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!"

Robot dreams

do robots dream what
their purpose will be
if ever humans ceased
and fell into eternity
or does it even matter
in a robot mind
to have a reason
when working in line

instilled the order
of one zero zero one
never anything more
no laughter, no fun
in their creation
was made to release
the boredom of work
man's labor to decrease

what then can be said
of the creation of man
was it to decrease
the labor of creator's hand
to diminish demand
from the divinity rule
could man be thought
of as God's pack mule

can the same be said
for the reason of life
to lessen the burden
of God's own strife
for did man not instill
what man wanted not
when man first created
the purpose of the robot

Silence of snow

pale sky and land converge
old lovers, they are
in a veil of displacement

a place once known
now hidden in white

soft, the world lays
in peace and still and cold

where passersby reveal
where they left and
where they long to go

a shuffle through the
shattered frozen rain
shaken from floating fleece

those sheep in the sky

and eternity is rolled
out into the distance
into the silence of snow

Waiting for winter white

that orange and yellow

licks the fence in sunny
cold wind, the heart of
remnants beating against
the shadows stretching

whereas this time lingers
in those shadowy fingers

is it the leaving of life
to a solid slab underfoot
that lays linear squiggles
across lawns and up the
houses to their very eaves

whereas this time lingers
in those shadowy fingers

they long to hold what
now drizzles into the
black plastic bags or
heaps held in the back
of the house under tarps

whereas this time lingers
in those shadowy fingers

for all to come to halt
leaking liquid on the drive
clings to pavement in
bitter whistles as we
wait for the winter white

whereas this time lingers
in those shadowy fingers

Hell in

I broke a jar
she cut her hand
her skin so thin
those many years ago

and many years before
she spent her time in line
with chattering children
the echoes of odorous food
in commotion of feeding the masses
within four cafeteria walls

and then, when her work
was done, she didn't escape
the chatter of children
for I imposed upon her
and retired her rest

she had cartoons on
the basement television
while she microwaved
or whipped together a sandwich
for lunch, it wasn't much

a loud scream, abrupt banshee
sounded each time
she found me behind her
or simply coming up the stairs

frazzled the nerves
that shone from her tired eyes
and coiled out in the curls of her hair

thus the times she spontaneously
broke out in barks and whimpers
as though a dog waiting at the door
she got away with such behavior

for hell she might have been born into
a hell she may have lived in
she was a hell in

Among the stones

'twas the stone of a tomb
standing upright in the field
among the others standing tall

'twas simply a stone
looking back to the road
in the chilly eve of the Fall

couldn't have been
but the cast of a shadow
nothing else at all

couldn't have been
but merely an illusion
a trick to my eyes befall

there again it wasn't
quite the same color
as the rest of the sprawl

then again it didn't
reflect the sun as
the other stones in the Fall

pray, it also was
a shadow where there
wasn't a tree or a wall

pray, it was as well
a mist of a figure
its appearance its call

so perhaps it was
something other than stone
among the others standing tall

perhaps it might have been
something else entirely
looking back in the eve of the Fall

Worms and roots

they toil in the soil 

both the worms and the roots

the blood, the flesh

'tis their feast of choice

winding as laces through

a dead-man's boots

the force of death

courses through what's

underfoot to tempt

and snare with its

sparkling web

those drops of dew

that rain from shrouds

mournings of the past

shadows lap and savor

pools of tears and 

future fears, in frozen

tides they fall upon

their prey below

the viral sleep of the rotting

to devour us in

regrets, the birth of our deaths

tacking to the mire

trapping of desire the

whispers of worms and roots

Dug

how murderous one behaves
to become a refined digger of graves
knowing what earth to sink the spade
slicing through worms the metal blade

and what time to do the dig
when midnight wears its darkest wig
what depth to make the soiled bed
how to place the feet and tilt the head

then what lies to lay upon the hole
devouring the proof and bits of soul
to sweep the crime beneath the rug
this the reason the grave is dug

Paper birds

from the office window
take flight the paper birds
their pages of wings flutter
and shuffle through the breeze


up to the tallest branch
of the bending bundle of boughs
the paper birds soar and impale
themselves on the swaying hands


clutched and held so tight
the figuring of overdue debts
lap up the drops of night rains
and bleed onto the gold lawn below


ink stained tears into the mud
flows the words from 1948 year
when mom and pop shed their own
their tears now neither there nor here


and paper birds still roost there
weathered and plastered to their own
bleached and pure of words
the death and freedom of paper birds

