I could, to help defend the nest

but for the moment, until the last raid.

 

TRUMPETS

what has God in need of trumpets

as if announcing strumpets

or traveling minstrel blow

jester’s entertaining show?

come now, God but a larker

three-ring carnival barker

Creator of everything

melodramatic plaything?

with a mere wave of the Hand

could God destroy every land—

so, why silly theatrics

you unconscious eclectics?

seriously, why would God

deign to herald end of Nod,

wandering place for us all

announcing it, a bingo call?

 

HERE NOW

sun shone bright behind the rain

sparkling shower of jewels

drawing me pleasant and fine

to stand in the bright and cool,

and for the moment away

every thought beaten for wear

even for the little while

gone to the brilliant prayer,

benediction of plainsong

invocation for my self

sounding in my ears sublime

wondered in my sight enough,

to make my troubling mind stay

the bothered fears, death returned

for Glory’s uplifting shine—

I’m here now, to my concern.

 

POEM

what a dumb bee—

everyone knows you don’t make a

nest in the screw hole of a leaf blower;

I killed it for its stupidity.

 

what a greedy rabbit—

everyone knows you don’t eat the

raspberry bushes down to the ground;

I killed it for its gluttony.

 

what a pushy starling—

everyone knows the bird feeders

are for finches and nuthatches;

I killed it for its aggression.

 

what a mean squirrel—

everyone knows you don’t raid

robin’s nests to get at their eggs;

I killed it for its savagery.

 

POEM

sounds of life

as sounds of death

a cough

a moan

hum of the oxygen generator

monotony

breath in; breath out

 

thoughts of death

as thoughts of life

a belief

a trust

faith of the rosary beads

monotony

breath in; breath out

 

DARK AIRWAVES

tuned into the horror, when I flipped on

the radio, where in place of music

was talking—not news, weather, nor traffic

instead blather, inane, every station,

determined so, to pollute the start of

my day, here in discord of morning

with talk-talk—nothing said, bright and shining

but dull wit, simple minds, obtuse thereof;

and here I am to judge this disarray,

to condemn such nonsense as to listen

to talking headless voices gag along,

with vapid thoughts made to disrupt the day,

 

POEM

I wondered if I could

turn my tears into rain,

to bring life instead of

sad thoughts to death

with lightning charging

my vision, to see again

my will, to feel again

 

GO GENTLE INTO THE BRIGHT CURRENT

I wondered how it would be, tears to rain

floods to life instead the sad thoughts to death

the dreary drowning away of last breath

washed clean in the tide of salvation’s pain,

pure and piercing, pouring over fear’s sane

overwhelming end, the sodden withered wreath

above the dank, dark earthen-covered sheath

where dew-grass as memories dry and wane;

then fall tears, pour out for the life wherein

death teases its everlasting torrent

and catch in outstretched hands the holy grail

God’s inundation of the soul within,

and go gentle into the bright current

into heaven’s light, easy flowing vale.

 

WHEN IN POMPEII

twisted and

frozen

petrified while petrified

their anguish…

my anguish…

I can’t tell;

crouched and

hovelled

ruins in ruins

their bones…

my bones…

I can’t tell.

 

CHOOSE WISELY

(INK UP)

 

you say the real you

is in those pictures—

is your blood then,

of ink?

I can’t get by the

beautiful ugliness

splayed across

your skin, pictures

of loneliness, crying

out for attention,

uniqueness beyond

yourself in the world

grown so homogeneous

by sheer weight of numbers;

how am I to see you,

in your pretentiousness,

so on display…you, there,

behind the illustration…is that,

really? you,

in that uninspired symbol

(oh so trite) the colored

plea to the mirror of your

pictured self

 

COMMONNESS

there’s a commonness to the way I breathe

soughing ocean wind that falls from on high

though drifts with no more meaning than a sigh

to the gods’ nova stars that rage and seethe;

hoary breath carried mist upon the sea

silvered wisps of transient life alone

floating dissipating moment and gone

inhale, exhale, again, for just to be;

for just to be, a life, the life, my life

among the others brought forth by a nod

into the flowing universal cry

to breathe the common sameness of our strife

in the drowning flood of a lonely God

Who whispers loudest when our tides run dry.

 

HERE AND THERE, I AM

in a dark sky

stars abloom

I see myself in shape and form

the god of my universe

god of, the universe

everywhere, I go to be

utterly impatiently

there I am, waiting for me

utterly uneasily…

 

by a seaside

tides aflow

I drown myself in heart and soul

a man of my world perverse

man of, the perverse

everywhere, I run to be

utterly impatiently

here I am, inside of me

utterly uneasily…

 

in the bright sun

shine above

I move myself in shadow form

the ghost of my machine

ghost of, the machine

everywhere, I think to be

utterly impatiently

there I am, in search of me

utterly uneasily…

 

by the fire

flames aglow

I throw myself in piece by whole

a maker of my world obscene

maker of, the obscene

everywhere, I long to be

utterly impatiently

here I am, in spite of me

utterly uneasily

 

HEAVEN LASTS ONLY A MOMENT

the fork was there

this way, that

that way, this

I wasn’t sure how I knew

down both paths, I would die,

but there it was

knowing my fate was sealed

even if the story untold

from then to when I would be old;

the fog was everywhere

this way, nothing

that way, naught

I was certain now I knew

the path was gone, I was dead,

and here it is

knowing my life was over

even if for only a moment

before my consciousness would be gone

 

TO ANYWHERE

in the torture

of my mind

are the voices of my many selves

at the crossroads

the divide

where I stand before myself

contemplating

on a life

drained and barren emptiness

as the gray world

closes in

screaming down from the beyond

how I long, for some relief

from the void of lost belief

to anywhere outside the dread

anywhere, to peace instead

 

I’m wondering

if I’ve squeezed

all I could out of this life

and then living

just to breathe

as my body takes up space

in the shallow

of myself

spent and left in loneliness

dark the world

has come to be

creeping up from underneath

how I long, to be released

from the pull of the deceased

to anywhere inside the strain

anywhere, to feel again

to anywhere beside the dead

anywhere, to feel instead

 

LOVE’S EMBRACE

on my kiss

your lips soft

to take me above the clouds

where I float

heaven’s bliss

held fast in your loveliness

the perfect touch

shared with you

skin to skin in love’s embrace

as we breathe

each other’s breaths

falling in and out of ourselves…

here we are, mad to be

lying together bared and free

to place our stars one by one

new constellations never alone

 

and on my body

your arms smooth

tight to me around my back

where you drown me

rapture’s flood

tides in all our fullness

your flawless touch

caressed to me

hips to hips in love’s embrace

while we whisper

each other’s sounds

moving in and out of ourselves…

here we are, mad to be

lying together bared ecstasy

to thrill in waves one by one

upon new oceans two of us alone

 

MONOLGUE (2)

I railed at the black and blue sky

stabbed with my lightning rods sent high

slashed again until it rained blood

bled golden on my pain a flood,

searing hot over rips and tears

festering wounds my earthly years

open, self-cut my mortal hands

life poured out onto desert sands,

a life, so vainly held my own

despoiled so readily cast down

my flesh for calloused naked gods

their bolts eager to strike at odds;

 

I hear their laughing humor drone

at my rants, but a man alone

against their supreme, divine will

humoring me the blood I spill,

rending their sky with mighty blows

all while scheming me to the crows

an easy, sacrificial mark

my life to them a silly lark,

their cold fingers tight at my throat

breathing fire to snicker and gloat

my constant pall to worriment

struggles to disillusionment;

 

I let my bloodied arms fall slack

straightened my oozing, welted back

loosened my grip, the rods aside

dropped the weapons and stood bestride,

the broken pieces of my rage

pieces of my life’s shattered age

the counting’s of my beings’ worth

that I would know myself in truth,

truth that screams at godhead in hate

curses life’s piercing random fate

shouting, kicking, never at rest

pounding at the fire in my breast;

 

I feel my pains ease, a strange muse

my only companion, abuse

the exquisite sting for so long

beating myself against the throng,

crashing hard at unbothered walls

fighting the ghosts of Eden’s fall

until spent from the futile fray

fighting the sky both night and day,

the many demons in my dreams

nightmares that tear at unhealed seams

pouring out my damning fury

at my sentence without jury;

 

I see the gold edging the clouds

sun god winking silent out loud

teasing at me to calm my rants

let go my wanton arrogance,

that the pantheon would then wield

their divine largesse thus to yield

by their decrees prudent and wise

and impart life’s only real prize,

to dry my blood and ease my wounds

and cause the winds to well resound

with sighing tales of my bold, vain wars

while I brandish conceited scars;

 

I wonder then, who I’m to be

that the vainglory is not me

that it is no longer my fate

to feel only my will to hate,

what then, to an alien thought

that I am thus now newly wrought

that never again shall I fight

the one reflected in my sight,

and then, with the fairest of skies

that may empty my jaundiced eyes

that I may see my life made dead

by dulling the gods in my head;

 

I draw away my confused gaze

shake my brain to trial the haze

against the clearing of my wrath

against the smoothing of my path,

against the unconfessed repose

to never to myself expose

again the naked flesh of Nod

flaunting myself as Cain, as god,

who screams and claws at the unseen

demands the four winds cease their keen

of lamentations for my soul

the broken specter of my soul;

 

I breathe the fire rekindled bright

set my will, clench my fists in might

scream again for the thunder gods

take up again my warring rods,

to make them bleed my sacrifice

the riotous strikes, once, twice, thrice

calling the sky my martial Muse

clouds lit red, looming our abuse;

everywhere at once to give way

Mars and Venus held in my sway

tempering myself fire and rain

crucible of exquisite pain;

 

I charge to the soaring tower

rush the steps in all my power

star child, the infinite wonder

earth’s first born, riven asunder,

sneering at their temporal grace

my selfish scorn for their high place

challenging my torn soul for fault

cast down the celestial vault,

stars to bleed and planets to come

my raw flesh sticky with their sum

they, who would sneer and scorn my place

my torn soul falling from their grace;

 

I strain against the acid air

the burning twilight of despair

the darkening enshrouding me

the hellfire Furies around me,

closing in to crush my hubris

my challenging of Nemesis

goddess of annihilation

my disregard at damnation,

eager for my judgment to fall

to crash again against the wall

Samson’s pillars down on my head

by my own strength shall I be made dead;

 

I spit at the foulness grabbing

at my throat, icy pangs stabbing

at my breast, burning bolts stinging

at my self, screaming and swinging,

torn flesh at my feet, will be done

in my life, that all is but gone

in my life, everything other

in my life, destroyed for bother,

the unsettling truth, impatient

death is here, as such complacent

death is here, by my damning curse

death is here, in my head the verse;

 

I chant it then, charged to my will

its cadence driving me on still

to the edge of the gilded crown

daring angels to cast me down,

deny to heaven he who rails

against the span of winds that wail

and scorn and reel around my form

and scorn and threaten with their storm,

I smash with final strength of arms

the strength of bearing all their harms

until my shattered life is won

until myself and life are one

 

POEM

I was brought away

high from the earth

past the moon looking down

surrounded by stars

joined in the sway

the swing of planets

Saturn’s rings a crown

the warmest feeling

deepest coldest space

not a sole someone else

not a thought past infinite sky

 

I was buried absent

low in the earth

down the grave silencing past

surrounded by worms

disjoined from the present

the breath of whispers

God’s voice at long last

the brightest freeing

oldest darkest place

not a single bother else

not a worry past eternal soul

 

POEM

the salty sweat where my lips greet your skin

from the place where your throat to your breasts bends

down to where the smooth of your stomach ends

to draw out the taste of you deep within,

here, and there, and here again, where you squeeze

the back of my head to hold me just there

the pleasure is most for your everywhere

against the craze of my purposeful tease;

I feel the waves and you tighten your grip

my mouth and throat spilling with your release

the uncontrolled shuddering to your core,

the orgasm recoiling from your pumping hips

transferred to me, coming as your caprice

both of us in want, more, and only more.

 

POEM

the thief came for me in the night

stole my soul as I lay asleep

yet I felt no change in the light

of morning, neither charge nor creep

nothing in me to feel the loss

 

it was a light exchange

my nothing soul for junk

and I awaited night again to arrange

the rest, either blood or spunk

everything in me drained to naught

 

the angel reached for me in my plight

stole my sleep as I lay dreaming

but I shook awake from the sight

of heaven, unconsciousness streaming

nothing in me to halt the oblivion

 

it is a welcome derange

my sweet dream for nightmare

thus I called upon the strange

to come, consciousness beware

everything in me wasted to nonexistence

 

POEM

 

one sweep of the hand

is but a life

 

POEM

“I’m ready for it,” I whispered into the air. “Please come.”

It was strange how easy the peace of it.

Beyond acceptance.

Cancer.

Before surrender.

Cancer.

Anticipation.

Cancer.

Welcoming anticipation.

Cancer.

 

PERFECT FLOWER

he was for me, stiff in the perfect place

long hair real, and tiny breasts perfect, too

smooth across her skin, smooth across his face

I breathed faster, reveling in the view

 

he was for me, stiff in the perfect place

I breathed faster, reveling in the view

smooth across her skin, smooth across his face

long hair real and tiny breasts perfect, too,

 

BORN BOY

I wonder how my life would be

had I never been born

never to wonder of myself

on this or yestermorn,

never in my life to choose

this path or some other

not to know a father’s name

nor the embrace of mother;

how then shall I view the world

through the past or future

God’s plans ever shrouded

scars over cuts sutured,

that bleed no more yet remind

of hurts that tell I survived

into this skin so fragile born

my one and only chance to be alive

 

STORY (IN)COMPETENCE

 

DERIVATIVE

he’s here to die, to deceive

protagonist in danger

she’s here to lust, to receive

antagonist in anger;

mindless entertainment—can it be so?

watcher brain dead,

reader inert as un-kneaded dough,

imagination plain as bleached white bread;

it’s okay, this lazy storytelling

no one’s paying (real) attention

to the dimwitted short-selling

of feeding pap invention;

everything in a cliché

dialogue cut-and-pasted

characters and plot so blasé

an evening or more, wasted.

 

CONTRIVED

he’s there to lie, so you will believe

the drivel portrayed to her

she’s there to trust, so you will conceive

the one to kill is but a cur;

worthless life-stealing—can it be so?

reader brain dead,

watcher torpid as unbaked cookie dough

imagination stale as crumbled toasted bread;

well and fine, this dull retelling

no one with any (real) retention

to the slowwitted fire-selling

of boring pop convention;

nothing but tired sceneplay

editing cut short-waisted

roles and theme so astray

any original thought lambasted.

