Thursday, December 8, 2016

A firry perspective

their gnarled hands hunted
through the snowy night
tearing through the silent air
to sink their blade into
their unknowing prey
still, the victim standing
blind to the nearing threat
as the savage beasts crept

out of view with drawn blade
a sudden swing for metal
to savor the victim's limbs
and sweep after sweep
the ax sung in the silent air
until the final groan 
and fall of the victim there
onto the frozen ground

dragged away into the night
the gnarled hands patted 
the heads of their offspring's
children upon returning 
with the victim from the silent air
eyes gazed at the sight
on that cold December night
the body propped up in the room
in the candle light and calm
as the gnarled hands sang
O Tannenbaum







Monday, December 5, 2016

Wars we've worn

those wars we've worn
the claw marks lovers
wear on their backs
the pain of seemingly
crowded atoms in
space minuscule in
the echoing hollows of space

but what is shared or
fought over more often
is the fleeting wink of
a cat sitting at the window
a collision between
raindrops and pavement
a moment that adulterates
in pools of maimed memories

and the winks and
collisions and moments
are too numerous even
for those fingers that
sit and count infinite
and still we wear our
wars for grains of sand
which can never be held
in any one hand






Wednesday, November 30, 2016

Snow and window

spittle of frozen elders
dribbles down the cold
cheeks of the window
the glass remembers its
burning liquid youth
and fondly reminisces
while it sags in the
weathered sashes

the bones creak in
the walls and ceiling
as the building sighs
in age and cold and pain
northern nightmares
pierce the skin as
harpoons of Inuit
whalers dive deep
through ice shelves

the invisible beasts
leap from limb to limb
in the trees overhead
and rush the ones
that line the lane that
leads to the fields and
the fading horizon








Tuesday, November 15, 2016

Sown seeds


in porous earth the seeds have been sown
a winter wait to see what will grow
the chosen fruit not normally sought
to so easily ripen, too easily rot
the will will wait within the ground
in the freeze and shell be bound
a patience must for the time we wait
'til life emerges through a warmer gate
which leaves will pierce an April sigh
will they offer offense or be an ally
will their tendrils invade to creep and choke
a bane to all of what was spoke
will their buds blossom and be many
will their fruit differ to nourish plenty
the seeds are sown, the deed is done
time is fleeting in the southern sun







Sunday, November 13, 2016

Bee a thought

if thoughts were bees
the hives would all be empty
that sit upon their vulturous shoulders
peering out into the desolate sea
they've created in their honeyless lives
with their empty hives

the monsters and bears
have licked the bowl clean
and demand more and more

down you paint your face
before the inflated giants
who radiate with chemical smiles

oily cake is all they serve
at their red born banquets
of which hogs will have none

what they won't sweep under
the rug or waves of  the sea
all they've milked of bee pee

they cheer their army of marionettes
into public squares or out their orifice
to overlook what now is naught
so soon the death of bees
the death of thought





Wednesday, November 9, 2016

Dear November

In case you didn't remember,
it's after Halloween.
We should have thrown out
all the rotten pumpkins by now.
It appears, however, that all
those October fears have
bled into your time
and still wildly roam free.

In case you didn't remember,
your time is for gathering.
It's for making food that
has been anticipated
during all the other months.
It's for taking stock in
what makes life worth living.
In other words,
it's for thanks giving.

In case you didn't remember,
those nightmares
should be behind you.
The ghosts and cobwebs
should've been all swept away.
We need to make room for
turkeys and cranberries,
even presents for Christmas day.

In case you didn't remember,
get over it November.



Saturday, November 5, 2016

Boom!

it's a churning magma
that restless burn that steals sleep
a relentless grinding stone
whose friction steadily
raps at the door of rage
biding for Vesuvius
to silence Pompeiish bickering
hoping for those atoms
to split again, and again
and then...
the smoke standing tall
the collapse of the wave
the drain of the red
from the cast iron tub
the scattered lives
the motionless knives
the opening of the door
and exiting
the exhale





Friday, November 4, 2016

After these words

we've hung a mobile of blades
over our future's crib
just hope the strings our strong
rest easy though under
those suspended swords
as terror and danger
and pain and agony always
lay at the foot of the bed
or under it
we knew this early on
when we signed on
to this fucked up party
some call life
others won't admit to it
while still others have
snorted all the snow and
already jumped
out the window
these words may ramble on
as this journey so often does
over paved and muddy roads alike
through smoke filled days
and crystal clear nights
only after we've finished
can we begin again
only after we've
squirmed at the sour taste
of disgust and displeasure
can we revel in sweet honey
if there's any left
so break out your remedies
and swallow them down
the lights have already been
turned off
and we wait in the dark




Sunday, October 30, 2016

Face of fear

don't close your eyes
don't turn away
all the horrors
are on display
the dismal phantoms
fill the sky
to gray the hue
in your eye
the ghouls cackle
up in their towers
always seeking to
add to their powers
the tempest plagues
have uprooted homes
and left forests of
skeletons and bones
ravenous vampires
bite desperate arms
leaving bodies behind
their faded charms
hairy beasts roam
stealing away innocence
and escape the prison cells
due to indifference
pestilence pours forth
from the public tongue
deadly division devours
both the old and young
ancient demons stir
in their restless hate
for bloodshed and war
they can no longer wait
don't close your eyes
don't turn away
these frights are here
and now everyday



Thursday, October 27, 2016

l'amour de la reaper

there's no escaping
the greatest pull
that's been tugging
the heart strings
since the first cry
of birth

who waits for us
all our lives in
patient silence and
perhaps whispers
from time to time
in this

who calls to us
all our lives from
the shadow's edge
to make us ask
to question this
purpose

who yearns for us
to surrender all
to blindly follow
into the shadow's
edge and further
beyond

no lover's heart
seeks you more
never a louder
rapping at the door
with last breath
than death