Saturday, August 31, 2013

Sharpened sticks and bones

wrapped up words...

shredded, layered, glued

molded in the form
that frames suspects
in the library

molded in the form
that slices, dices, chops!

molded as an instrument
of murder, this one
with greater pain to inflict

slowly sinks
with its layered letters

sinks into victim,
often them and
the assailant unaware

unaware that the letters
posed in such a way
produces poisonous prose

the nose of the form
driven directly to the bone

the tortuous texture
tears through tissue,
tendons and truth

mangles supple self,
slashes silken soul,
corrupts curious core

layered letters lodged
between sternum and rib of four


Friday, August 30, 2013

Jargon jaunting: part sovereign-ated fat

squeezed into a pair
of shiny black pumps
strolled the plump
Lewd Lard Lord

in a gallant gait
of stride-hop-skip
he surveyed his
brood, yard... horde

ever allotting
little lots to the low
was the goal of his
glued scarred gourd

in enforcing edicts
for his own cravings
he oppressed with his
shrewd guard sword

rains snubbed grains,
and pestilence pestered
the rotten reign of the
Lewd Lard Lord

suffering serfs
rightly retaliated,
for their erupting
feud, sparred... warred

their anger afire
blazed the lord's home
suiting its lust for
stewed, charred board

dancing in the dust
and embers, they sang
echoes linger of that
spewed bard chord

"Food, homes, and clothes
we now can afford
once we finally fried the
Lewd Lard Lord!"


Wednesday, August 28, 2013

In some knee yak

lewd ideas fall into
the bed late at night....

sleep to be found
when sheets are worn
as second skin
and head with
pillow meets

rest to follow
when saturated sutures
burst at their seams
with did I? do I? will I?

pounding pulse
echoes off the pillow...

internal clock ticking
away life's seconds
and masticating
the Sandman's duty

heavily burdened eyes
absorb the color
of the numbers
at the head of the bed

weary eyes to rise
and reflect the red
in early morning
after hours spent
stirring, doubting,
lamenting, looking...

confirming the time
suffered before
the sounding of the alarm
was spent in vain


Sunday, August 25, 2013

Lightning bug


Ms. Musttell

A goosey loon served as the public voice
but wasn't necessarily the public choice
 
In Caplinkaville the paper
flowed with grammatical errors,
misspelled names, and other
assorted editorial terrors
 
The Caplinkaville Eavesdrop
Newspaper was holey true
and always printed events
when they were far from new
 
Although the reporters
were punctual and precise
their stories were often mutilated 
in the editor's device
 
Ms. Bobo Musttell was the
goosey loon's name
and printing trouble
was her very favorite game
 
She'd sit crouched 
over her tiny letter keys
looking like someone
who was searching for fleas
 
Her fingers would scurry 
across the lead-poured typeset
as her eyes reflected
her instigating mindset
 
Her scratchy aged voice
cracked out her decrees
yet all the time she was infatuated
with her little letter keys
 
Through morning and night
she labored at her post,
ignoring her eggs she
should have looked after most
 
One morning she was 
found stiff-dead at her desk,
frozen in time and 
looking rather statuesque 
 
Over her keys, 
lo she was still crouched
"lead poisoning the cause,"
the coroner vouched
 
Although many thought
overworking did her in
the tiny letter keys
were found in her abdomen
 
Caplinkavillites knew the news
was for the birds
they just never realized Ms. Musttell
made a meal of her words
 
 

Thursday, August 22, 2013

Pit of long ago

on edge,
inched to oblivion's ledge
gaze into,
grasp with your eyes
the eternal tableaux

tips of toes
futilely grip onto
all that is leaving,
all that is stripped away
with the transfiguring flow

what was left,
what was sacrificed
to the erosion of the eras
lays below in a pit
of long ago

release the
apprehension,
surrender the chains
of preconceptions
hopping and skipping
behind "although..."

free fall
past the thieving phantoms
of exiting truths,
plummet into the forgotten,
remember and relish the afterglow

then burn
the shredded veils,
light them on fire
to know what it
finally is to let go


Monday, August 19, 2013

Jargon jaunting: part-ly true

the mire a liar
must acquire

over lips when he sips
from the font of fraud


the brier a liar
must desire

so to hide all he's lied
in nocturnal maraud


the buyer a liar
must require

for the yarns he thus darns
so slick, slyly swift


the sire a liar
must retire

change the reign, truth has slain
sordid supreme shift


the higher a liar
must conspire

as each tale weaves in hell
doubting demon dance


the choir a liar
must rewire

to the tune so roughhewn
chancing circumstance


the prior a liar
must attire

to pass lies, Lord of Flies
sin savors sheep suits


the spire a liar
must admire

aloft roles, aloof goals
riddles reside in roots


Saturday, August 17, 2013

Exchequers of the sands

captured rapture...
this in barren locales
where blind men count the sand
and red drips from foot, from hand
 
plagued by tree carcasses
holding men carcasses,
the dust cries out, "Abba!"
the wind howls, "Holy Jesus, why?"
 