 

ATHENA BROUGHT FORTH

shall she be born of her father’s forehead

instead her mother pregnant with her choice

while angels swirl around her and rejoice

the nascent life brought forth from the undead,

her kindled soul upon the earthly plane

where seeds of her own children lie fallow

among sterile transient vessels shallow

before the cremation fires of the slain?

yet, shining in her silvered breastplate bright

against an apathetic world so stark

along her way, a mighty warrior waif,

who stands then perfect in the golden light

apposed to those left silent in the dark

her place among the living gods made safe.

 

POEM

 

I wonder how many stories in my head

will die when I’m dead

 

NINE PIN SPLIT

shall you charge me to this burden

my vote to cast when life is not

or when it is too late by lot

the supreme birthright to person;

compel me to be so certain

who is what, and then what is who

you are now, and then when were you

my judgment declared as sermon;

so then, I’ll make myself no more

your weary court authority

when you can state your case as one

in the fifty-fifty out-roar

rumpus minor majority

and leave me rest in peace alone.

 

LIFE

 

gamete what, and then gamete who

zygote now, and then zygote you

 

POEM

 

I wonder if my soul’s aware

of how bad I treat its body

whether to scream for me beware

or shrug when I disembody

 

PAPA

 

is more needed?

Marisa loves me.

 

POLAR APPOSITE

mood sets in,

eerie,

as when pink snow under

winter’s evening red sky—teasing

delight for the morrow—

turns to blue

for the brooded sailor in my mind;

adrift

with the darkness of

titanic ice mountains towering

moon shadows over

a castaway soul;

slipping into icy waters

sliding

along the icebound

haunt, slippery from the clinging

growth, the ancient dross

that slimes away the grasp

of fingers red from blood,

the dross itself of weakened hands

that pray to unseen gods

to free from the far glacial expanse,

the unquiet arctic passage,

for that warming

elusive

single thought…

calm.

 

PRESENTS UNDER THE TREES

What a gift, May snow…

no shoveling, no scraping;

fine white six-sided landscaping,

giving way to June’s glow.

 

For how often in one’s lifetime

will winter’s trace mix with sunrays

so near spring’s warmest days,

breathing a season’s meantime?

 

WHISPERS

to draw her close and breathe

into her places

 

PROSTRATE WITH FOLDED HANDS

(Wisdom 4:19)

 

Soul shone through

the prism of pain;

darkness refracting

monster shadows in the sky;

stars taunt their small light,

to earth borne under

storms of bleeding rain;

submerging a broken life

prostrate with folded hands,

in pools of torment reflecting

the devil’s eye amid

ripples announcing a cry in the air;

ululations of angels rushing by,

barren arms outstretched;

vainly clutching;

for falling detritus

of matter unmade.

 

Shapeless drape

of black shroud lain;

candlelight refracting

mourners shadows on the wall;

tears lament their shrill cry,

to him gone under

shovels of filling earth;

burying a spent life

prostrate with folded hands,

in tombs of repose reflecting

the angel’s grace amid

echoes carrying a wail in the air;

requiems of mourners kneeling by,

knotted fingers embraced;

vainly praying;

for rising ghosts

of souls remade.

 

QUANTITY OF LIFE

the obituary doesn’t show

the many years of pain

doesn’t tell

how all the strength

of blood and guts

outlived a failing, addled brain;

 

the coffin won’t display

the final resting place

won’t reveal

when all was left

of hope and love

faded on a tortured face;

 

the memories don’t know

the long sheet of one’s scroll

don’t see

where all the thoughts

of regret and dread

crushed a soaring, assured soul;

 

the belongings can’t replay

the infirm lasting strife

can’t accord

what all was wrought

of fear and sorrow

exacted on a labored life.

 

RAIN IN MY EYES

I thought I was all cried out, no more tears

to shed, for the days and nights gone by;

must be but the rain, watered in my eyes

flowing as the end comes swift

even when forever it comes,

 

REAL ESTATE

 

Venus and Mars—

we own them both.

 

RAIN, HERE, AT NIGHT

rain, here, at night

 

the smell…

fresh as everything

 

I lie awake to the opened window,

in harmony with my soul’s content;

the mist, shimmering, coming

to me, open,

everywhere, flesh rises to the chill

aroused, all my senses charged,

brought out of me

 

past the thousand beads that

catch as jewels on the glass,

necklaced in rivulets snaking down

everywhere, reflections, tantalizing,

streetlamps, signs of neon colors,

headlights, taillights, cars and vans

and trucks as ships, that churn and spray,

yet leave no trace in their wake

 

and hypnotizing sheets hissing,

seething washing splutter to the ground,

running, streaming into puddles all around,

dancing to the strumming rhythms of the shower;

allegro to adagio,

everywhere, my pulse follows

the lively tempo beating in my breast,

the soothing expressions in my mind

to slow and fall away

 

one,

then, together;

the night in whispered silence,

quiet of my breaths coming,

as lingering drops at my lips

 

rain, here at night,

 

the taste…

sweet as anything.

 

RELATIVE

I woke up and thought it Thursday;

the calendar told different, Wednesday.

But when everyone said no, Saturday,

I decided to go along.

 

I looked up to see in the clouds, months,

the mind's eye then drifting them, weeks.

But when they imagined to years,

I ran about in circles, headlong.

 

I checked to make sure yet November,

the page not fallen back, October.

But when told no, December,

I questioned the sky to be wrong.

 

I spied to be sure the passage of time,

the opinion proved by constant schedule.

But when everything still seemed out of measure,

I yelled tempus fuckit and broke out in song.

 

RELATIVITY

If we stopped keeping track of time,

would our lives then seem so short?

Or, is it because of our close watch of time

we strive for immortality, adding year upon year?

Life expectancy but a dream—

hope in the beginning, reflection in the end.

If only I could stand in Einstein’s vacuum—

never aging, never ending…

Seeing all things passing before me—

equations of both space and time.

 

If I stopped worrying about the passage of time,

would I live longer without this escort?

Or, is it because of my fear of lost time

I strive to fill my coffin, adding year upon year?

Life is but a waking dream—

reflection in the beginning, hope in the end.

If only we could all live forever—

never aging, never ending…

Seeing all future’s laid before us—

celebrations of time and space.

 

RESONANCE OF SPHERES

the resonance of spheres

that go round earth

and sun, and moon

and stars—

at once teasing

at once taunting

echoes of music

universal

I feel them ever

hear sometimes

vibrations

always playing…

 

REVEL IN THE NEW DAY’S SUN

Unladen arrives the morning light

no mist to mask new-opened sight

spirit carved into a pillar of fire

solid on the plinth of the new day become —

Triumphant in its glorious might!

 

In a flash go yesterday’s cares

a spark of newness hangs in the air

cleaved from a soul gone awry

chaff pieces fall away to the floor —

Behold the new essence laid bare!

 

Unlit dreams yield in the lucid sway

vision arouses in a new dawn’s day

desire refired and forged in gold, and

on salvation’s own anvil rings —

Revel in the sun’s first ray!

 

In a beacon the opened sky shines

a hope to guide for new-found shrines

worked from old broken towers, and

brick by brick the foundation rebuilt —

Exalt the redeemed design!

 

RIBBONS AND DIRT

Ribbons and dirt,

ribbons and dirt…

ten thousand and one steps,

grinding shining ribbons to dirt.

Marches and pomp,

marches and pomp…

cadence and beat of drums,

pounding pulsing marches to pomp.

Rhythms and cheer,

rhythms and cheer…

one and ten thousand voices,

calling screaming rhythms to cheer.

Applause and praise,

applause and praise…

rhetoric and podium of words,

twisting fawning applause to praise.

Doctrines and faith,

doctrines and faith…

ten thousand and thousand converts,

surrendering believing doctrines to faith.

Hearts and stone,

hearts and stone…

victory and triumph of pretenders,

hardening bleeding hearts to stone.

Souls and clay,

souls and clay…

one and a thousand legions,

crushing dying souls to clay.

 

SCHIZOSOPHER(2)

What god was I today…

in what guise of infallible divinity

did I reign as lord…

all-knowing design exalted from

my columned house of wisdom;

my wisdom of gold arrayed for

the universe knelt before me,

homage to my perfection?

Yea then…to every want or need,

and ask, thus—

what godness have I revealed?

 

What immortal have I become…

in what façade of eternal soul

did I build of human hands…

ever-waning power eroded from

my crumbling pillars of will;

my will be undone as silver coins

let fall through splinted fingers,

reminders of my imperfection?

Nay then…to ever bruise or bleed,

and ask, instead—

what man or men was I today?

 

EGON SCHIELE

(SELF-PORTRAIT)

 

I stare, conceited

inward-looking eyes

troubled across the image

distorted pose correct

exposed

angular and stiff

hands to myself

errant

 

I sing, impetuous

fire-burning body

seared upon my soul

twisted dance perfect

undressed

liquid and flame

fingers to the self

torrent

 

When nighttime shadows speak

…their whispering silent shapes

supernatural

that speak to waking tired thoughts

listless eyes and ears hear

and see the same

specters

that wax and wane in atmospheric

light moon and stars

and phosphorescent clouds

glow of gods and ghosts

deities

that divine dark spirits of the world

to make them dance

make them pique imagination

when they come with

silence howling wild eerie

wraiths

that beckon sleepy fearful minds

with nightmares to creep

once more into the soul

phantoms

that live amongst the shadows

others long since gone

watching the watchers who

lie awake somnolently drifting

in the whispers of the shapes

mystic

that speak to past and future

the forever nights to come.

 

The shouting place

…is in my head, all day long the din

loudening echoes from worn lives within

pounding constant to themselves, deep

and inaccessible, unsettled in my sleep

where my hands are caused to grasp

tighter in my dream, to force their clamor under clasp

back down, yet back down once more

to the creaking cracking core

crumbling center, jagged bits

broken shards of ballots chanted all together fit—

their noisy company ever to be polled

and each to scream the shrillest, new and old

as I try and try into silence and retreat

as they call and call to trouble and entreat

for my attentions to their ever bearing

for my disorder, sharp and searing…

The shouting place, is in my head

all day long the din, fine exquisite dread.

 

SKY LOVERS

veins opened for each other

ichor to ichor

now we too are gods

mythic

fabled

sky lovers named for us

universe in our ardent story

told whenever

warm touches embrace

skin to skin.

 

POEM

Some nights I cry;

some nights I cry.

The difference?

Legion.

 

STAGNANT AIR

bereft

of body mind and spirit

I hang as sound in stagnant air

neither wind to drift,

nor

ear to catch

wisp of nothing to count as real;

 

STRANGER AT THE FORGE

a harsh sound, metal on metal

the thought moving through my head;

whetted knife blade scraped across

the pitted anvil that is my brain

where the sledge has struck its countless times

to forge the shapes of things inside

the raging furnace of my mind;

edged dagger then, by its steeled power

slashed behind abraded eyes, that

peer inward to machinations,

the intendments of my god,

sparking philosophic, ironic, iconic,

values, beliefs, attitudes of my selves

etched in to the iron wrought of my soul;

and now the notion, alloyed with the dross

and slag of smelting burned impure

in the corroded crucible of molten wisdoms,

falls away from its cast, the mold

run from the years, from the lifetime,

into the silence, a waning echo’s peel…

vestige memory,

a harsh sound indeed.

 

THE STREAM OF LIFE

I bent my seven branches

to reach the stream of life,

to dip the water with my leaves

and drink the seven wisdoms.

And to bear the seven insights

to leave the water emptied

to hold the stream breached,

I bend my seven limbs.

 

I built my seven columns

to steady the end of life,

to hold the faith with my prayers

and brace the seven wisdoms.

And to stay the seven judgments

to pray the faith devoted

to live the end readied,

I build my seven pillars.

 

RUSH AND STERN AND STEYN, AND

KELLY AND RYAN AND ELLEN

from left and right obnoxious sounds

the serial serialized

polluting, blowhard exhalations

the frequency of idiocy.

 

from speaker and screen insufferable shows

the trivial trivialized

off-putting, plastic dialogues

the mentality of banality.

 

THE CIRCLE

 

wherever I touch the circle,

is where it begins (and ends)

 

THE DEEP RISES

The deep rises its tide to flood over me,

its deluge of sorrow drowns my life ’neath

the weight of all the world’s sea,

submerging hope beneath.

While the heights fall a landslide to bury over me,

an avalanche of regret interring my spirit within

the mass of all the earth’s debris,

smothering death therein.

Abyss yawns its void to open under me,

quakes of fear paralyze my days maligned

by the sum of all the idol’s fee,

swallowing time resigned.

And clouds call a storm to gather unto me,

torrents of pain darkening my will across

the lot of all the god’s plea,

sundering soul to dross.

 

THE EDGE

the edge kept nearing

creeping

closer, even

as I tried to pull away

the precipice eroding

from an ever

thunderous cascade

nemesis inviting me into its fold

the final safety in

the crushing of my self

chaos of the fall

giving way to

the calm of oblivion

to slide amongst the

other darkened souls

ferried to

the under river

past the abyss

beneath the center of the world

 

NIGHT WINDOW (2)

I leave the night window open for

my thoughts to drift in and out,

sometimes the curtains

move to their rhythm

with the breeze

sighing whispers

while moonlight rain tease their beat

in each their turn for me

laughing crying all the same

for wishes and concerns

and pointed questions why

things that matter most

are pushed aside for

fancied candied dollops

soaring heroic tales

and breezy sensual pleasures

that float among the worriment of

flagging ruminations

what was once and future gone

clouded together in my gauzy mind

my constant aeolian mind

strata-shifting earth and sky

where foundation and the firmament vie

for my mind’s very eye

while I breathe in the sway

the currents of my thoughts

the lungs of my brain

soul of my blood coursing visions

cells in their order, in their matrix

mood of my lucid logics

wisps storming, as I dare to fly…

to sail before

my dreams

 

JUST A LITTLE PUSH

forty years of worriment

have left me broken and spent

just a little push

enough to send me to the edge

how long before I can no longer

hold on, before going over

 

POEM

the tears were gone for

dried up drops of despair

cracked across the broken

façade of a once smooth

and beautiful face

 

POEM

the morning comes so quickly

I barely have time to waste it

watching clouds go by

wind making itself known by

quaking leaves, bowing,

swaying branches soughing

 

POEM

 

my breath on the glass tells me,

yet I wonder—

am I still alive?

 

POEM

what’s more real—

shadow or the thing

idea or the ideal

finger or the ring;

today or tomorrow

sky or the ground

happiness or sorrow

insane or sound;

hand or the hold

mumble or the scream

fool or the gold

spoil or the cream?

