Warping the weft

sketch the little lines
of an unending thread

light into leaf
into bud into pod
erupting with possibility

spun, spinning,
will eventually spin
in passing towers
dancing on the plains

little lines flowing
into themselves

piggyback lies
and truths under
the thrashing sheets

sheets woven,
weaving, will be
weaved, grieved and
left on the line to dry

bleached little lines
of multi facet colors

each face taking
and adding and layering
their own earthen plies

due sighs for waste
in past haste of wandering
the fiber to wonder,
to ponder the fiber

fabricated little lines
laundered in life's lather

surrendering wills to
washer women at
the Dead Sea coast

and baptizing rivers
weaving and leaving
layers in the coffer
that all contribute to

Fire within

Jargon jaunting: part larvae

in teenage years
between rage and fears
on a freaking creaking limb

racing heartbeat in dangling meat
above ravenous dogs and beasts

gnashing teeth far beneath
a burning heart yearning to fly

in teenage years
a green stage and tears
on a seizing teasing brim

tracing art feet is a mangling treat
in love, have in lust hoggish feasts

flashing sheath jars underneath
the churning part learning to lie

in teenage years
through mean wage and peers
of a sneaking peaking whim

chasing start, fleet a strangling sweet
sort of, halves in us prod release

smashing peace scars beneath
a turning smart, earning due why

Leaves white

just a simple ordinary notion
handing out tickets
from the thickets

snowflakes come early
that stayed awhile
in blushing fluster

chilling presence
violating hands
turning violaceous

just a sunny overstated nudge
throwing in the wind
a haughty season at end

albino puzzle pieces
glow with their show
in faded rubble

keeping a vigor
that never leaves
leaves, stays, leaves

just a silly overwhelming novelty
collecting at my feet
a symbol so sweet

tossed from heaven
high above our clouds
of sighs and whys

white-bellied leaves
as soft as the touch
you left on my soul

Speakeasy

littered words in
a flight of birds

falling from branches
to layer upon matted green

falling from hair in
a snow dust embarrassment

leaking from ears to
make candles for the night

dripping from nostrils
in a lethargic ooze

spewing over tongue
in a soiled course of discourse

littered words having
raked, blown, raked

to burn on chilled
afternoons in rising smoke

a burn to smolder
upon which all choose to choke

when the taste of
shoe leather becomes all too common

rain down littered words
shite white from frightened birds

Scenes from the Blue Garden: part 7

Jargon jaunting: part rinse cycle

fell from womb to tub

a scrub-a-dub-dub
when, between a
rave and a grave,
this life of strife
this divine line
drawn in the sand
by an unseen hand
an offered wander
to here or off yonder
something to ponder
is it just to launder
everything you squander
in those prior days
beyond the dire haze
you came in green and wet
not quite knowing yet
a lingering unpaid debt
but with time as soap
a bit of patience to cope
there in lies the hope
on an outstretched rope
under a bright and sunny sky
you are hung out to dry
and discover the reason why
in this life we must die

Bride and Bridegroom

Where plain trees grow

one by one the
plain trees grow

darts thrown by an
exacting god
one by one along the
steel and timbers

one by one along
the course that crushes
stone to dust blow

with burden of man
resurrecting their
purpose on earth

the earth that is
crushed in dust blow
along the course
where plain trees grow

and the promise of
life eternal delivered
from men in tents

is carried by the
plain trees tethered
together by wires of
words and birds

children walking to
and from dusty
chalkboard lessons

listen to hear the
wind strum against
an aloof guitar, aloft
stretching for miles

along the course where
the plain trees grow
and powdery rock
is crushed to dust blow

oiled matches rise
on burning horizons
casting scarcest of
shadows along time

tethered towers rise
for owl to post
and peer into dark
for scurry of prey

in frozen seas of
white, when ice
gremlins sway on
sparking cables

that stretch along
a road of dust blow...

this road I know
where plain trees grow

Under skin

Stone gray

geese still fly
in skies stone gray

over lines aligned
with stones of gray

the fields of faded
grass and pain

from stone gray
clouds falls the rain

on lives etched
in stones of gray

to broken soil
it finds its way

upon hearts torn
between life and death

upon thoughts of
those in last of breath

upon parent's grief
and child's why

upon the anguished
from the stone gray sky

where geese have
risen high and flown

and children wait
for their flight home

but the wind of
change has blown

the Earth has
taken back its own

and laid those
who have gone away

in gardens made
of stones of gray

Heat

his earth moves me
shooting stars fall
before his eyes

traipsing tongue soothes me...

in dimming days
with darkened skies

a cinder falls upon
the caramel sheets
falls upon his chest
burns within his rest

stale cold ignites in
smoldering skin laced
with the laudanum found
beyond the gates of bliss

his earth trickles
in two streams draining

pain... the tails to the
heads of pleasure's obol
a coin spent to avoid hell

a coin we've spent so well
on the laudanum found
beyond the gates of bliss

in a kiss, made before
eyes close for rest
I still burn upon his chest

Jargon jaunting: part moolah rue

scented notions
of presented potions
writhe in poisoned
rivers of time

lethal doses allotted
to many, diluting
the delusion of immunity

all suffer, gated
in the suffocating
swell of research
datum and polls

jabbering pros scoff at
profiting profs and
prompting prophets' parables

in the set tables
of these fiddled fables
sedated debate
fizzles out in stalemate

and perplexed experts
vomit many more exerts
of the tainted painted play

In the waking days

heights glow, burn
sentinels to lost time
mourning for minutes
in morning hours

shadow plays upon
the temple skin
blinding and warming
in its absence

half slumber slips
past possible matches
and briefcase cars
dwelling stale

gray dwindles in
rivers of burdens
flowing in ticks of
the impetuous revolution

shadows cease their
dance upon the temple
with loss of
solar contribution

a day lent for a second
or sixty times sixty more
a day to clean, to ponder,
to forgive or to explore

in loving someone never met
and in loving one never to forget...