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.