 

POEM

 

how much do I understand

now

that I’m dead

 

HER END

I can hardly remember my mother

even though we lived together,

worked together, saw each other

virtually every day, for fifty-one years.

she said she felt it coming

the end,

cancer’s cold grip tightening around

her lungs, her aorta, where

the ugly tumor grasped its ghastly

hands around, crushing life

crushing hope

 

DARK SIDE

moon smiled his

tilted half-smile, so vain in

the morning twilight,

a smirk maybe

for those below, fated to live

and love, hope and die;

I smiled back, yes,

ever to be the last laugh,

he with a face, yet

no light of his own,

dark barren world of nothingness,

mere reflection of creation,

lifeless, unborn,

spark of God unknown, to be gone

when I close my eyes to sleep

and disappear forever, when I can

open them no more;

 

smile, moon, smile your

inconstant smile, so bright

and dark your stays,

a moment perhaps

for tides below, to wash alive

and well, high and low;

I smiled then, lest

forgetting how to laugh,

to hide my face, set

no light on my cheeks,

sad indifferent way of loneliness,

bare façade of being,

listless, unmoved,

shine of goodness unclear, begone with

when I close my eyes in sleep

to disappear forever, when I will

open them no more.

 

POEM

for those of us with shorter days

and forever perpetual night

hidden in the day

there and not…all right?

 

IN MEDIAS RES

the something in me stirs to poke

at the thousand eyes of the day

and dance in the blindness like smoke

drifting here, then there, as I may,

nothing to hold me, nowhere to go

only being, away from the crowd, their

flashy screens in tick tock tow

very air screaming silence out loud;

 

a scream of my own to amplify

the voltage needed to desist

among the need to simplify

to resist to resist to resist

the calls, in-calls, out-calls, the ’net

the app’s, ID’s, passwords replete

my private world, once equal met

codes, tags, beset to delete;

 

well fair fellows, by word, by touch

thoughts as wisps, no fodder for memes

to know and un-know so trivial much, the

making-things-of-not-things-schemes,

turn us now, we cynics in apathy

by way of all-controlling things

conformity chiming empathy, for

that (personalized) ring tone ring;

 

so, break you, eyes of one’s and zero’s,

away with your perfect-made shells

plastically-molded ersatz heroes

flaunting your whistles and bells,

tis none the grand story, but fairy-tale

this social miasma in medias res

a sorry course in humanity-fail

thumb-tapped, finger-swiped, posted mess.

 

POEM

there is no thing beyond

my perception

of such thing

no others’ red can be mine own,

as the very thought of green

may be the former to some other,

and as that make purple…

who’s to say, red or blue?

 

INNOCENT ON DEATH ROW

 

perhaps my life has not been so bad

after all,

 

GONE MOM

broken in spirit and gone before death,

what life remained to rattling breath,

into the great despair, darkness of dread

creeping cold hand of fate

beyond the strength to lift even one hand

to wave off the others, her last insist

 

THE IN-BETWEEN

Living in the in-between,

of life so close to death;

where mortality creeps at the seams,

whispering icy moldered breath—

augur of time folded in,

no more far future to be weighed

against that which has always been, but

weightless promise never made;

beyond, perhaps, the lightest heavy word,

adrift in the air, a name, from those bereaved—

from mouths of those to be heard—

lamenting life together forever thus deceived.

The spaces left that death would make

push and pull where the in-between lies

somewhere between sleep and awake

with the discarded pieces of severed ties

already, disjointed shards of tragic ills

voids made where once was bliss

erasures to assail the will

and shatter spirit, the angels remiss

in their guardian warmth to the joyest binds—

the love of those dearest, the love of just being,

which fortune has seen unkind, now

to sever and set too soon fleeing.

 

And,

living in the in-between,

of reality and prayer

where solace begins to wean

in sufferance to despair;

with the hope of heaven after earth,

the only ever that was ever

offered on from birth,

when passing to the nether, forever.

 

THE GREAT MYSTERY

 

what tells me I’m alive today—

by what measure do I breathe

into the great mystery

 

THE LOVELINESS THAT IS YOU

In my arms

light and heavy

breathing life so near

you might

crush with

the loveliness that is you.

 

Your eyes

blinking

bright and cloudy

settle pleasant for me

for the nearness of me;

 

while my tears

waiting

melancholy and bliss

swell love for you

for the happiness of you;

 

and your hands

grasping

soft and firm

hold secure for me

for the closeness of me.

 

In my heart

past and future

calling bonds so dear

might I

burst with

the wonderfulness that is you.

 

THE PATH TILL

Crawl to me that I may lift

you up to stand

on your way

in our steps

in our shadows on

the path

till you go

before me now on

your own to wait

those who rise by

my reach through

your life through

their life through

theirs.

 

Hold me as I held

you up to meet the

world on your way

in your arms

in my end on

the path

till I go

to the shadows of

your light now risen

to shine on

those who wait by

your reach through

their life through

theirs

to theirs.

 

STRANDS

the shadow drifted across my mind.

my eyes were shut and I was thinking,

and it just drifted across. I opened my

eyes and looked for the source,

but of course…

 

LAB RAT

I hear the chink, chink

chink…

her Cardinal mate calling

to no avail as I find

her dead,

leg caught in the trap

intended to break the spines

the necks,

of backyard rats

 

THE VESSEL

The pieces are yet here

misshapen remains

 

razor sharp shards

that cut to the quick

bleed hurt and sorrow

and

smooth blunt edges

caressed to the memory

of purpose passed

 

forever broken

 

shattered margins

to oblivion lost

that taunt the mending

with unhealed scars

the almost shape

of what was once

a handsome vessel

sleek and strong

of budding useful shine

 

forever cracked

 

relic of the past

to hold only in memory

fresh bright displays

but

 

dried dull by regret

to collect stale dust

on plastic faded colors

 

blemished remains

the whole no longer there.

 

THE WASHING OF A SOUL

In his dying arms the grandfather holds,

the benediction of an age gone gray

at life’s last breath hosting the one who will

wash his soul and bring peace to death’s long sway.

Pounds of flesh pressed through crucible-fired molds

the hardened statues before which we pray

at legs that for a moment stand still

against the tides that wash the plinths away.

Cries go out amongst the silent voices, cold

the invocations chanting choirs say

at the final crushing on the grist mill

to wash clean the chaff for a new life’s day.

On rusted frame cradles the urn of gold

the smelted vessel within kindred’s lay

at once and now with brightened future fill

to wash with the light of reflected rays.

 

In fading sight the grandfather beholds

the blessing of an age passing away

at his end, witness to a life who will

wash his mind free from regrets and dismay.

Years weigh heavy upon shoulders grown old

the crumbling idols weakened in decay

before monuments to kneel that instill

eternal currents to wash feet of clay.

Orations of ancient legacies told

the summons of memories to replay

at the end calls the future to fulfill

that which shall wash a lifetime’s grief away.

Cradled on weakened hands blood-clotting cold

the baby forging kinship’s minted day

at long last a bright vision to bestill

and wash a tired soul before death’s long sway.

 

THIS AND THIS AND THIS

Here they are,

the many things,

this and this and this —

impedimenta;

rearing up,

falling down,

strewn around.

 

Around the places,

the dusty recesses,

mind and matter and form —

encumbrance;

filled up,

brought down,

shattered glass.

 

Glass cases

the broken dreams,

haunt and haunt and haunt —

repression;

blown up,

taken down,

fragmented pieces.

 

Pieces of ideas,

the clouded abstracts,

when and where and how —

stifled forward motion;

slow’n up,

slow’n down,

confused judgments.

 

Judgments each their own,

damning pricks that

more and more and more

imprison self-release;

tear up,

tear down, the

power to drive out secrets.

 

Secrets excruciating,

hoarded totems of

this and this and this —

familiar painful comfort;

shined up,

lain down,

shapeless talismans of life.

 

THE WAY THE BIRDS FLY

The way the birds fly

tell that I won’t die

that my troubles

are but light and

far away

 

into the clouds

and their silver lining

bright in the blue sky of

hopes and dreams

wishes and prayers

fulfilled by the

soaring wings of

messengers

from on High

 

bringing peace

to worries of

annihilation

and

by their elegant voyage

the promise of

tomorrow traced in the ether

the golden crown of

immortality

 

to waive my death

beyond the knell

the calamitous tocsin of

the funerary dirge

and grant the stay of

execution

pardon of

all sins

 

announced by

immaculate portents of

miracles

 

the way the birds fly.

 

TIDES DREW

(For Jenna)

 

The tides drew

the world to me

the flood held

in my arms

 

as you crashed

my hollowed heart,

my crying soul

drifting in the

space

 

of all that

dreams may bring

me in my want

for need

 

of that which

fate brought forth

to give of all

that is beauty

 

enough

 

to settle my

drifting life in

your surge of

tomorrow promised

 

with waves of

birth and renewal

calling to the night

 

when the flood

washed to me

 

bringing

your life

(your life)

to my waiting arms.

 

TIME DRIPS

time drips from the cuts

of a thousand vaulted days

scabs picked at by weary fingers

idled in the stifled rooms

rejoining calls for daily blood

voices to the gods unseen

behind the masks hiding

blank faces smiling

kisses in their funeral shrouds

nosegays scenting with but

breaths gone pale,

and only beautiful death

to entertain

charming dancer tarantella

ring a ring o’ roses

catch as catch can

those who live forever.

 

TIME

The slow drift of the quickening minutes

The stream of consciousness toward the fall

To the beginning

To the end

Pray God, give me peace to dream

And live perchance for more than that set—

time, time, time.

 

The swift pace of the lingering seconds

The spirit of heaven toward the gate

To the top

To the bottom

Please God, grant me cause to hope

And stay alive for more than a while yet—

time, time, time.

 

The long run of the shortening existence

The blood of oxygen toward the flow

To the inhale

To the exhale

Pray God, hear my plea to breathe

And last perhaps for more than that let—

time, time, time.

 

The brief call of the never-ending sequence

The ghost of holiness toward the door

To the dark

To the light

Please God, gather my soul to rest

And leave lastly for more than a sin’s regret—

time, time, time.

 

TO ALL THE OLD FOLKS BACK HOME

if ever a puzzle-maker is all my life is offered,

rightly

ram a gun to my head and send me,

into heaven’s lot;

 

if ever a wheel-bound life set only to TV’s offers,

directly

jam a stick into my spokes and overturn me,

into heavy traffic.

 

TO BE…NOT

I thought I had it all figured out;

well not all, but I told myself anyway…

alas, to be is not to be, even if mad I shout—

alpha to omega, fate has final say;

the final word of all things, all

to shout me down from my haughty place,

my prideful mountain to be made small,

and smug smile wiped from my face;

to live in fear of death to come,

waiting for the verdict of the day,

to be or not to future become—

anything at my life, gone gray.

I thought that time was mine,

that years would add yet hold—

to be counted so fine…

to be not but fools’ gold.

 

MY HEART-SHAPED LAKE

I rove atop the crests

like a god of the waves

hurtling fair spree

in search for my Calypso

Yea! in search for myself

where my song yet cries from its shore

where my future lies beyond the fog

and my rambling heart pours out

the ageless call to wander

on whirling crashing seas

sliding swallowing troughs

one by seventy—

and seventy-seventy thousands more

the beat of wind and lake

where my wants and wonts soar…

 

FISHING

the world casts its net of problems out wide

to catch the multitude one at a time

taunting with the lure of beauty sublime

 

SELF

you can’t judge a person by your own

personal belief system; not, at least,

without realizing that person isn’t

standing in front of you

but behind,

as you look in the mirror.

 

POEM

 

I’m not sure I understand

or have ever understood

what the world is, the universe,

the ridges on my fingernails—

eyelashes that strike the inside of my glasses

 

POEM

 

there by the wayside my first-fruits, seasoned

by the salt of my blood trampled under

the marching legions of my mistakes, drums,

horns, pounding the air with their marching sound

of reckoning for a dissolute life

that takes where gives, that cannot be returned

 

DNA

 

self;

what is self

but that which is no other

 

BILLY PRESTON

 

backwards wrought with nothing

forward fraught with the same

yet,

nothing from nothing leaves nothing

 

RECURRENCE

four years,

each slipping through

the cracks of worry

 

TO FEEL MYSELF

(WITH HER TRANSFORMATION)

 

I wonder how it would have been,

had I exposed myself to her;

my slight fullness to her

virgin in me.

 

She has drifted closer

and I falter,

or exalt; I cannot tell—

with her transformation

a new maturation,

old in its inception

(perhaps my life’s first thought)

to give over to her vibrations

tingling forever

in the measure of my real self.

 

But where has “he” gone, the skin

I’ve clutched so close

for, to feel myself?—

when I thought I understood to be a man,

even through the needling lightning bolts

struck across my dancing skin,

while I danced in secret in

the mirror,

my eager friend,

while I grasped there, and prodded here;

aware all along in

my state of oneness halved…

 

he to each, for she,

is me.

 

TO LOSE MYSELF

to lose myself is nothing new

there are demons

and drugs

alcohol, too

to do the trick

not slow, the quick

and then tonight

the narcotic, thick

to bring the dreams

slow…and quick

and make it through, again

to wake

and begin again

the day

and distractions in between

 

not enough

 

 

to find myself

 

TO PAINT A PICTURE

 

To paint a picture of one so young,

the obsession so long and old

 

TREESONG

The wind hisses through the trees,

directing a wild breezy dance

of mighty poplars strong,

whose rattling limbs in the forest sway,

accompany the quaking aspen song.

 

Where, beneath the leaves and branches,

the wind a percussive harmony,

concert of perennial woodland band

rolling in the wide, wide canopy, I stand;

leaned against the tall tree to embrace,

revel in its back and forth sinuous pulse,

and wonder—

If I could but climb and brace

into its arms with fearless impulse,

and weigh my worth,

in tune with the windborne song—

could I thus, be carried along

into the forest faraway, to lark

in chorus, a cawing rook or shrieking jay,

winging and calling through the ancient stands,

a part in the great symphony,

the flourishing pageantry so grand,

and be one with their great company?

 

I sigh my place below the exalted vault

that shakes in windswept, rhythmic waltz;

lift my eyes and to the heights trace

the undulating power and grace—

and imagine, to join as I may,

the treesong in raucous ballet.

 

TRIBES

whose Jack does the dullard raise

the masturbating mascot

while donning the uniform of his tribe

to root in plastic emotion

wasting prayers on balls or pucks

to drop just right

for the no-life dullard’s tribe

 

TWO DEATHS

I live my life in six month blocks

June to December, summer to winter

December to June, winter to summer

Solstice to solstice

when the prick of the needle

draws out my life in blood

awaiting the call of my days

ragged breath in my throat

choke of sorrow, pain, regret

doomed in my time

promising the cry of my end—

next year I shall die

tomorrow I shall die

I am born…to die

two deaths you see;

for memories.

for disease.