and breathtaking sights crash
on the blind men counting sand
whose blood stains the land
 
the death poles draw smiles
in the dirt as the sun passes by,
and the earth spins impaled
on its own penetrating pole
 
"Crawl out of me!" one blind man demands
of the regrets his blank stare has gathered

dried, peeling lips...
 perhaps the skin became too hot
parched, crackled voice...
 perhaps the soul began to rot
 
fumbling fingers, weakened minds, dried up glands
these men who sit counting the sands
 
they count the sand at the feet
where blood drips and boils in the heat
 
the place where man merges with tree,
they sit and count and ponder thee
 
"How many times can a hopping toad get struck by lightning?"
a question one blurts out in rank phantom fashion
"How many times this I ask?"
 
fidgeting digits stall awhile
jutted lips lift up in a smile...
 
in a state from under a Bodhi
casting the absence of shade,
another sirdar of the count yells out, "Only one!"
 
...satisfaction found under the burning sun
 
 
 

Friday, August 16, 2013

Touch song

in your hands,
I found my song

those lines coursing
through your palms
and wrapping their tendrils
around your fingertips...

those lines were the
stringed instrument
that soothed the raging
storm seeded in my soul
long ago and far away

it strummed my melody,
echoing from the
rising suns in your
fingernails

it harped my lullaby,
sweetly humming from
the soft touch of your
fingertips where your
soul's labyrinths vined

it screamed my anthem,
beckoning me to your
grasp that melted my
stalled state

I gently dripped,
the season's snow melt
that carved your banks
and accelerated your stream

your cupped hands held me
in the rain's resonance

Wednesday, August 14, 2013

A reflection

emptied...
yet saturated in surroundings,

three fragile vessels rest
in dilution

enveloping liquid coincides
with their basic nature
of deforming translucency

they themselves fall prey
to their own salacious manipulations

absorbing reflections
of limits out of reach...

their faces

projecting self images
onto neighboring vessels...

their legacy

basking in the image
of a theoretical sun...

their truth

bare the middle and sunk blindly
with the others
into the aqueous trend

transparent the middle and showed
what the others couldn't
in their decorated cobalt facades

dare the middle to ascend
with the escaping air
that bubbles to the surface

dare to breach the surface
of the water-logged world

dare to feel the warmth
of the rising sun
to know, not just theorize...

dare to abandon the reflection of reality





Monday, August 12, 2013

The ocean bed

I fall with the flow
into his broken heart

the heart that shattered
in releasing love
from its earthly cares

cares that blow away
in the wings of a butterfly,
vanish in the morning sun

he bloomed with the sun,
giving his life to all the pieces

and the pieces of his
broken body were scattered
to the ceaseless wind
and unending waves

there is no end in sight
for the nightly rain
attempting to wash
away the pain

there is no end in sight
for the pill-laced sleep
that carries him to
the cold ocean deep

regret of words said
and those left unspoken
is the knife that twists in his heart

guilt of letting him climb
the mountain barefooted
is the hammer that breaks his voice

his broken body found rest
in the cold ocean deep
he returns there every night
in his tear-drenched sleep





Friday, August 9, 2013

Lost monarch


Jargon jaunting: part time

Begotten of this prolong notion
and string-along emotion
is a lifelong devotion.

Is it such a crime
to be immersed in rhyme?

Sublime are the times
spent in birthing rhymes.

'Tis a melodic chime,
a fresh nosegay of thyme
to swim in the waves of rhyme.

An escape from mundane grime
is the moment spent in rhyme.

One can clear their throat of slime
by sputtering out a roaring rhyme.

As there are mountains to climb
and bravery and courage to prime,
so it is to sit and write out a rhyme.

To have lemon with no lime
is to have reason with no rhyme.

Thus invested are they and I'm,
poets who choose the directing rhyme.

So go and spend your shiny dimes
on all the silent Parisian mimes.
I'll stay here in these trying times
and work out more relentless rhymes.


Monday, August 5, 2013

Beautiful Jay-sunflower


 
roasted toasted sunflower seed
planted 365 days ago
within cold, saturated dirt
 
dirt smeared across brow,
in chest...
upon lips
 
roasted toasted sunflower seed
sent on Mercury's divine step
by flickering flame prayers
 
prayers paced with burning hearth,
lightning heat...
rabbit's heart
 
roasted toasted sunflower seed
begged heart race for art space
in frozen nocturnal travels
 
travels fused to smoky walks,
ethereal talks...
celestial hawks
 
roasted toasted sunflower seed
bloomed on 14th of the second
realizing dreams of seven
 
seven set in years merged,
age enlightened...
month birthed
 
roasted toasted sunflower seed
returned at the foot of the bed,
the sign of fulfilled promises
 
promises born on angelic feathers,
heavenly dispatches...
winged sandals