Momentary mountains

reflections lay gleaming
and tired on the ground
where weathered stone
cups the light of the lingering day


remnants of the torrent
tearing through the skies
lay in a now silent eve
unmoving silk draped over stone


reservoirs from broken heat
are libations of miller moths
when suddenly the sun sinks
behind the horizon's momentary mountains

Eye sickles

it's the clouds
that keep the fangs around
the crystal clear
slowly dripping to the ground

some so sharp and thin
to pierce the heart,
to tear the skin

above the doors
the clouds keep them around
pointed daggers
slowly dripping to the ground

as angel wings hide the sun
they scoff in their
teetering possible fun

of when one might
decide not to stay around
and surrender the
slowly dripping to the ground

to collide with someone's head
to cause mischief,
surprise, and pain instead

that surely is why
the clouds keep them around
in their agonizing
slowly dripping to the ground

as angels hide the sun so well
I'd tell them all
to go straight to hell

for playing the odds
in keeping them around
and savoring  the
slowly dripping to the ground

Palm reading

Napping

savor of solace found

in the last breath before sleep

the forgotten image in

front of the heavy eyelids

the tiny bit of muffled

sound lingering on earlobes

before slipping into the

inevitable and unknown

 

and not knowing digs

down into depths of souls

with thirsty tyrannical roots

 

be it the first nap of a babe

the initial night terror

with the call of a banshee

tearing through the halls

to snap a parent out of bed

the tyrannical roots have

scattered their spores

throughout man's psyche

 

and not knowing infiltrates

the borders where now

no guard has their post

 

though it has been habit

day in and out, sun up and down

to slip into that other state

left behind our daily clothes

and stark we run through

the glare of both moon and stars

and dance on spider threads

dripping with the cold wake

of the next routine and hours

 

and not knowing simmers

on the back burner of brains

idle yet scheming yet biding

 

following the rabbit through

this habit of falling again and

again into the abysmal sea

where we don't see but feel

don't feel but sense as we

are the incense that burns away

a scent that fades from the air

to drift and wander off somewhere

 

and not knowing turns cold

when the idea of death dies

giving way to sleeping, then waking

New? year

Ben's hands fold

to pray for another day

one anew too

in another time

but the old lame slime

cheers a cup of cheer

raise a glass for the new year

blah blah Auld Lang Syne

still the old lame slime

a wash for numeral digits

scrub those zeros, ones, twos

shiny new sixes in time

lingering the old lame slime

predict all those accordingly

what's in store well ahead

for sure the perfect chime

one of the old lame slime

but Ben's hands grasp tight

and pray up over head

to hope so well

for a different climb

away from the old lame slime

Sacred night

a sacred night to eye the sky
to look above into the past
the lights they reach through the dark
signals from the very start

a gaze upon our eternity
the endless dark waves of the sea
the waters glisten within the stars
on this sea our dreams depart

to set sail across the sky
drifting to find their right place in time
reaching their destination as a gift
but for now our dreams must drift

In the box?

what be it in the box? 
albeit a strange looking box
all wrapped up in papers that glitter
golds, reds, and greens of autumn litter
what be it in the box?
can't wait to see

what be it in the sox?
albeit rather long red sox
all hung precariously next to the flame
if they burnt up it would be such a shame
can't contain myself in this waiting game
what be it in the sox?
pour them out already

what be it in the sleigh?
albeit an odd place for a sleigh
up on the peak of our icy cold roof
to keep it so high to be so aloof
why all the secrets, enough is enoof
what be it in the sleigh?
oh please here my plea

what be it in the bag?
albeit a stupendously big bag
hurled over the shoulder of the jolly guy
jelly for a belly, ho ho ho is his cry
as he hops into the sleigh and away to fly
my questions vanish with him into the night sky
what be it in the bag?
somebody answer me

Angel smoke

their raven wing clouds
the day in mourners shrouds
ashes flick to ground
from angels on their cigarette breaks



the time to shed our clothes
throw away those dirty robes
as they hang on iron gates
we sink into the earth



their murky ink clouds
the grays they spin around
showers of ash rain down
from chain smoking angels on high



the moment to tear our clothes
to strip down and disrobe
throw them over the iron gates
and revel in cold soaked earth

December 18th

words written in white
a language of a tongue
forgotten in the frigid
conclusion of the fall


words written on panes
of momentary glass
from a pen unseen
an author abhorred, mostly


spectral icy ink
tattoos the frosted flesh
echoes of the perished
that will linger still


after winds tear from
the trees their leaves
the sky sheds its own
in lace it buries


glazed in white words
promise of winter worlds
that torments dreams in
the conclusion of the fall

Swordplay

"Good sir,
I have no quarrel with thee!"

but a quarrel we must
with the instinct to thrust
into and within physical fits
to rouse, to spill, the lust

extended blade of steel
unsheathed, the heated
feel of blood that boils
the sword, a rigid eel

clash the blades and
ring, the song they sing
in rhythm, in thrusts
through the air they swing

alas, to fall upon his sword
run me through my kind Lord
savor your blade within my
gut, what pleasure you hoard

warmth flows and spills out
upon my chest and all about
pull from me no longer your
blade, pray now it be a spout

leave me in the awe of death
twas my birth upon your breath
wipe your sword with my cloak
and immerse within my depth

"Good sir,
thou taketh advantage of me!"