 

WARDS

God, I hate these places

Reeking of sickness, through the façade of healing

I hate the positive people here

No man is an island

Yeah, well, I feel the water lapping at my feet from all around

 

THREE HEARTS

The heart

beats

of my heart

beat in me

beat to me

beat for me

call to me

motherhood

calling now

for me now

to me now

mother, now.

 

The heart

cries

of my heart

cry in me

cry to me

cry for me

reach to me

fatherhood

reaching now

for me now

to me now

father, now.

 

POEM

 

sometimes I can feel

the universe breathe

 

UNRAVELING

I feel the tug

oblivion

the thread pulling within

without…

my tattered heap

to rest a time

my scattered ends

to ashes dust

upon the water’s

Great stretching elastic cord

circling world to drink

the infinite filament flow…

solace

maybe

my unraveling

 

THE VIEW POINT

I said this,

amid the coercion to say only that—

seems a silly thing;

but now I’ve been accused…

the absurd, nay

the very ridiculous

made compulsory,

by the vulgarity of the ultra-critical.

 

I asked why,

against the push to ask only who—

seems a simple thing;

but now I’ve been cancelled…

my opinion, yea

my very existence

made indecent,

by the madness of the ultra-radical.

 

A VISION SPLENDID

I have this vision,

an angel come at last,

in a soft white nightdress,

on her toes standing

before me, holding

the small one

aloft in her hands—

mother and child,

bathed in golden morning sunshine,

that of God shining

beneficence beyond

expectation, my heart

and soul crushed

under the weight

so heavenly brought;

 

I stare at the loveliness

inside my mind’s eye,

wishing to replace all

my dreams for this,

for that of beautiful

phantasms made real;

 

I would to death then

in sweet and

fearless content,

same as to breath,

even more—

last conscious thought

of them,

past and future come

wonderfully together

 

Waiting Room

(FIVE YEARS?)

 

The twelve apostles sit empty, waiting

the thirteenth an abandoned wheelchair

that for thirty pieces of silver you can ride

down the corridors to x-ray or exit—

good luck; best wishes.

 

The faded sheets lay tossed aside, inviting

the old headlines a constant reminder

that for five years they hope to guide you along

down the paths to cure or remission—

good luck; best wishes.

 

WANTING IN OLD AGE

(LORICH)

 

I remember when her touch

the weight of her in my arms

brought me to waves of desire

made me feel a man to want

her, woman

lingering on my skin…

 

the thought slipping through

the years smiling

visions of boy and girl

only death could keep apart

fair Juliet to my Romeo blinded

star-filled eyes for the shining

sun of her (yes, she was my east)

yes, we were first love

that never died (when she did)

but held in memory bright

and,

wanting in old age

the screaming call to each other

rushing naked to crash, breaking

over the thousand hundred

kisses and surges

to the virgin

place of longing sated

finding her in me,

me in her,

my breath in her breasts,

her breath in my chest…

 

I wish we were young

teenage lovers in love again.

 

AWHILE TO HER DAYS

she shimmered in timeless gilt-edged bronze

poured out in measure from the copper sun

green-eyed and jealous to her genesis

molten spring of the supernal goddess;

vernal in her unwounded maiden horn

the biding magic before Eden’s dawn

that shines away the sky too bright, too high

and makes the planets cast their starry eyes.

jealous nurturing sun, shone on her ways

her breath from somewhere to your very core

your light redounded on her angel’s wings,

pause in your sojourn, awhile to her days

electrified in clouds humming her score

and witness the princess ready to sing.

 

WATER INTO WINE

the hour has not come

water into wine

signs and wonders

my eyes turned away

the end so clearly shown

in its way, a miracle

 

WHAT IF TODAY WAS MY BIRTHDAY

(CREMATION SALVATION)

what if today was my birthday

first day for the rest of my life

tomorrow’s yet lived yesterday

a totem’s shard from time’s drawknife—

sliver for the broom and ash bin

my name there on its shiny can

date of cremation stamped in tin

recycled refuse of a man?

 

what if today was my deathday

last day for the yoke of my id

decades of ego cast away

a coin’s bit from the hoard’s drawn lid—

pittance for the pain and pleasure

my name there on Heaven’s grand scroll

date of salvation’s great measure

saved essence of a wearied soul?

 

WE LOVERS AWAKENED

(Song of Songs)

(For Lori)

 

We drew ourselves together

and wrote our names on each other’s hearts

our kisses exploring the shining moments

of young love, until deep ran our passions

          and no power could keep us apart.

 

          And to us the exalted creation

of young and newfound love

our fingers touching upon the notions

and caresses of secret stirrings, as

we discovered the other in each our own selves.

 

We weary lovers called our souls

and sleepless, we came together,

our desires pouring forth the drafts

of youthful age, virgin and wanting

          that made us one in our dreams.

 

          That to us are now incarnate

of ancient callings to young lovers

our wishes claiming rites of passage

and eyes opened, we come to the light,

we lovers awakened to our sensual spirits.

 

WHEN THE SKY IS PINK AND BLUE

the sky paints my eyes

pink and blue

my thoughts violet and amber

open the universe to my senses

Venus and Mars inside me

my quiet spirits arisen

for electric body singing

 

with the sliver of Diana winking

to the gods in the skies

the twinkling twilight stars

in the dawn arriving

offerings of ruby and sapphire

to fire and then cool

for the still moment’s embrace

 

WHERE ARE THE DAYS

Where are the days of calm and ease—

free, from the blinding cloud of dissatisfaction,

from the dim fall of gloom?

Why do the days of past taunt and tease—

trap, with the harrying chase of annihilation,

with the grim call of doom?

 

Where are the times of peace and repose—

away, from the choking noose of finality,

from the still knot of breath?

Why do the times of future mock and suppose—

catch, with the bloodying prick of mortality,

with the ill rot of death?

 

WHERE DEATH STRIVES

NEITHER BLACK OR WHITE

the silence was eerie

but good

reminding me to welcome life

where death strives in its sweetness

to offer hints of calm repose

a lightness of being, aswim

in the ether of gray happiness

incorporeal

neither black or white

yet hazy in its ceaseless dream

of quieted waking thoughts

my worried mind no more

 

but then a shout

whispered from afar to

stir the soul once more

my one love’s call

the voice forever so near

my own self, false— yet

cannot be denied when

its familiar resonance plays, until

weakness has strength enough to strive,

to live away from black or white

and good

into the gray life beyond

 

WHERE IS TRUTH AT 8:11

 

Where is truth at 8:11

that is not there at…?

 

WHERE THE FLOWERS ONCE GREW

The garden once grew

in the yard of my childhood;

gone now, watered with mourning dew

where flowers among flowers once stood,

roses, sage, lavender;

but for none then did I care,

not for Sweet William did I wonder,

they were all but just there—

while my youth sounded horns,

perhaps a fright for bees,

maybe a worry for thorns,

never to stop and truly see

the creations just so planted,

borrowed from Eden’s own lands,

set in beds smartly canted,

by dirty, wrinkled old hands.

 

I see them, in my memory,

the colors all so grand,

and the smells return sensory,

inviting me to stand at

their graves in quiet reflection—

the Grand’s in whose yard I played,

while they bent backs among their perfection,

where I was too full of youth to delay.

And grown here now, roses, sage,

lavender—Sweet William winking fine,

for times of a long ago age,

when all the future was mine.

I kneel to clear the grass just so,

trace their names in stone anew,

and wish again for just one more go,

around their yard, where the flowers once grew.

 

WHO IS THE STRANGER

The eyes in the mirror

staring back at myself;

reflection, reflections rumor—

who is the stranger here?

I sense the likeness well

searching familiar airs;

pretension, pretensions tell—

who loves the stranger there.

 

The face on the wall

pleading my other self;

question, questions call—

who might the stranger be?

I touch the image now

proving life’s despairs;

delusion, delusions show—

who makes the stranger me.

 

WHY PLANT A TREE

Why plant a tree in my old age—

whose lowest branch I might never look up into;

hang no feeder for the birds who may,

way up high, build a nest, or creep and peck,

perch or shelter, even in…

spend their own last days?

 

But who was it planted those in their age—

where hung our swings from lowest limbs,

bore us while we climbed and played,

and picked the apples and cherries and pears;

or shaded us from the sun, or pricked

with needles, and dropped pine cones

onto our youthful heads?

 

Why plant a tree in my old age—

whose limbs high and low, I might never hear

cradling winsome-sweet birdsong;

swaying arms of heaven’s lithe precursor,

God and Mother, even from…

my own hands’ creation?

 

But who shall I be, then, planter of those in their age—

where prune their saws my branches high and low,

kick stumbling steps to trip

on roots risen from the ground;

backs bent while lightly cursing to rake

my fallen leaves, and drop one day my dying trunk

onto its once-mighty crown?

 

Might the world brought small around my trees—

might they wonder—amid august maturation,

colors and scents of deciduous seasons,

spring blossoms, sugared autumn-changing canopies;

conifer greens against winter blues, whiffs of pine

or cedar or spruce, above a soft carpet,

red-brown needles below, and themselves ask one day…

why plant a tree in my old age?

 

WISDOM

 

Wisdom; only in the fruit, not seed;

Truth; only in the want, not need.

 

WITH MYSELF AT HAND

 

there in the shadows waiting

for myself to come

I’m here now, but not alone

with myself at hand

 

WITHIN THE HEALING RITE

OF SUN AND RAIN

I stood naked, awash, in the sunshower rain

brilliant glory easing my mind to sane

quelling the knell to death’s hearkening toll

caressing and calming my troubled soul;

arms out, hands up, God’s fortunate one

giving over, soaked down to the bone

anointing unction in pouring sway

this wondrous serenity brought today;

And, stilled in its wake, the quiet

low-chanted hum sings in my ear

settles my mind’s mad riot,

all the dread tempers that bear…

this moment of worries to wane, within

the healing rite of sunshower rain.

 

MY DARLING ONE

(is young and beautiful)

 

I feel old today, because of my darling one,

she touched my hand, where the wrinkles

meet the spots—she touched it everywhere,

with her slender lovely fingers, smooth

and downy skin, she sparked her wonderful

future, across my gray and faded past, and

made it be as though heaven itself

had sent her to me, an angel for my soul,

whose soft touch quiets lamentations for

my life gone to its edge, to the place that

makes me wait, impatiently, for that

one last tomorrow as today…

but, yet, causes me, with jaundiced eyes

to wish for time to cease its crossing stars

so our hands can come together, bright and gay

where I can be made young, and not old today.

 

THE SCRUTINY OF AGE

Everything I’ve held as foundation

eroded by the scrutiny of age

the base of all things come, taken as wage

paid to the taskmaster of creation;

where finitude galls at tradition

erases the ethos, a withered page

the beliefs of an addle-minded sage

lain away waste of human condition;

so I wane in weathered time bought and sold

pennies on the dollar to seal my fate

impatient ferryman’s cold cash in hand,

for my dark place in the underworld’s fold

death already pressing destiny’s date

taunting broken hourglass emptied of sand.

 

XY ME (2)

trapped by my star

her sign rising

tits pulling at me

can I cop a feel?

 

broken erection

old resection

hands on, fingers in

can my fop be real?

 

no matter where I am

it chases me right down,

no matter how I come

beat myself to the ground;

 

chained in my body

yin yang fusing

lips parting for me

lust will fake it real,

 

bruised masturbation

constant fixation

clamps on, prod in

pain will make me feel,

 

no matter how I try

it looks me up and down,

no matter where I leer

see myself lost and found.

 

LIFE ABOUT

I wasted

half my life.

the other half, I spent

sleeping.

 

but, maybe it wasn’t a total waste,

there was whiskey,

anyway, Scotch, Irish, American rye,

and beer, yes,

and dark chocolate,

and garlic,

and hot peppers—my goodness,

what about the

grandchildren,

aren’t they the best things,

worth a life about?

 

I KNOW A NOAH

I sit and enjoy the rain pouring down,

sight and sound

what worries have I got,

what problems, yea

that this storm can’t wash away?

I wondered

if it rained for forty days and forty nights,

would it be enough to clear my mind—

could I really hold my problems out,

for the rain to wash me new?

 

I’d keep two of all good thoughts, but, ooh—

that one’s a bad view, or so say many,

a sin already committed;

maybe these others? maybe those I

can’t remember?

only one of each, then, and

to the flood the rest

 

rain, rain, wash away

drown my yesterdays

come, come,

on me today

make me pure, a baby borne, and

let upon the tide, to rise

with green seas that break their

power over my battered ark,

my ship of unsailed dreams; and then,

carried over the vast open,

with only rainbows for company.

 

DON’T YOU JUDGE ME

 

how real is the pain that causes no blood

none that flows red, either trickle or flood

from wounds inside the mind, inside the heart

deep as the scrapes, lacerations that part

 

HOW CAN THE REFLECTIONS BE DARED?

we were laughing together—

my nephew’s 21st birthday party,

his girlfriend’s mother, happy

happy as a mother can be,

no supposing, can as happy be;

her only child, daughter, cute

beyond the word, and bright,

all fresh and new in her college life,

playing flute in orchestral band,

on her way to a musical degree,

all the world held out before her,

for her proud and happy mother to watch;

but mom is dead

scarce three months later, mother

in only memories then;

no car wreck, no accident, no

sudden death…cancer, unknown,

and the most insidious kind;

it crushed her spirit, broke her

mind, tore her from the beautiful

things, life but leaves behind;

life is good, life is great,

until it isn’t, then it ain’t,

a lie then, a joke, a tease

perfectly cruel;

 

I think back to the party, laughing,

with inside her, malignant Furies,

advanced and raging—

how could they not show,

how can the reflections be dared?

tortured last six weeks,

of her few short decades,

(short enough to be my own daughter)

where bounding breaths, and

jaunting japes, and blissful blessings,

drained out, cancer cells and all,

into the deadman’s bucket;

perfectly cruel, indeed.

 

OH, MARY

 

I plead with her image

to take me from myself

 

NATURE’S WOODWIND

there’s a small oak tree I like to walk past

a red-brick-neighborhood easement planting

thirty, or maybe thirty-five feet tall

overhangs the sidewalk to stand under

big, spearpoint leathery leaves in summer

dark glossy-green top, pale green-gray below;

but in winter, is when it comes alive

the only tree around still with its leaves

brown and tan then, dried hard as stiff paper

that shake in the wind, a wonderful sound

the many, many number of their band

playing together, a splendid rattling

for my delight, my humor’s contentment

causes me to linger, pause my worries

and listen to nature’s calming woodwind

for even but the moment, forever

 

IT IS TOUCH PROVES

THE UNIVERSE AS REAL

touch eludes me

intimate

tender, rough;

my skin dry and

barren of sparks caressed, the

tracks and tracings counted

from hands, fingers;

 

of the moist and waiting

lips, warm, inviting;

of, even, that which

prods,

in undulating waves;

 

touch,

that brings blood to rise,

breaths, to catch and

whisper, gasp

 

I AM FATHER SKY

is it enough, to touch the sky, to kiss

the ether that hangs moist for wanton lips

to bare myself under starlight eclipse

waiting for the rain to wet its caress? or

to chase my hand through the moon’s silver light

imagine dark-night Luna my lover

reach for the sun’s golden rays so clever

to think Sol my intimate, oh so quite?