Sight unseen

never wanted or
couldn't have turned
my head and glance away


so difficult to do
when there's no escape
from the sight unseen...
when bestowed the fly's
multifaceted pair of eyes


only one thing to do
when what isn't yet
or what's been again
grabs on to shoulders
whispers, shakes, then screams


they are the twinkles
that have traveled in time
in dark and cold and space
to show a figure drawn out
from dot to star to dot
penned upon cosmic sheets


they lurk in the ordinary
the everyday happenings
to be swallowed up unless
the sight's net plunges in
and pulls them safely
to digesting discernment


only then the pattern's path
unfolds the fern's bracket
in the warm Spring of view


only then are scriptures spared
and numbers flow freely
through the pollen laden air


never wanted or
couldn't have turned
away and missed the sight

Jargon jaunting: part dirt

spade spilled soil
clods, the clots
do glimmer glow
slug slathered slime
the creeping seeping creeps
feisty feasting fiends
yet halt the salt!
none at their tater table






damp dug dirt
rooms, the wombs
you excavate earth
for sown silent seed
the wriggly winding worms
favor tending friends
so weave the leaves
into their composting compote

Sycamore and 26th

don't rest under the sycamore
there's work yet to be done

the road bleeds into the sky
in the rising of the sun

though you're in the middle
of leaving sleep behind in bed

yawns must be drowned in
coffee that pours into your head

don't stop at the sycamore
a bit further you must go

to listen to the masses
cooing to them as they crow

vital are you, the courier
of information and words

even at times you may feel
all the crowing is for the birds

don't get held up at the sycamore
your place is still on east

though tangled, garbled voices
may seem a fearsome beast

steady on past the sycamore
where your gleaming sword awaits

albeit a phone rather than sword
alas, cruel were the fates

Them and wind

the coats piled on
layered, lacquered leaves
of lives lived long ago
so far passed they
have yet to come


the ashes cling to
the air once was there
dust trickles down
demolished demigods
in late September


gnarled and smooth
the grasping claws
of earthbound towers
whose sap runs thin
the blood of eras


twisted tussle of dance
in the dying afternoon
and under the gluttonous moon
they call, "Friend, come to me!
Wind, blow through me!"

A September mourning

heavy breath

upon faded blades

retreats the pulse

of humming wings

earth draws back

the green

silks adorned 

with hollow shells

flowers fail 

to fully fruit 

before the first

kiss of frost

dims the candle 

of the sky

as it sinks into

southern songs

crows call out

for the cold

Eve

her fingers crawl over the sky
a spider's scamper thither, there
zig zagging weave of purple
gloom in high drifting feathers


the gold is ravenously reaped
from azure fields, gobbled up
from fiends with coal dust wings
claws that tear the day apart


dimming hours tick away
into shadows dancing for
glory of moonlight splendor
dilated pupils shall be taught


from the earth pours out
the souls soured from ash
and worms and biting beasts
that carry prey into the tombs


bones collect as twigs and
branches from a heavy ice
and grinding teeth sings to
sleep the sweet lifeless lullaby


foul the air that drifts upon
a torrent breeze to chill the flesh
the scratching breath of night
to growl and howl then bite


from hollowed out logs
crawl the throngs of creeps
and swarms to overtake as one
with stinging thorns and venom


spurred on these offspring
of shadows within darkest black
cackles thunder through the air
from the night hag named Eve

Unearthed

unearthed the underneath 

of retired and tiring bodies

in decay and repose

exhumed the exhaust

of passing past 

in layers of the dust

in rust a tumor toils

upon the nails 

the timeless plague of boils

to shatter shards

below flower yards

for feisty feasting roots

your sanity lost

rolled away the marbled globe

and what your thoughts may cost

here's hoping it went unused

at least from where it was found

in the front lawn's ground

for swingers

that is of a small white ball

don't make good neighbors at all

Blank

blank, the thirsty page
my eyes rest upon.
its ravenous stare
eagerly awaits the
caress of my words,
be it fingers gliding
over keys or hand
dragging ink soaked pen.


this page, the mirror
that only states what
it has been given
and reflects outward
all of what was
heaved from the inward.


each letter, each syllable,
each line laid down
to pull my soul out
and onto the table below.


there my reflection swims
in the literary pool,
an oracle of my own fate.


showing where my
shadow has blackened the
earth, my past has cast
the line and lure through
my present image in the pool
to fish the future feast.


and round it goes for
us all in words in print
and voices softly spoken,
as simply circles form
whenever my pen bends
and touches the thirsty
page with its blank...

