Jargon jaunting: part leaving leaves

plighting night
taking flight
in leftover leaves
when spider weaves...

abundant traps
or dew-drenched maps
glittering wet,
flittering threat
in nipping breeze...

Winter's tease

flashes of hues
splashes of rouge
and amber gold
from times of old...

stooped reaping crone
in drooped sepia-tone
she disturbs the dirt
frees herbs and wort
root and fruit fill the nest...

fool and ghoul chill the rest
sweets and treats thrill the chest

givings for livings
come in grateful platefuls
days are wrought numb...

'tis the ways of Autumn

Scenes from the Blue Garden: part 2

 

Pale shatterd porcelain

youth drains from view
into memories
best served cold

crimson gold flutters
in the ground's aspiration,
in it's hunger for the descending life

those who have risen
now return to soiled wombs,
laying down their spoils

buried hearts collect on debts
when the pale shattered porcelain
drifts down


veiled mistress of dreamers
casts her shrouds
to gain her reign

indigo seeps into solemn
twilight, erupting
in nightmarish splendor

bronze hands bleach during
absent hours of warmth,
fingers twitch, minds grow numb

blue buds rest in biding breasts
when the pale shattered porcelain
drifts down


bestower laps the life spilt,
the life seeping into silt
and miming bare stone

empty cages wither
under carnivorous ice
and the harsh southern sun

paralyzed claws scrounge
for skeleton banes to shield
from Boreas breath

land is a tomb turned out
when the pale shattered porcelain
drifts down

Lamentation for eggs

tired arms ache
under the burden
of letting go

aching arms with
lichen-licked
weathered bark...

the only armor
offered against
the stinging sleet

tired arms mourn
for barren nests
chilled ice blue

mourning arms with
tangled twigs
overgrown in dreams...

the only hope
offered against
the empty sleep

tired arms weep
to rooted origins
buried in the past

weeping arms with
tortured form
grasping for eggs...

the only promise
offered against
the fated feat

Norman echoes

fallen into: Tas veneratus
the whispers set into ageless ears

passing eras turn from laughter,
from ecstasies, from fallen fears

fallen into: Tas veneratus
the soiled fantasies of earthly wants

lucid visions, remnants surface
in stagnant cares and favorite haunts

it is in the heap of honor
that grubs snub sickening sanity

peep inside the hallowed hill
they dance with virtuous vanity

spoken within: Tas veneratus
repeated over the waves of time

drifting regret set sailed,
the unpaid debt or dismissed crime

spoken within: Tas veneratus
'twas and is, e're will be soul's lament

epitaph of stone echoes,
"spirit's tomb is the body's ascent"

Recycled angels

in the eve of frost
they sail on weathered wings
and glide their shiny toes
across satin spar lakes

their bodies silver ice
join in the resplendent lights
overhead in nocturnal play

pale expressions alight
with the reflection of a mirrored moon...

stars reside in their hearts
and collect on their beaten ascensions...

in the eve of frost
they rise in indigo skies
for overdue missions found
below an invalid's tongue

delight is theirs in eyes
that view what comes true
of visions held in hope's abode

bare metal limbs seek
the riddle's clue of ageless forfeited fables...

most prayers are heard
and ultimately fulfilled by these recycled angels

Scenes from the Blue Garden: part 1

 

 

Rewired

worming wires,
relentless messages
ooze down the neck from
saturated cranial deployments

the cat feeds the mouse
in this game of "Can you hear me?"

wayward wires
lighten loads
or so is supposed
in the ground and under sea

the cat has starved itself
in it's desert litter box

wounded wires lay
scarred and sparking
leaking letters and
spewing sonic sonnets

dead mouse is overfed
and tires of wiggling to and fro

weakened wires melt
and fuse in frustrating wait
sighing summons tap their toe
for a later outlet

Round timeline

granted are the lines
Helios casts upon the dial

lines age draws
upon the human face

lines found in
studious books about long ago...

lines that ripple in the trunk
from the seed's start

subtle evidence, these lines,
that something at least has transpired

something at least was communicated...
at least was experienced

lines aren't for everyone,
they aren't for those who
know lines have stops and starts

who know time is more
than vile smiles and angelic hearts...

time is less than true
of what goes on between them and you

lacking truth is what often chokes
the tubular tarts and bloated blokes,

and they spend their time
as they spend their loot
at lotteries and paid toilets

they miss the chance to step
off the broken record
wobbling on the old Edison

rolling past are the circles
lost, eluding linear sniffers

for it is in this and only this
in how lives are spent differs

Yeti