Jargon jaunting: part 15/6ths

preexisting trysts
inspire twisting wrists
listing mistletoe kisses
and fiscal-woe hisses

quite the sight
to fight the height

in raising swords
against dazing Lords
and amazing hoards

of trunks of hunks,
funky monks,
and monkey skunks

snobs feel slime
and jobs steal time
yet Bobs heal crime

so fated trysts
find weighted gists
among debated fists

returned is theft time
discerned in heft rhyme

Militant metamorphosis

Missed

delight in eyes,
with hidden surprise

devouring the night.

disregarding first light.

engulfed by time,

feeling so sublime

writhing in passion.

dressed in heated fashion.

accumulating pleasure,

yet waiting for good measure

until at last...

 

sigh, the moment’s passed.

without a word or more

he’s gone out the door.

Jargon jaunting: part 10.2

again falleth the rain
Chaac with sliced vein
grey clouds doth reign
Ra prayer said in vain

cumin passing
through human lumen...
spice needs ice
to slice the entice

fully holy respect
for physical aspect

slight plight of pain
in day's warmth wane
thoughts drift out pane
off to Great Bear's wain

looming flash
and assuming booming crash...
await the fate
if bate or elevate

slowly unholy prospect
for lyrical dissect

Madame M.

Mother may I?

If I may, can I?

If I can, should I?

They shed blood for you,

their own and others’ will do.
Filling up your chalice with tears,
release from them their ravenous fears.

What else will you ask of them?

What else is there Madame M.?

Did you not dare surmise

of how your own name should rise?
A bouquet of incense set on high
for you, your hope and twisted lie.

What other tale shall I hymn

for your own ears, Madame M.?

Angelic wings took flight

to spread your mangled plight.
While wood was stained with red
were schemes storming in your head?

Here’s your crown of gold and gem.

Would there be anything else, Madame M.?

Any other day as meek you be?

Of your initial state, please remind me.
Your garden has grown to the contrary.
Mountain majesty replaced low prairie.

Higher in the tree the weaker the limb.

Oh do be careful up there Madame M.

Stale breeze

There is nothing for me to say
that hasn’t been said before

There is nothing left for me to do,
to reap or ignore

In all those days of all those weeks

of passing moons and turning seasons...

I left,

without ever knowing it

Lurking in the shade cast by numerous outstretched arms

there I remain, appearing from fallen debris...

that is me

And beyond the bard’s lyrics

where dreams fade and winds die,

I left my body there

gently levitating in the air

My feet ran off...

to some distant summit

and will not be seen again

‘Tis better that way, I always tend to linger

Those teachers will have their way with me

and I should see.  I could fly...

I would dance, had there been a pulse to cling to

I will mimic those winged footsteps

No matter the amount of shining coins
I heave out of my pockets...

the vessel has left the shore

‘Tis better that way, I always tend to linger anyway.

The minstrel

He may look as though he left his mother the other day
and hasn’t had many hours to sponge the world,

but the lad has too many unseen years
tied to his hands behind his back.

His youth bears scars that he wishes were realized,

as he realizes although they remain, they are healed.

He spouts out blanched, lightly seasoned rhythms

that are seemingly pleasing to his audience

and cohesive with his appearance.

The crone that lingers in his bowels, however, cries, “More!”

as she raps her staff on his tailbone...

he had swallowed her long ago while inhaling his first breath.

Her cruel inspiration spurs him on

in his hope of subduing the mired muse.

She’s entertained too many butterflies in his belly

and now he’s obsessed, longing for familiar, anxious excitement.

Jokingly he admits to all the crazed mental relapses,

excusing himself by asking, “Aren’t we all?”

He could hide it well enough, and he’ll try again

throwing his convulsions down the cistern

excavated in the hub of his existence.

Down there, in the quagmire...

where all his clandestine objects are heaved,

decomposition is absent.

Invitation after invitation has been mailed,

requesting the rotten presence,

for the bodies are piling up.

Perhaps decay doesn’t dwell there anymore...

no matter, he will choose cannibalism over exposure.

He hides his language in shouts and screams,

as it turns his stomach inside out to spill his guts.