 

CARPOOL LANE

 

to where roads to love and life,

are but a dead end

 

WRINKLES

 

forty years, not so old,

but old enough for

wrinkles to hang as bark of a tree

 

EVERY PUSH AND SHOVE

(for guitar)

 

in the place called dungeon once

hobby room

spare bedroom

game room—

office again, the bleary outcome

 

another meal of PBJ

cold kitchen

dark kitchen

no-water kitchen—

sink still, marred from the hot pan when…

 

what more, old man, to prove

outfought heaven and earth to move

every push and shove

all hate and love…

to keep what would be lost or taken;

what more, old man, to move—

what more to prove?

 

in a world thought easy then

tricycle

bicycle

motorcycle?—

hell no, flat broke, everything’s a circle…

 

what more, old man, to prove

outfought heaven and earth to move

every push and shove

all hate and love…

to keep what would be lost or taken;

what more, old man, to move—

what more to prove?

 

another bowl of minute-cooked rice

windows broken

doors broken

spirit broken

shoulders hung, under back taxes-burden

 

and thus, here I am

with everything old…old again

in the place called dungeon once

hobby room

spare bedroom

game room—

office again, the bleary outcome

 

what more, old man, to prove

outfought heaven and earth to move

every push and shove

all hate and love…

to keep what would be lost or taken;

what more, old man, to move—

what more to prove?

 

INSISTENT FLOWER

Flower insistent, alone in the crag

standing proud and bright, seeming not to mind

that there were no others, none of its kind

alone, insistent flower in the crag;

in the granite split, there by water’s edge

soil filled nourishment, cradling pollen spore

till rooting in the crack, at the lake shore

insistent flower, alone in the ledge;

But no accident were my spying eyes

open wide in awe, for the wondrous sight

the imposing, unyielding granite might

to the ancient ridge, while I coasted by;

I dipped my paddle charged by its power—

the simple bright and insistent flower.

 

THE YEARS BETWEEN US

(LOVELY SABRINA)

 

I was impatient for her to come,

for her bright smile to erase the time,

replace the time,

to penetrate the years between us.

 

How could she be so plain,

so pretty? Lovely Sabrina of

my thoughts and wishes, of

my dreams and desires.

 

Yet

again

the crisis proved…

ever chasing nymphs, ever

drowning in their springs…

I could never erase the time,

replace the time,

with that I want to spend with her—

never to be requited, by

the many years between us.

 

I wanted to let myself fall,

while lightning flashed its wagging finger,

thunder rumbling judgment to reprove

my foolish holding back the current;

there at the edge of her river drowning,

lovely Sabrina of my dreams;

creation taunting its boundless

wisdom, in the night that

adds its lonely number to,

the too-many years between us.

 

Where I slept with mind dulled heavy

against the uncaring lucid truth;

the dreaming lamentation—

I would never see her again.

 

POEM

It’s often hard to be the best

when good enough may do.

 

AMBIENT NOISE

The wind sings its song for me, calling me

to myself, where I listen for the dead

their hum settling the voices in my head

while quietus breathes its count—one, two, three;

three and thirty drones solace the silence

invitation to the maelstrom of calm

the crucifying choir singing my psalm

released from the torture of violence;

violence! wrought on the anvil of peace

where hammers pound on molten iron soft

ears filled with angelsong to lift me off

my place of extinction, to be released.

I am set aside myself in stillness

screams in my throat hushed in the quietness.

 

Screams in my throat hushed in the quietness

forsaken to myself and the heavens

fixed in the disorder of calm haven

to the world of noise no more, but no less;

less the toll for the singers, their voices

in my head as I listen in the wind

for the howling to announce peace of mind

for the whispering angels in rejoice;

rejoice! for that forged in the furnace, cold

hands over my ears to hear the sounds’ rush

resonance of ambient noise hushed

bleating of the lamb brought back to the fold.

While quietus surrounds and I’m set free

the wind sings its song for me—calling me.

 

BROKEN OLD MAN

The broken old man looks down on himself

in the bitterness of strength cut away

vitality forsaken day by day

living for others, and not for the self;

loved ones as such and always too little

to deflect receding utility

grown old in spirit and ability

fearing the onset of bones gone brittle.

Can he tell those of his world how to live

how to think; how to grow; to be joyful

to be present; how to gain; how to give?

Would they listen if he does, to survive

prepare their own jaded end, come woeful

when the breaking of their worlds do arrive?

 

EXTRANEOUS NOISE

Can there be a thought for life’s greatest joys

through the despair of a loneliest day

contemplation given to chase away

the world’s deafening extraneous noise;

needling clatter of destruction sounding

thunder ever rolling in a black sky

constant refrain reminding end is nigh

with mortality close and surrounding?

What, with echoes hollow in a dark mind

while desperation shrill cries its millstone

incessant dissonance buzzing white noise;

is there peace to be found in the unkind

creeping whispers of death’s unpleasant drone

can stillness rouse even life’s leastest joys?

 

FIRST ONCE OF MY YOUTH

(Thanks, Dad)

I remember that first once of my youth

amid the granite Canadian Shield

when all the world’s notions of peace and truth

settled the great notion in me to yield.

There, where the great Heron on broad slate wings

by verdant boreal forest took flight

and caused in me the ancient call to sing

silent but deafening, in the day’s light;

that shined bright in the clouds, sky after blue

gleaming on indigo lake to present

mirrored reflection of what was made true;

my first once, of life’s first great contentment

I lifted my chin to both sun and spray

warm and chilling, on that great summer’s day.

 

Warm and chilling, on that great summer’s day

when the splendor of the north came alive

a flood of joy, yet tranquil in the way

Nature offers the serene to revive.

My soul stirred, awed in the far sweeping span

the far points of land sunlit and shadowed

challenging vision to range out their plan

peninsulas running down from plateaus;

that spilled from the shore in great shelves of rocks

where gnarled trees forced from the cracks in the Shield

cleaved by roots, the glacial boulders they mock;

and showed my first once, the notion to yield

To stir; to reflect; in Nature’s great truth

I remember that first once of my youth.

 

FIRST-BORN

and then the purpose of my joy was borne

to me in sweet harmonious colors

singing bright to my dark soul so careworn

inside the pale of grim and cheerless choler

needling to the life lived unexamined

and veins opened to a bleeding humor

of ill-spent days and nights so determined

to prove that happiness but a rumor…

this joy then, proposes its wondrous way

into my very being to replace

darkness with light, emptiness with the whole

of knowledge offered in melodic sway

from cries of first-born held in warm embrace,

joy of joys’ perfection, my new-made soul.

 

joy of joys’ perfection, my new-made soul

the tiny body wrapped in swaddling clothes

and baby’s breath, all resplendently whole

person from my person to suppose

a rebirth of the life lived but alone

with blood reflecting in same searching eyes

of sun-lit days and starry nights our own

through a wilderness of echoing sighs…

to know joy then, wondrous promise brought forth

in the notion to my life eternal

by force of the creator’s gift thus found

and graced as divine song to sense of worth

from whispers of the god-like fraternal

benediction of my life-force unbound.

 

FULTON STREET

They tore our house down to build the freeway;

I have the old street sign to prove the fall,

the entire block gone to the wrecking ball,

under concrete, modest cold headstone gray;

 

with pillars raised by urban committee,

eminent domain claiming land whereby

cars, trucks and motorcycles hurtle by—

a fitting end in the Motor City.

 

HEAVY IS THE CROWN

My thoughts held in idle worry, weighing

the price paid for my realm of crumbling brick

the many struggles fought within, paying

too much, or not enough, the tangled trick;

to keep all I ever had at the start

from the forces laid against the keeping

that took advantage of an idle heart

or beat back at the effort in reaping;

royal rewards left behind by the dead

left used and battered once breathing their last

into my charge, meeting everywhere dread

for the losing of that, gained from the past.

So, gathering with my loyal hands, worn,

tired fingers let slip the objects forlorn.

 

Tired fingers let slip the objects forlorn

those many things once held so tightfisted

in a miser’s realm of those who were born

to the empire grown old, creepers twisted;

’round the columns bracing headers decayed

stone, wood, brick—pieces tumbling all around

scores too many for those falling away

in the struggle to keep those at hand, sound;

All the while wishing the world would have leaned

away from the moon-pull that caused its tide

to push me inshore from what could have been

had I sailed away for my own seaside.

And, now my crown of rust lies dismaying,

my thoughts held in idle worry, weighing.

 

I CLOSE MY EYES TO WONDER OF MY LOVE

I close my eyes to wonder of my love,

and cast my daydreams into what remains

until released from life’s last passing pains

her beauty fixed in my heaven above;

only her face, forever, nothing more

she to be my joy for eternity

glorious sight of her in serenity

paradise to be but she to adore;

and now, to turn my dark days into gold

while I breathe in the spirit’s dream at last

and hear God’s hammer on the anvil prove,

the final alloys of my soul to fold

forge out the impurities of my past

for the miracle of only my love.

 

I THINK OF HER

The vision of her makes me feel less dead

against apathy’s long reach of lament

harsh dissonance sounding loud in my head

I think of her to brighten my present.

Nothing can distract for long from the dread

the pain dulled with pleasure in my torment

liveliness gone for listlessness instead

only thoughts of her to cheer my present.

Then comes along my love with her brilliance

to give to my darkening fair dissent

enough is it for me her dalliance

she is but here to brighten my present.

She leaves and the taunting voices begin,

their haunting of my empty life again.

 

FAIR WATER

I lay myself into her fair bosom,

her fair water, lovely Sabren of dreams

new baptized, adrift upon her far stream

awash and joyous in ardent rhythm;

away from tides flooding over far shores

in the fair arms of sweet Averne carried

reborn am I, and to her heart ferried

awakened with the spark of love once more.

Fair and fine, Sabren, Sabren, Sabren, fine

aswim with the clear devoted refrain

into your fair blushing course I go down.

Restore me, beautiful lover be mine

to depths aside I call out your fair name

Sabrina! in your fair water to drown.

 

PSALM 22 (2)

I wondered at the conscience of the crows—

whether they understood cause and reason,

tearing at one of their own from some treason,

their murder raining a battery of blows;

circling executioners moving in close,

exhorting raucous cawing lookers-on

to make the bloodied pariah suffer-on;

two by two, the merciless ranks appose.

There was to me the vicious symmetry,

the uniformed Tiananmen death squad

in calculated slaughter of the one; 

asserting communal asymmetry,

pecking order wielded with dogma’s rods—

the sum semblance of humanity gone.

 

OPEN WINDOW

Window open to the cold as I lie

swirl of the drug yet mellow in my mind

’tween sleep and awake in the lucid high

space and time eclipsed, together in kind.

Floating in the fine blur of day and night

blinking to see the trees blowing outside

reposed, peaceful in the morning twilight

caressed in the chill come to me, bedside.

Cool air sweeps across the flesh of my arms

brushes fine on my flushed cheeks…and I smile

adrift in nature’s and narcotic charms

all the world’s troubles, smoothed out the short while.

I shrug at the day—whatever it may

until then—as I may—will wait this day.

 

Until then—as I may—will wait this day

calmed in the silvery first morning light

dancing my eyes unhurried in the sway

of dreamy sedation trailing my sight.

Window yawns for the bracing autumn breeze

fine icy fingers sweep over my face

shiver the mellow to delight and tease

welcoming morning held perfect in place.

Bright eternity offered in the dawn

time ethereal in my troubling mind

until coming down, the euphoric gone

in the day then, moments of joy to find.

’Tween sleep and awake, in a lucid high

window open to the cold as I lie.

 

SKIPPING STONES

Skipping stones across the reflected sky

not a care for the appendage grown sore

as effort by effort, I vie and vie

arm about to fall off—a kid no more;

kicking at the stones, held fast where they lie

even as I tire, my play into chore

to make the chain longer, skip by skip’s try

next pitch the best, than the one just before.

When I settle…while the mirrored pond stills

and hold my sore arm as tied in a splint

water’s laughing ripples smoothing no trace

me nor the clouds sailing over the hills

not one sign of our being, not one hint

of our disturbance the forever place.

 

THE CORD

My navel tells me I am not my own

my body someone else’s before me

orphaned maybe, to be apart from she

yet a part of she, who is not her own;

her navel, stretched so—with life, with seed sown

by yet another—immaculate we three

at once as one, with same-set eyes to see

the Host—in whose Glory we all are shone.

The hand then, the very thought of it then

reached out to the miracle of our birth

fingers touch and the choice is but to life;

the soul when, the very thought of it when

risen into Paradise at our death

spirits light and shine, sparks in afterlife.

 

THE GREAT DENIAL

I can no more to that great delusion

to that greatest of great denials, breathe

with immortality as impression

with annihilation a dull knife sheathed.

No longer in days and nights that arrive

the promise of months and years without end

distracted by joys; labors to survive

transcendent in the long moments to tend.

I can no more, in the great destruction

in the greatest of great disasters, live

without consciously to doom’s intention

without apprehension my soul to give.

Returning what was never mine to keep,

through great denial of eternal sleep.

 

Through great denial of eternal sleep

I lived life a prophet of distraction

buried subconscious, the end in its creep

pricking here and there its cold contention;

That now has come with piercing certainty

and caused the real and bitter fight between

what was known but concealed with industry

real, but by turned away eyes made unseen.

That now, the only thought, a dulling fear

of mortality proven to my breath

casting its dark shadow, ever nearer

the greatest of great extinctions, my Death!

Greatest of great denials—elusion,

I can no more, to that great delusion.

 

I WAS THE “WARLORD” THEN

Rosemary, at once to me most lovely

as Bronwyn, fairest of feudal women

I was the Warlord then, knight at the sea

with her, in the high stone tower risen;

the keep, to protect our love—to hold us

e’er for each other, where even the sky

will such delay its certain course, and thus

move the stars for we to join them, nigh;

to stir those searching the constellations

to find our embracing astral union

the constant proof of hallowed devotions

our love professed in star-crossed communion.

When I was Chrysagon then, Bronwyn she

Rosemary, at once, to me most lovely.

 

TINA

(NOT, CHRIS)

Is the memory but from the picture

black and white, my cousin and I in the ride

in the little car on rails, side by side

protestations at her unwanted nurture;

the little boy angry, in tantrum mode

while the teenage girl tries to prove her care

with an awkward smile and pony-tailed hair

entreating the chaperone as we rode?