His speech splatters against

the interior walls of his mental corridors...

graffiti on an overused canvas.

The stale horror of his circumstance

nearly chills his exposed chest

but moreover removes him from his

frail stronghold he conceals himself in.

Lighted twilights he drifts to.

He lingers in those times of barely seeing,

still seeing more than he does.

Those stretched auroras reassure him of exterior ecstasies,

places other than his internal gloom.

He paces slowly in those times, gently singing...

“No noose is tied in the rope.  There is hope.  There is hope.” 

 

 

 

Experimenting with forms

I was experimenting with some forms this morning in preparation for creating three dimensional works for an art exhibition next spring.  This certainly gives me some direction.

 

Aurora

Jargon jaunting: part 6 & 7/8ths

of thee magnanimous
even the pusillanimous

is the consolidation of blood relation

save damnation
of the sin of kin

raps apart
the traps of heart...

when son, sis, and mar
drift greatly afar

yet so it be
with seeds of the tree

opposable thumb
plus seeming not dumb
should venerate a separate outcome?

peace in life is accepting strife
and possibly knowing
where the winds are blowing

fluff may drift
bluff may shift...

yet twig, and limb, and branch
are the tree's sprig, and hymn, and tranche

Jargon jaunting: part 3.75%

a disposition dispensation...

caught being bought,
fought and now wrought...

clotting, nay rotting

once spotting dunce plotting
the judge regard high beauregard

hourly bowery spewing
   flowery wooing

conture demure...

alluring, procuring, obscuring

unassisted witches
and tightfisted bitches

breech the speech of the preach...er

spurring the slurring
slander brander

fulfill the downhill spill...

flood of blood on mud

Jargon jaunting: part 1

Let me word my words
    in pristine wording.

As I choose my speech,

let me speak

as I am speaking.

I find walking while talking

improves the talk

and shortens the walk.

Shall we then adjourn

to our oh so,

sojourn journey?

Upon it we should elect

to reflect

upon direct dialect

deriving from the intellect.

We then should pace

from the race

with blush face

encased with lace,

so is the case.

We'll pass a lass

dismissed from class,

holding alas, a looking glass.

Then exceeding a scholar reading,

a farmer seeding,

and a shepherd leading,

we'll arrive at a nation with rotation

of affirmation and speculation.

While in thought,

our ideas have fought

and peace of mind was sought.

Should we then stare at a bear

with rare hair

in his lair at the county fair;

and rake the hours

while we wake the flowers

and fake our powers?

Devouring souring cheese,

while dieting with rioting fleas...

we will tire...

retire,

and lay head to bed instead.

 

Delayed aide

Mingling with future skeletons...

tarry the thoughts of overwrought speech

Dissection to the point of murder

wreaks the havoc of a blood sucking leech

The reluctant evangelist preaches

“Don’t over till the soil, must be precisely”

Standing, cloaked in widow shrouds

looking beyond, feeling indecisively

Their tongues are meat hooks thrashing

believing their words hold utmost meaning...

never knowing unseen incidents

For in the shadows, their demons are teeming

“Hold thy sword, better is of silence!”

the shy man of cloth beseeches and begs

“Resist any admiring advance your way...

turn immediately and shut your legs.”

The devouring devotee nears the shrouded

hovering as smoky vulture or ashen crow

Layered in bitter gold and icy silk

the admirer will only blanket with show

“Oh my, tell me of your skill...

it is obvious and honors my very eyes.”

Tempting praise and luring tongue

follows with oohs, ahs and lustrous sighs

The shrouded submits to devious regard

forgetting the frail friar’s sermon of late

Choosing in small action to play

opening ears wide to the devious gate

Caught with hook to inner cheek

reeled focus to cement the devotee’s ploy

Coddling the shroud’s social infancy...

of the companionship to seemingly enjoy

The sickly coyote will soon abandon

after discovering the absence of tasty crumb

Jaunting off to some new horizon

leaving the victim scorned and even more numb

Aye, the scavenger lurks in pain

seeking only those equal or less than he

The fragile minister utters in low

“I should always listen to the advice from me.”