I think not, for I can still see the track

still feel her sitting there next to me

her confusion at why I would object

to her company, well-meaning for me;

and I’d love the chance now just to go back

to hold her hand and make it but perfect.

 

WHAT PORTENTS

What portents can there be to still the fear

birds in their flight traced by a restive eye

numbers of luck chanced to the counting eye

of one’s inevitable end made clear?

Or, medallion of Mary, Mother of God

held to the somber kiss of trembling lips

pressed for desperate hope of praying lips

crucifix of Jesus, Son of God?

Thoughts of death brought from so far so near

threatening an old age so long supposed

a future so tryingly ill disposed

any present moment’s burden to bear.

A wonderful day’s full peace discomposed

dreams invaded, the innermost exposed.

 

WILL THE MOON SHINE BRIGHTER

Will the moon shine brighter for me if I

close my eyes and imagine it instead

lighting the way to the land of the dead

breathing my last, in but a little sigh;

for the nights passed under Luna’s lit sky

darkness held away in reflection’s stead

herald of hope for the sun’s daily bread

with life stretched out before me by-and-by?

What now, then—with eyes closed tightly shut

against the gravity proved in the sight

yea, even the thought of the tidal pull;

what now, moon—will you not shine with what

I perceive in my glorious last night

or, tease your inconstant shape until full?

 

WINTERLAND

Nothing quite so warm, yet instead so cold

winter’s landscape snow, on a sunny day

where the bright is two times brilliant as bold

reflection in gleaming refracted rays;

trees line the river and add with their sight

branches tinted red from impatient buds

too early in the February light

so bright after January’s dull drudge;

I shaded my eyes from the bleached white sky

in the dazzling window view opened wide

leaned closer to see the line of geese fly

my breaths on the glass, not quite warmed inside.

Too few sunny days in winter’s long hold

promise of spring in today’s bright shine told.

 

Promise of spring in today’s bright shine told

icicles dripping their patters to show

everywhere warmth of the sun—yet so cold

ice spires running with snow melt, hanging low;

fields shine in sparkling diamond blanket white

lain smooth and gentle over rolling hills

thoughts to green underneath, the timeless rite

benediction of grass chasing the chill;

I drew back from the window to reflect

in the glass and to the faraway views

outside and in, affinity perfect

sun, snow; yin yang, dualistic in diffuse.

Everything bright, two times brilliant as bold,

nothing quite so warm, yet instead so cold.

 

WORLD TURNED FROM ME

The world turned against me in its riot

safe in my judgment I could stand outside

my life my own, all the others aside

while I worked through the creeping disquiet;

of a thousand thousand tenets revealed

creeds that steal in whispered changing rumor

truth or deceit with sadness or humor

right or wrong in the confusion concealed.

Then it was I knew myself turned away

against all had been brought forth, good or bad

terrified to be caught up in the fray;

loath to look upon myself in the way

that blames not the universal gone mad

but my own integrity gone astray.

 

But my own integrity gone astray

lost in personal pleasures close at hand

as a million million fine grains of sand

to covet in vain from blowing away;

while the four winds cry and carry the sounds

the many voices screaming to be heard

all at once—the disorder to be stirred

in heart-pumping chests onto which fists pound.

I turned myself away to deny it

stole from the world’s noises and crept inside

to be against the constant disquiet;

once more the course of self-centered pilot

my life my own, from others in divide

the world turned against me in its riot.

 

WORLD MISSES NO ONE

 

The world misses no one, nor will it cry

when…

 

PICTURE OF MY FATHER AS A BOY

The picture of my father as a boy

I hold now in my old and wrinkled hand

and remember a time when there were toys

passed from his to my smooth-skinned child hands;

where no thoughts of loss, or pain (nor death)

could be wondered in so innocent mind

age and time not measured by dying breaths

but in uncounted moments, purest kind.

What now of this photograph, black and white?

Here and there peeling its cracked, faded skin

meaningless to all but me, left alone.

Shall I burn it, keep the memory bright?

Away from mean hands (and the garbage bin)

who’ll care nothing of the smiling boy, gone.

 

SUPERIOR HAIKU

(OFF THE GRID)

 

Running rough dirt roads

to the trailhead where we’d start

backcountry hiking.

 

Rivers of lichen

amid seas of bright green moss

greet us on our path.

 

Over stone and sand

on tree roots slick and sprawling

along rolling streams.

 

Songbirds flit and chirp

while unseen woodpeckers thrum

Murders of crows caw.

 

Ground animals roam

raucous beyond their small size

chasing through the ferns.

 

Brackets take their place

decomposing lifeless stumps

trunks that branch no more.

 

Pine and cedar smells

waft through the dank aroma

growth breathes with decay.

 

Saplings spread around

progenitors of their kind

awaiting treefall.

 

At one with the woods

feeling our humble kinship

to nature’s wide shroud.

 

Outcrops of shale stand

sentinels of erosion

eons in their forms.

 

Water crashes down

cascading from higher ground

its mist rising up.

 

Rifts worn through bedrock

by water’s relentless course—

inexorable.

 

To Mosquito Falls

then around to Chapel Beach

sore legs, but wide-eyed.

 

The rebounding waves

and the north wind fills our ears

far from all our cares.

 

Superior’s spray

invites a chilly repose

warming us with joy.

 

While it all is grand

we bow most to glaciers-made…

stunning painted cliffs.

 

Climbing Pictured Rocks

eating lunch atop the crags

phone reads — “No Service.”

 

X’s replace bars

greatest feeling in the world

to be off the grid.

 

LIFE, YOU SAY

I wonder how I should have been

had I been born dead;

you see, life doesn’t start until…

well…

doesn’t really start…

well…you say;

 

and when I could have then

had I then be born again;

you see, life doesn’t end until…

well…

doesn’t even end…

well…I’ll say.

 

ALICE IN UNDERWORLD

I try to gather as they fall away,

pieces of me, malingering by day,

scraping hands and fingers across the floor

at the warping delusion, blood, guts, gore;

the wasted minutes, my hourglass token,

reflections from the looking-glass broken,

heart, soul, mind, illusionary matter

while I go mad, my thoughts in a tatter;

Now then, to my life at its bitter end

poured out odium of oldman regret

prepaid coins for the underworld’s boatman;

to the wonderland hell where I descend

in a cold, shallow grave, there to be set

an unexamined life, a shadow man.

 

 

ESSENCE

I move as smoke inside a jar

swirling effortless, freeform

yet, trapped by the clear glass

yet…yet, the glass stains from my presence

…am I made forever then?

 

I drift as smoke arisen from a fire

rolling aloft, free spirit

yet, dissipated into the opaque sky

yet…yet, the sky shapes to my presence

…am I to be remembered then?

 

EVERYHOUSE

I cringe as I pass through

the antiseptic neighborhood,

everyhouse perfectly-yarded

perfectly-identical four-hundred thousand

yea, half-million (dollars)

of perfectly uninviting sameness;

 

up the pattern-stamped concrete

down the same-toned bricks

embedded in festering colored mulch…

one after another,

uniformity parading monotony;

 

I try with my blinders,

watch straight down the streets

Pheasant Run Avenue

Fox Hill Lane

Forest View Court—

you know…

where pheasants used to fly

where foxes used to roam

where the trees are now planted

to an ersatz wood;

 

amid the tedious cornhole games

thuds of same-thought notions,

neighbors waving to the next-doors

while peeking through slatted curtains

out windows just there from each other;

 

I know, I know, too critical am I—

against the good people

in their bee-cell hives

(they know not what they do)

in their neat and tidy neighborhoods,

dull-clanging bellwethers

leading the flocks to the hills,

pinnacles of consumerism,

the top of tops…

 

until I’m out of their confinement,

the increasingly stale banality,

away into the space to breathe again,

where the every house is different,

paced farther apart

angling, even, this way and that,

un-gated, un-named, perfect

in their unconformity.

 

SHAPES BEHIND MY EYES

I don’t see ghosts, but shadows haunt instead

formless as smoke, adrift, cold and alone

soulless, past over life, tortured in dread
wailing dirges, in sighing mournful drones;

I fear for them, dark anguish, feel their pain

a hollowed-out specter, nothing within

the gone someone, reaching, stretched out in vain

to find reason to live inside my skin;

Until I claw at the shapes behind my eyes

to quiet the screaming so loud from inside

to take away black visions courting my lies

or truths, of myself, that so long ago died;

And pray for the intercession of my god

in the well hidden phantoms of my façade.

 

DISSONANCE

my thoughts rage on, fueled by desperation

ways tease foundation, threaten destruction

shall I risk the shifting machinations

trust the universe to my constructions;

my judgments cloud, spiritless in their cause

means course listless, tantalize sweet stillness

shall I even think the cosmos might pause

to even know me in my smallness;

my life drags, hanging dust in webs of time

ends of tangled yarns, loose yet knotted rags

shall I try at least the motions of mime

or idle to my notions while I flag;

shall I never be then, never in peace

shall the dissonance in my head not cease?

 

shall the dissonance in my head not cease?

the thousand thousand noises resounding

will I come on bended knees for release

for the moments, my dark prayers grounding;

shall my days hang themselves on fitful nights

where even the constellation stars fail

will I count them as they fall from my sight

count them out loud, my screaming banshee wail;

shall my mind fracture under the musing

of constant parsing inner dialogue

will I break from the onslaught, abusing

beckoning my chaotic epilogue;

my reason drained, exhausted fixation

my thoughts rage on, fueled by desperation.

 

SNOW MADE GREEN

(AT AUTUMN’S PLEASURE)

 

First snow came a thief in the night

covered the yard eight inches white

while verdant leaves, hung yet pearly

fell from Winter’s teasing early;

out the window looking down

to see the snowy landscape sown

with foliage so perfect strewn

Summer’s vestige dropped weeks too soon;

And now the maple stands a dare

to the cold flash that stripped it bare

crowning over the snow made green

challenging Spring’s returning sheen;

A lifetime for such a treasure,

gifted so, at Autumn’s pleasure.

 

JACK LONDON (2)

I’ll never feel again as that first time

a young man alone upon the grandeur

the bluest blues, the greenest greens, sublime

going up-lake, the restless voyageur;

Where the great heron brought me great wonder

leaping prehistoric from the calm bay

while diamond-topped waves sparkled under

the dazzling sunshine of a pristine day;

Where the magnificent crushed in my eyes

raptured heart, mind and soul with its wide sweep

caused peace to fill the nameless void inside

the wild call of the ancient, rooted deep;

Going up-lake, that feeling long ago,

first time in awe, northern Ontario.

 

BRILLIANT DESTRUCTION

(for Emily)

 

under the streetlamp, under cool twilight

our worlds stretching the forever between

she waits before me, wanting in the night

the will to illicit lovers, unseen;

cast in the shadows of Venus and Mars

mythic temptation thus to the divine

outflung to our constant place in the stars

our wanton tale shining, yet clandestine;

until we again come bright together

in brilliant destruction, supernova high

once again in the arms of each other

stardust atmosphere splayed across the sky;

an amorous trance, it hangs in the space

the pull of the chance, to secret embrace.

 

A WARD

valets skipped their youth, hustling for the cars

while the dazzling entrance greeted its scope

skylight atrium over shadowed scars

over the pall of death, teasing with hope…

through the bustling hallway to where they wait

those for treatment, those for blood, those for scans

fluorescent light dulled gray upon shared fate

future on hold, a life of un-laid plans…

to where worry mirrors in the faces

eyes revealing stages, new or old

their light spent, or barely leaving traces

embers of faith in praying hands gone cold…

downcast then, the dreary march on tiles worn

the legion steps past dismal, lonely rooms

to wait in the yellowed light of the forlorn

for any respite, from the end that looms;

 

the end that looms, filled with pain and sorrow

stuffed into the doctor’s hands, the burden

of will, to face the broken tomorrow

the strength, for a life made now uncertain…

a plot along the estimator curve

a stat for average survival rates

hope offered hesitant, held in reserve

solace measured by indifferent fates…

that callously taunt with miracle cures

or those that promise but a month or two

while questions reel, until all meaning blurs

in a miasma of the devil’s due…

and leaving then, the return march away

back through the hallway, out into the light

the buzzing of others lost in the sway

again to the valets, youthful and bright.

 

COMES A THIEF

its weight hits all at once, yet comes a thief

stealing in without a strike, no warning

crushing down, hammering its sudden grief

a bloodless, yet black despair of mourning;

hands grasp, praying, pleading, head hanging bowed

struggling, again, to bright and present thought

to cease the quiet turmoil screaming loud

to reconcile the years arrived to naught;

where does the constant pounding worry stop,

anxious apprehension give way to calm,

the swirling miasma of sadness end?

when will the endless heavy assaults stop,

despairing depression lighten to calm,

the creeping presence of dreariness end?

 

WAYWARD DEMONS

do you remember when you killed them all?

of course not, your demons lie too countless,

while your life trudges on and you recall

but the times you counted yourself blameless;

lesser god of God, standing proud and tall

golden halo-crowned, your virtue faultless,

secure in our Edenic upright fall

clothed in your free-will spirit, dauntless;

where by day diversion distracts regret

and by night your nightmare dreams to forget,

dark shroud drawn over black stains on your soul

hidden aside lest torment take its toll;

as the killings go on, murder of your harms

strangled, by the wayward demons in your arms.

 

THE EMPTINESS

OF A FULL LIFE

I watch, death

reflected dull in vacant eyes

life bled from worn out faces

joy, bled from blood itself…

I wonder, life

is it enough? just to breathe

to be alive, just enough,

to grieve for oneself…

to grasp at the warping illusion of days

the very air graying around you

as you roll in your chair, fetid vapors

seething from the rooms as you pass…

enough?

to be someone’s job, memento

set out during another monotonous day

soul pieced-out for puzzle time,

fading during children’s games,

dying in the horror of TV’s same-shows…

 

I turn away, cringing

too soon laid back in place at night

darkness for companion

loneliness for reward,

out of sight, out of mind…

I leave, emptied

 

I WONDER AT HER FORM

DARLING TO MY TOUCH

I wonder at her form, trembling at my touch

yet she eludes me, here but for a moment

but for the whim of me, for her teasing nymph

as she comes flowing, like water in my arms;

desire and passion both, swirl inside my head

just the thought of her, her figure shining there

most perfectly lovely, for me to behold

the most beautiful, anything in the world…

and ever she stirs me, ever does she rouse

every emotion, every thought and idea

all that is wonderful, delicate and fine;

but never shall she be, never mine for me

always out of reach, always a dream away

I wonder at her form, darling to my touch.

 

MY GODS ARE PAIN

my gods weep through my skin for me to see

blue blood bruises worshipping in my veins

exalting their maker, hailing my pain

clotting purple badges to honor me;

idols of my selves chasing within me

black shadowed ghosts relishing in my pain

wounding my soul, piercing crucified veins

blinding white specter of heaven to see;

where I wonder at the demise of faith

to satisfy the devil at my hands

fingers folded to my prayer of shame,

burning my spirit to a wretched wraith

no phoenix rising from the pyre to stand

my suicidal gods destroying with flames.

 

GOD’S IMAGINED CHILD

how is it friend, never to touch the sun

your shadow soul across the moon, exiled

dark and set aside, god’s imagined child

silenced from creation, daughter or son;

where the sadness at your starshine undone

drifts into space, mourning unreconciled

by corporal beings, left so beguiled

grief purged empty for their unknown one…

friend, by friends, divinity by design

forever with a heavens’ heart so pure

championed in the gathering of souls,

dear one, how dulled was your light of earthshine

nowhere but eternity for succor

no song of paean, unnamed on the scrolls.

 

LEMON ZEST

(for Jenna)

 

she peeled my skin away, and ate my soul

to bring me alive at her lovely will

and I shall breathe for the moment until

I am yet reborn into my life full;

where heaven shakes with peaceful golden wings

and calls me to glory in silvered songs

that make me want to rush to her, headlong

where I can feel her melody and sing;

And then, to lie myself in joy away

in wonderful memories of her dreams

that reach across the firmament of sky,

and last forever in eternal days

when she hears the ripples of me in streams

and together again, with love, we cry.

 

AN ORCHESTRA OF SILVERED TEARS

rain, rain, shimmering brilliant song

steady hum, carried on the breeze

drenching the settled soul along

lulling a troubled mind to ease;

fixing time, when time brings demise

obliged no more for the living

hours, minutes, seconds made as lies

paling to the unforgiving; yes,

rain, rain, shimmering brilliant song

precious mad-chanted requiem

an orchestra of silvered tears; yes,

drenching the settled soul along

singing in death’s delirium

the pleasant hymn in fading ears.

 

CASTING EYES

(for Jenna and John)

 

our sighing eyes flashed, all the world made new

everything at once in their fusion stream

starbursts vivid, bright and dancing on cue

sharing the same glory-thousandfold dream;

reverie of fantasies uncontrolled

tempting the thrills to sensual pleasure

as if opened at last from our blindfolds

looks reflecting attraction’s full measure;

that’s when, the world crossed, we catch casting eyes

gaze into the other’s spectral splendors

blue-gray, hazel-brown, shining silver, gold;

awash while thoughts to intimacy arise

lost to kismet, daring all its wonder

our coming together, while fates behold.

 

THE SONGS REMAIN

there was joy in the rhyme

that made me wonder at the world

where the timeless circle meets itself

catching in the rhythm of life’s cool song;

but the rhyming joy hushed its charm

and drove me mad in the silence

loud inside my head

waiting for the song to return its rhythm…

 

there was peace in the wind chime

that bade me hum the cadence of the world

where measureless time loops upon itself

lulling in the chorus of life’s warm harmony;

but the choral peace broke into alarm

and maddened me for the silence

faint inside my head

praying for the harmony to return its wonder.

 

HUMPTY DUMPTY

how long before I can no longer

balance on one foot

to dry the other in the shower;

how long ’til my great fall

 

SUPERHUMAN

there’s someone inside me I haven’t met

a man, a woman, a child in the womb

rousing, stirring, echoing all abloom

alive beyond the world’s abortive let;

nameless, awaiting humanity’s scroll

light and heavy in evolution’s shy

immaculate godhead but to belie

thoughts to the nobody yet of the soul;

and then, how, to intelligent design

with faith shaken in each cast off by-blow

muted horns of mourning angels crying,

where sparks rise from pyres burning pure divine

energy of creation in its flow

how, to span the unborn lives left dying?

 

 

AN UNSPOILED WALK

The silver-frozen grass freed me

for the moment, from my cares,

the cold sensation wonderful

while I walked with feet laid bare;

The sharp sting holds my mind enthralled,

world deferred in frosted air.

 

Ignoring it all, in the peace

my brief morning escapade,

no concerns for passing looks

as I come on up the grade;

Disappearing from the street view

my one man offbeat crusade.

 

Between the trees I tiptoed by

totem sentries hanging still,

rime clung heavy on their branches

eerie creaking sound, tranquil;

I stood with arms out looking up,

daring winter’s teasing thrill.

 

And counted time by icy breaths

judging myself proud and tall,

until I risked my fate no more

out from under the icefall;

To withdraw, uninvited one,

shivering, humbled and small.

 

Yet, enough to suffer the world

to dare to grasp it to me,

skin on skin, in search of my place

somewhere I should like to be;

I doubled back upon my tracks

solace in the steps carefree.

 

Far have I come, to understand

that understanding pretends,

through the many states of feeling

pain and comfort make amends;

The two sets of footprints are mine

melting, beginning to end.

 

STUCK INSIDE BLUES AGAIN

beggared in a wilted shell

alive yet merely living

counting none for hell, barely

too far gone for forgiving

 

struggling to belief

tomorrow’s promised crashing down

each day filled to grief, sadly

at the firmament’s crumbling crown

 

well, then, shall I,

calmly meet my end—

hands up to the sky

while the storm cloud descends?

 

wearied of prayers to the graces

staring in the glass

all the melting faces, only

waiting for life to pass

 

asking for no absolution

black-veiled soul in freefall

offering no solution, truly

as it casts its pall

 

and, then, have I,

wasted all my breath—

in a lifetime to decry

while withering to my death?

 

tired of straining at the traces

yoked as the wearied beast

made to collapse in braces, surely

made to be the least

 

caught upon the wheel

crushed under duress

thoughts in constant reel, always

everything a mess

 

how, then, might I,

lightly drift away—

emptied of the lie

while the world goes on its way?

 

worn out regretting (regrets of) chance

but only offered such

but for only one brief glance, meanly

dangled from the touch

 

and when it comes at last

no more future to be

no visions of the past, bleakly

nothing more to see

 

oh, then, can I,

really lose control—

claw out my good eye

while the bad orb cries its toll?

 

drained with nothing left

at the bottom of the hill

broken and bereft, utterly

of strength of hope of will

 

not even a cheer for sun

nor the fresh smell of rain

ethereal gossamers unspun, weary

hollow joys in vain

 

why, then, do I,

covet so my life—

struggling not to die

while wrecked in (wracked by) callous strife?

 

dead to all intentions

no meaning to comprehend

living at no mention, nary

none to even pretend

 

to know it’s all behind now

forever’s promise gone

that it was all for show, really

over with and done

 

so, then, am I,

brave enough to cease—

with only a heavenly sigh

while giving over to eternity’s peace?

 

COME AGAIN?

I feel them in my dreams

past lives, dragged and bleeding

hazy wisps of godhead, pleading

the end of our relentless schemes;

away from longing to flesh so sweet

from the constant pull to be aware

in the unbounded nightmare

where each breath comes, conceit;

yet when I tried them in my sleep

for truth of our inherent light

revelation beyond their mask,

they disappeared, my soul to keep

alone and weary to our fight

to even wonder at their task.

 

I sweep my mind through selfhood’s must

rapacity through the ages

blood and tears let in stages

ashes of wisdom turning to dust;

the unexplored, more and more

weight upon my life’s allotted dole

a yoke to requite my broken soul

indulgence three-score and four;

yet then I drag my cravings rough

to deceive as something real

temptation over tears,

to come, only bare enough

to taunt and make me feel

and wonder at the pointless years.

 

I struggle in my reason

half lives, here and there

pieces of thoughts, everywhere

the persistence of our treason;

away from the vault of heaven so true

from the unbodied notion to be blessed

in the eternal peace of rest

where each being comes, undue;

yet when I cried out in my age

for proof of our transcendence

reincarnation to welcome thus,

pain appeared, my soul as wage

tired and worn in our repentance

to wonder at god’s genesis.

 

I tell my hands they are my own

workshops through the time

flesh and blood wasted as crime

reaping what dregs have been sown;

the unexamined, less and less

bother upon my life’s lament

a forfeit to my youth ill-spent

wallowing seventh-decade mess;

yet then I flag unto my death

to believe at nothing more

capitulation over living,

to come, void of breath

to suffer to my core

and wonder at the past unforgiving.

 

“THANK HEAVEN…”

cute as hell in your flowered summer dress

your white and rebel high-top Chuck’s,

gone, your frumpy muffin-top in flip-flops

your young mother’s look, four children in tow;

I see you then, the cutie turning heads

little blondie girl, not so long ago,

a glimmer bright in an old man’s eyes

a smile, into the long years between us;

until we may, on Sunday next by chance

share the view across our common quarter

you, in your prettiness, wonderful and fair,

and I, reveling in the distant dance

joy for the moment as if my daughter

pausing my regrets, with your lovely flair.

 

MY SHADOW DOES NOT FOLLOW ME

my shadow does not follow me

for the bullet in the gun

rain rain pouring in my head

snuffing out the visceral sun,

that shined once in its time

before the tree of life turned stone

before all the leaves were dead

and fallen on god’s chosen one,

he, who is and isn’t me

the dark soul on the run

away away nothing left but red

leaching out to gloomy dun,

that grayed its moldered time

after the body turned as stone

after all the blood has bled

and dust has become of bone;

 

my shadow does not follow me

for the hatred in the eye

good night moon in my sight

reflecting out diaphanous lie,

that cast upon a thousand crimes

after the water of life runs dry

after all the ocean blue turns white

and god’s grace tumbles from on high,

he, the latent part of me

the human will about to die

good night nobody left to fright

lying under storm-ripped sky,

that blackened its mortal time

before the heart breaks as glass

before all the breath in one last sigh

and darkness has become of light.

 

MEAN HORIZONS

shall we fear the world, its mean horizons

that swallow up the wooden idol days

our hands folded into prayer flowers

beseeching the fading day-moon to stay;

fearing tomorrow’s darkening mantle

today’s passing fall into yesterday

our reckonings piled as leaves on the ground

the turnings of blossoms into decay?

how shall we fear, while entreating for spring

martyr’s of hearts at the long winter’s due

bleeding another, then another day;

fearing, and yet so sure in our heaven

old souls of old bodies risen from pain

our spirit crying for the end to stay?

 

FAIR ONE

the moon in its sky socket draws me near

to worship before the naked altar

to kiss the cratered lips of the watcher

and cause the stars to blush in their glitter;

and too, the sun licks its liquid surface

flares greedy for cosmic adoration

threatening destruction with burning rays

yet blinding eyes who might stare from the shade;

fair one, Luna, cast down your cool eye

reflecting the fire god Sol in his pride

shine on my body your silvered soft touch;

caressing to frenzy until I come

freed of my skin freed of inhibitions

to where there is light upon a dark night.

 

AGAIN

again again again implores my breath
to warm and warm again against cold death

against the dulled inconstant run of thoughts

over and around, running all for naught;

lamenting my beaten heart in its jar

my surrendered gore frozen at the scar

my surrendered sweat over with and done

again again again hand to the gun;

but my breath goes on, again and again

hot runs to rot searing lungs in a flood

a tickle a tease a cough through the pain;

yet my breath goes on, again and again

cold hot cold hot repeating in my blood

behind my eyes insistent echoed brain.

 

AMONG THE THREADS OF FATE

I never knew my father, yet I breathe his name

underwater waiting to be baptized

nor my mother whose ova knew me instead

and brought me into fire, emergent burning soul;

I though made blind, arisen to the stars

into the milky river’s sweeping bosom

at the barren breasted goddess

concepted child, drawn from cardinal sea;

I knew not touch, but from blooded hands

whose fingers alight with electric wands

sever magma from the core

and toss it red and steaming, into the ebb of tide;

I who never cried, yet announced myself to heaven

where god poured life into the splitted germ

and welcomed me from the font into angel’s arms,

to count forever, among the threads of fate.

 

CROWNING IN THE SKY

(SOLAR CHILD)

 

I move inside the stardust, solar child

wandering satellite blushing divine

cascading fluid, electric and wild

creator’s cosmic trueborn in design;

to wind among the icy fire of space

meandering my searing comet fate

casting matter, indestructible trace

the plasma of my course to rush in spate;

where my argent herald across the moon

reflects the auric flame of godly sun

exalted traces shining without end;

and interstellar constellations swoon

from the august glory of life begun

open in their welcome as I ascend.

 

MY GREEN SEAS

waves rush their galloped steeples at me

at the ship of me, tolling on the sea

the freshwater sea, sainted shallows green

while wind insists itself on water’s sheen;

yawning horizons spur me to their quest

the muse of their quest, the firmament’s guest

bowed under ruler’s crown, prince under blue

swift under sun and clouds, wide sovereign’s due;

rush waves, rush your galloped steeples for me

my life, my fears, lain upon asunder

bared before the longing lightning warrant;

rush waves, rush your horizons to break me

to drown out life, drown out fears in thunder

bared and longing for your lake in torrent.

 

THE SEARCHING PILGRIM

god has set eternity as wisdom

seven-pillared longing for the new earth

where stout cords of birth run silvered rivers

and anthems of angels color the sky;

and wisdom lies within the human heart

flowered eden in its most perfect form

tendrils singing chords of golden glory

triumphant songs to welcome each one home;

lo, I say, behold the searching pilgrim

drowning for the heart to tide in sorrow

trusting grace when pain and weakness menace,

look upon the imperfect chosen one

hoping for the promised joy of ages

for wisdom in god’s eternal power.

 

A MOMENT FROM DISCORD

rain and sun together chase my demons

sacred fears left wanting of their absence

blood-let clouds in torrent flooding conscience

trying me for life, even as I die;

wind in waves of pouring sheets trick my mind

digression from the thundering refrain

dark clouds of peril that persist at sane

sounding me for death, funereal song;

the song sounds me now, yet to come and hesitate

to breathe and settle in the sun and rain

charged and sparkling electric rainbowed air,

and sounds to harmony’s aching pleasure

chasing the demons of my sacred fears

a moment’s trying moment from discord.

 

PLASMA

the mass of thoughts uncoil with serpent legs

tangling up the strangled sense of my mind

ugliness in all meaning of the kind

crawling easy amongst the festered dregs;

the once-shining charms all intrigue and guile

reasoning rejoiced in magnetic spells

the positive negative streaming bells

that once sought my years, awaste in exile;

the serpent yet hunts as cannibal beast

devouring the plasma of my matter

leaving the reaper only voids to find,

emptied then of understanding the least

judgment beset and caused to a tatter

the tangled mass strangling my sense of mind.

 

TELL ME BLOOD

my blood remembers me

flowing still at the pricks

the needles and knives that stab

and probe resect reattach;

the blue red course of me

magma running hot from sticks

and stones that pound and jab

at skin that opens the scratch;

tell me blood, your secrets

your taste of salt and iron

forged and mined so god,

whisper in the body’s quiet

in your silent roar a lion

tell me of the waiting rod.