Own prison

Long in the chamber have I waited,

my vexes and fears still non-sedated.

This lonely cell embraces the dark.

The flight from it I wish to embark.

You there, can you not see my hand?

From the gap, I ravenously wave my hand.

In the night shines my ghostly pale hand,

a beacon that shows across the land.

 

In the dim candle light I detect

a silhouette, off silver does reflect.

In every motion it chooses to emulate.

My empty shell’s shifts it does simulate.

You there, can you not see my feet?

They dangle over the lofty rim, my feet.

Flailing in the crisp deep night are my feet,

waiting for the warm free land to meet.

 

Solely I plea for some help in rescue.

Solely I beg for it to come to view.

Do not pass by my desolate, dismal cell.

Do not pass me by without any avail!

You there, can you not see my tears?

Running out of wounded eyes, my tears.

Crying out from wrongful acts, my tears.

Imprisoned am I for all these years.

 

 

The Heart's Footsteps

Overshadow of consequential regret

looms in stark, yet subtle glances,

when one will gaze and suddenly

retreat, withdrawing all advances.

In the anxious wings fluttering

off the pool’s clear reflection,

pulses quicken and thoughts race

under doubt and self inspection.

Sensing warmth of breath on

numb skin, only to depart.

Evading the heated grasp

so as to not follow one’s heart.

 

Fading after review of actions

that escape life’s chance of joy.

Sobbing in kerchief of sorrow

and using ole sympathy’s ploy.

Twisting in gnarled fashion,

dimly dressed in mourner's black.

Sipping on bitterness ale,

always anticipating the next attack.

Wading in caution’s fountain,

to appear seemingly smart.

Heeding the words of text books

instead of following one’s heart.

Wondering, lost and fearful

in the forest of distraction.

Overwrought with despair

to miss meaningful attraction.

Gliding through sunlit glens

to find a veiled treasure chest.

Keyless frustration consumes

with wails and pounding of breast.

Abandoning the unopened

trunk, no vacancy in the cart.

Nearing but veering astray

to the following of one’s heart.

 

Solitude greets with dawning

ray, silence of spoken word.

Crow to awaken a cold ear.

Meal of stewed oats and curd.

After daily labor of tending

beast and garden comes rest,

until worthy pilgrim wanders

the trail, arriving with the test.

Standing brave under intensity,

agreeing is just the start.

Surrendering, shedding all,

to embrace the following of one’s heart.

 

 

Of the ditch

Lo! Ye be of the lowly weed.

Seeds of ye abundant be.

No matter to fall on stone,

potential brick or glass.

They sprout and flourish

in the dark or thick grass.

 

Lo! Every travel ye vestige.

Ye be assail in blustering gale.

And yet thee set forth

generations to ever unfurl.

Tumble and bumble your way

along the road will hurl.

 

Lo! Taking as though a gypsy. 

Spending thee of spent will be.

Hungry roots grow deep.

Thirsty tendrils do creep.

Defending poisons seep,

as throng of thorns cause leap.

 

 

Lo! Change is an age old chum.

Ye took chance of circumstance.

Searching though the rubble,

abandoned house and yard,

of crow, rat and even roach.

Aye, of you, so sings the bard.

 

Lo!  Ye should be proud.

Ye outlasts while higher castes past.

Of great, untraveled blood

and pipes of poisoning lead.

Greater yet, delicate beauty.

Their vineyards now lay dead

 

Lo!  Lift ye head high.

Ye should know as the times grow.

Endureth your family loins,

in current times do play,

knowing not the solemn grave

but only warmth of day.

 

Five-spice Masters: Clove

 

Ole Master Clove is a hornet.

His hobby is playing the cornet.

He’s shiny as brass,

and sustains much class.

But for a coat he wears a shore net.

 

Five-spice Masters: Cinnamon

Ole Master Cinnamon is a slug.

He loved his little brown jug.

After getting drunk,

he fell in a trunk.

There he slept it off very snug.

 

Five-spice Masters: Fennel

 

Ole Master Fennel is a locust.

Nothing distracts him from focus.

But pondering on a log,

he didn’t see the frog,

then he vanished like hocus-pocus!