 

my blood remembers me

through veins of crumbled bricks

bruising at each touch and grab

soft and rough at their patch;

the blue red course of me

ice moraines of glacier relics

detritus under unhealed scabs

flesh porous hanging crosshatch;

tell me blood, your secrets

your clotted try at worth

while god gathers in tears,

whisper in the body’s quiet

hollow vessel of potter’s earth

tell me of the failing years.

 

A LITTLE JOY

I dreamt the rain, and woke to its design

hypnotic pattern, light on the window

charging the sparks of my half-lucid thoughts

enough perhaps to gird the ceded day;

I breathe the earth-scent of clay in the air

rivulets of light breeze soft at my face

encouraging my early morning sky

enough perhaps a little joy may sway;

sleep invites my heavy lids to resign

and dream into my dreams the cawing crow

whose mortal voice insists at waking thoughts,

a little then, joy before the dark choir

before another day’s struggle to trace

drift instead, in the world behind my eyes.

 

MY STEEL CASE

the roar into the shell of my armor

rattling the corroded ill-fitted bones

jangling the rust of marrowed rivets dull

death’s knells falling as petals, one by one;

piercing with thorns my animal lion

proud king to strong-hearted extirpation

bleeding into cavities overflowed

life’s wells gathering their last, one by one.

I shed my steel case heavy with regret

iron cage set unmoving against me

keys hidden to the kingdom’s lost treasure.

I scream to save me (to take me) dear lord

Jesus, Mary, sacred hearts waiting pure

for my spent soul stripped bare to its core.

 

THE UNDISCOVERED QUARREL

how shall it go, between heaven and hell

where glory weathers in paled wetted eyes

and sparks trace around the clouds of dark lies

to alight at the lip of truth’s dry well;

in the place where saints and their lovers dwell

hiding with plumes of feathers for disguise

plucked from seraphim who scream and chastise

while clutching their throats to silence their yells;

how then, in the undiscovered quarrel

as tentacles grope and wring mortal shame

ever disillusioned as one betrayed;

condemned into loath derelict spiral

blood hewn naked bones shorn and brought to blame

enraged disengaged, spirit thus delayed?

 

I SURRENDER

when the stardust water envelopes me

in the dreams of Aurora’s argent breath

drunken blood reeling through my tendered flesh

clawing in the night for cuts old and new;

when the hoary rivers of comets pierce

the frosted irises of weary eyes

following Luna’s sliver in their wake

for the first slashing strokes of august Dawn.

and when breath wavers, in death’s carnate rise

into my exhausted breast sunken heart

where no more love can crowd its absent guise;

then, underneath the constellation pale

knowing the substance of the planet stars

I surrender, to lay my mind and rest.

 

THE PALE OF MADNESS

in my madness I am sane

gray sky blue cloud true

while the false in me grows

searing the fusion of my mind;

inescapable to its blind

and broken muted vows

that fall upon me new

with lying ideas of the inane;

 

in my madness I am song

sung in chanting silence

as the screams echo hollow

everything maligned;

inexhaustible in its grind

circular voicing’s that follow

in the wake of my contrivance

humming the madness along;

 

in my madness I am one

rainshine sunsnow chrome

while in my head the fog

blearing the focus of my mind;

indescribable to its blind

and broken machine cog

that pinion upon my syndrome

alchemizing yellow and wan;

 

in my madness I am filled

sated in brimming antic

as the days spin round and round

nothing aligned;

indestructible in its find

cyclic sweeping’s that bound

in the confines of my attic

storing the madness self-willed.

 

IRON BLOOD

they slash their incendiary instinct

blue-black crows piercing immortal murder

portents to themselves, yet bonded to my fate

the union of our somber iron blood;

they land concealed through the towering trees

teetering along the edge of reason

chattering to the letting of my veins

indifferent in my prayers to the sky.

I draw them to me, god’s strident servants

how at ease, at peace in fellow’s feeling

destruction’s empaths clawing no quarter.

I see them, now, leaping into the air

now, dancing onto their perches, raucous

hell’s children wassailing me to my end.

 

ZERO RELATIVE

go away you cosmologists

with your makeup quantum foam

keep your nano-wormholes

in your balding domes;

theories of relative zero

concepted on the blind

manifold puzzle pieces

in your instanton minds;

help instead a cure for cancer

or clean energy efficient

either, meaningful and worldwide;

or, maybe you could dig in the dirt

to make the stupendous find

that all the dinosaurs died.

 

PEARLS

I wonder at the tears upon her breasts

mine or hers, or maybe ours together

rivers running milky as glacial flour

pouring into caverns, ice turned to fire;

I lick at them, opalescent and hot

to her waiting mouth, sighing wanting breath

burning taste verging viscid on our lips

coming flaming passion with each other.

what great price, these pearls between our bodies

glistening jewels dissolving into

wayward sacrifice, lover and mistress,

what illicit pleasure, this our union

sad and beautiful and precious we share

the priceless gem, shining heaven and hell.

 

VOICES OF DESTRUCTION

shall only death release me from myself

from unremembered judgments of my god

from the clawing at the demon menace

pounding with feathered fists upon my wings;

shall it quiet the blood from damning veins

the dismembered retellings of my mind

that slash and hack at the knotted tangle

labyrinth of my problemed ego’s pretense.

what of it, this death so ready welcomed

set free from relentless inner discourse

scratching turmoil in the storms of my thoughts,

what may it, the still and calm of heaven

bring upon my voices of destruction

to silence the screams tearing me from self?

 

MASQUERADE’S SLEEVE

what is a youth, yet tricks or treats

playful ere winter’s sorrows meet

with icy crossroads and their threat

of future passed to costumed frets;

to spring’s and summer’s on the fly

life’s graveled crossroads by and by

kicking cans down the rusting years

and wiping eyes wet with tired tears;

where then, this frolicking season

as leaves fall and apples ripen

as gambols darken to reason,

where, this youth of all-hallows eve

the laughing, begging, child naïve

the heart worn on masquerade’s sleeve?

 

what is a child, yet lass or lad

wild little shaver good and bad

impetuous devil dancer

hell’s half-acre carefree prancer;

hiding in the night’s larking spree

’til olly olly oxen free

gives way to gray time’s jaded strand

death’s hours pouring out in cold sand;

where then, this longing to autumn

as pumpkin and jack-o-lantern

as totem carved head-stoned column,

where, this child of fallen bent

the grasping, praying, youth absent

the soul born on all-saints advent?

 

DEVIL’S DUE

why does my god, dear god, distrust me so

keep me from the cold workings of my dreams

to leave me bleeding veins of primal flow

unhealed wisdom, drained from festering seams;

wounding me with thunder, purple and blue

while I pray with folded hands at the gate

held away into silent darkness due

to be lain from from rapture, apostate?

why, my god, the foreswearing of your son

the straw man soul brought forth from holy womb

whose mother’s mother cried out from the same,

why, god, to be the damned and blackened one

the useless star left out of twilight’s tomb

adrift, alone, unending into blame?

 

MORNING GREEN AND GOLD

when autumn blushed upon the evergreen

and set its russet dawn on cedar boughs

I breathed the calm set in the in-between

light and dark, fusing soft my waking rouse;

whispering in the undulating trees

one day to live, one day to give, and now

indeed, I say, joined to the quiet’s ease

through the age of seasons light upon my brow.

the fronds dance on and shimmer at my eyes

their own autumnal spell before the cold

teasing me the peace to settle my gaze,

inviting in the rise and fall of skies

that flush from night to morning green and gold

diffused and burnished in the placid haze.

 

HEARTBREAKER

my heart is like a burned out meteor

riven shooting star silenced in my breast

atoms shattered, matter into fragments

broken pieces drifting into decay;

yet the vessel split to emptiness weighs

as heavy as the hanging weightless moon

pretending at an orbit of its own

on its lonely path, in darkness entombed.

I weld into the crucible laid waste

to chance my god-spark against destruction

to try my life for one last breach to faith,

through the crumbled space of spent emotion

all but dead while the breathing ark goes on

lost in my reprieve, pins stuck in my heart.

 

EGO GOD

should I stay to see my bones lying broken

under the scarlet sky of bleeding clouds

my clawing demons in the wind aloud

tingling the pleasure of skin lain open;

should I cast my sight from the mirrored pond

up into the sun’s blazing burning skies

my damning curses to the gods on high

welcoming the blindness that waits beyond.

where then, shall I rage upon my dark soul

thrashing at the weeping sea in madness

crying for the heavens, legion and score,

wailing until answers god my sadness

with rapture’s raining sparks, more, more and more

me, for whom gods destroy, plays now his role?

 

THRALLS TO MY TIRED EYES

the crows came again

today to their liking

in the bending trees

in the early autumn sun;

they gather for me

settle the swirling thoughts

the mass of drifting rages

for their antic number;

bounding in the wind

bouncing on the branches

caws to match my weary sighs

murder for a burned-out man;

 

and on they come

ancient fellowship

ever finding me

ever where I am;

religious and eternal

acolytes of brilliance

sheenful in their stealing

of the glossy sun;

my spirit lifted

my will restored

thralls to my tired eyes

magic in their sky-god clan.

 

SNOWBELLS

how perfect—that still, ethereal night,

a thousand thousand tiny tinkling bells

snow petals drifting down from the dark height;

 

out on the ice covered lake as they fell,

forever floating in infinite chimes

in my ears, in my breast, my soul, in swell.

 

I stood in fear, in awe, heart beating time,

over and over in the magnificence

of hallowed tinkling bells ringing sublime;

 

while the ice threatened its impermanence,

knees shaking, walking on water, my lord

embraced in divine mystic immanence.

 

how serene—ethereal snowbell chords,

tinkling and chiming in perfect accord.

 

INTIMATES

(LOVER’S SPELL)

 

we come together, dripping kiss to kiss

electrifying in our lover’s spell

blood to muscles absorbed in merging cells

galvanized to the pulsing in our wrists;

down onto the other we rage in bliss

the rousing rub of sweated flesh pell-mell

the craving, yearning, pleasure lusting swells

half the world each between us in our tryst;

and to this, the creature we are merged

this perfect fuse of animal desire

naked and carnal, enkindled with fire;

we lie in communion, our bodies purged

first matter chaos wrought forth consummate

endless unto the other, intimates.

 

TODAY(?)

time’s timelessness hangs endless in the sway

the forward into backward of beyond

so long ago…tomorrow’s yesterday.

 

where swirling eddies of space interplay

while rifts of continuum shift and bond

time’s timelessness hangs endless in the sway.

 

as clocks at twelve set noon to midnight’s bay

and sun and moon together correspond

so long ago…tomorrow’s yesterday.

 

past and future beguiling tides aweigh

suppose eternal ripples on a pond

time’s timelessness hangs endless in the sway.

 

counting down, or up, vacant with dismay

no present moment even to despond

so long ago…tomorrow’s yesterday.

 

caught then, in the immeasurable gray

never from the always to abscond

time’s timelessness hangs endless in the sway

so long ago…tomorrow’s yesterday.

 

SPIRAL OF MY IMPERFECTION

I feel this great going away

spiral of my imperfection

destroying me a bit each day

damning hard on introspection;

where I recede, no more to go

all used up in needling languish

laid open in my holy show

inner ravings rambling anguish;

and in this creep of drowning waves

the rise and tide of emptiness

arms open for the reaper’s haste;

I fall into my self-dug grave

wearied by my exaltedness

wonder of nihilistic waste…

 

INSISTENT CRUSH

I feel this great going away

ebb out to the horizon

life over the edge of the world,

where the sea and the clouds meet

to swallow moon and sun

orbs of night and day

into the ocean of despair…

shining their last, again,

while I welcome the tide to go down.

 

I feel the yawning wave creep

insistent crush of emptiness

death in haunting siren song,

where the wind and the gale cry

to suffocate heart and soul

being of hope and faith

under the storm of apathy…

dimming fast, finished,

as I give over in the flood to drown…

 

RUSH

I feel this great going away

twilight of the spent lie

life set adrift, breathing just to die

day after wearying day;

into the formless yawning wave

down into the ebbing tide

swallowing drowning slide

toward the girding grave;

I feel it, this insistent crush

the press of past lives pleading

unto the sirens’ haunting song;

whispering archangel’s rush

passion in my heart left bleeding

ceaseless host, marching me along.

 

EXQUISITE CHILD

she coursed inside my skin her newborn ways

and pierced death’s mortal spoil to chase my fears

exquisite child bewitching tender days;

 

days that flood my despair with steaming tears

as joyous flowing tears, like perfect rain

soaking into my soul to baptize clear;

 

clear through the misted shroud with love’s refrain

her echoes in my hollow breast a spell

to soothe away the thought, my life in vain…

 

vain it is, the suffering cry to hell

anguishing at my fate of worried age

picking at the stitches of my blood-let shell.

 

sweet exquisite child with your newborn days

coursing inside my skin your tender ways.

 

SNOW ON THE MARIGOLDS

there’s snow on the marigolds

and the goldfinches have paled

singing still as sweet and bold

while the milkweeds gape full-sailed;

brilliant cardinal cheer-cheers on his way

across the yard from the piercing blue jay;

 

there’s ice on the lavender

and the purple clovers sag

bowing for spring in prayer

while the winterberries wag;

inspired crows caw down from their soaring high

silhouettes chasing shadows in the sky;

 

there’s steel in the cold gray clouds

and the silver-linings fade

geese ker-honk announcing loud

while trees parachute their shade;

chilled to November’s cocking weathervane

bared for December’s solstice right again;

 

there’s snow on the marigolds

and the goldfinches have paled

summer’s green skin shivers cold

while evergreens flaunt unveiled;

bold sentinels of icy arctic flesh

frosted air surrounds, redolent and fresh.

 

PLATITUDE

I don’t have it in me to face the day

my life’s energy spent and spoiled away,

and all the laughing people in their gay

and miraculously unsullied way,

scratch and scour at the system of my brain—

I pound my head to rid them for my pain.

 

god denies me, or I him, but the same

my soul flayed down to the core of its shame,

and all the wearing troubles in their blame

and torturously sin-filled burning flames,

lick and lap at the sadist of my good—

I rip my flesh and use it for a hood.

 

I can’t feel the joy that once brought me glee

my mind’s reason dead and drained to empty,

and all the shining faces that I see

and apathetically turn to flee,

cut and cower at the blank of my stare—

I rage my eyes to kill them for my glare.

 

god taunts me, or I turn from him, in hell

my sanity crazed to inner farewell

and all the taxing faults I scream to yell

and hypocritically damn to quell,

catch and choke at the acid of my lies—

I spit my retch and curse unto the skies.