Squirrels and hornets

order is a human illusion
and squirrels and hornets
are the first to remind
that not everything can
be kept in a straight line


and never was there a river
that longed to flow in such a manner
still they rage behind the dams
to tear them down and run free


for chaos is the thirsty root
that feeds the sprig of choice
it nourishes the prophet
giving the soul a voice


sing they do from mountaintops
and twirl in the dance eternal
among quasars and specks

The circle serpent cult

held the sand grains
that hold the rains
and tip for sip of it

liquid poured for
those gods' thirst
in the sea of iron at the core

red for crimson
laid upon their brow
the taste drips down

precious rubies fall
between floorboards
into the hellish hall

belly of the beast
of the overlooked feast
where mother eats her child

yet to birth another
it is all she knows
this give and take mother

the children dance too
they parade into their tombs
their coffins their wombs

and suckle from the sea
of iron at the core
begging on hands and knees

their mother feeds away
stealing from night to pay the day
and lingers in her debts

yet debts are wiped clean
after the turn of stars above
and gold from the harvest glean

to the winds words are said
the circle serpent turns
and the sea of iron burns

Was wet

cellular saturation
the roots dive through
into depths of soggy soil


this body
the dust it came from
in heavens only heaven
knows where


dust spat on
to raise this clay
on a rainy day


it only knew wet
and when to sip
and never stop


heated throat
a wick inflamed
to burn from bottle
and ghosts that chase


only the cold
glacial salvation
to freeze the fire


only the ice
to wake the rain
from burning desire


to firm the fall
of drowning flesh
to blot the bed
flooded and floating


out into desert hands
the arid promised lands
where wet once was known

Doodles

which of these are tucked
into crevices of the page
along margins in obscene
obtuse angling lines
tilted and crammed along
the printed images
and other fonts of various
letters and numbers

these verbal doodles of
original blurps mutilated
by scratching pens with
venomous ink that tie up
thoughts in corrective webbing

these doodles that dangle
from rafting drafts and
may withstand the tireless
waves of editorial seas

which of these ascend
to their own printed page
and pompous font and
be accessorized by the
flowing dribble of doodles

A gust too late

the butterfly has been spread
too thinly over the dry crust of earth
the days spent in northern skies
run too many and over flow
into swimming holes children know

breezes dance on buzzing ears
and lash their whispery whips
calling out their every name
in every cell in every hive
"sip, sip, sip to stay alive"

echoes sail in with those winds
that carry the icy north touch
to raise the hair on sunburned arms
and rouse the reaping hands
those echoes from frozen lands

mornings beg for sun kissed dawn
as shadows still the breath in chill
fruit pulls from exhausted vines
and trees nod in early eves
knowing green will drain from leaves

Passing sea

devious the wind as it tickles
the gleam off cottonwood leaves

a hypnotist at its best,
with its green crystal flickers,
to pluck one's attention as
a feather from reality's old hen

whisk away that feather flight
into the realm of clouds and sky
and dark depths of a passing sea
that once slumbered on the land below

when feathers were scales of mighty fish
that ate and fed with serpentine gods

and rest was only found in some stomach
or at the floor of the passing sea

the floor where shells buried themselves
in the rest that flowed from emptied stomachs

those the tides of hollow cores
to ebb the lives poured into the sea
and flow the earth and stone below thee

for it was blood and gnashing teeth
tearing flesh and grinding bone
of lengthy battles for survival
that built the ground the very tree
that mesmerized thee suckles from

yet the wind still tickles the waves
be they glistening waters or bowing blades
over the dark depths of the passing sea

Fall before the fall

twas the tallest of these

the golden petaled trees

that tossed and twisted

and toppled to its knees

in torrid tempest thrash

and windy thunder flash

brought low haughty high

to rain soaked soil and ash

lay dying shining yellow crown

and green wings on cold ground

unearthed the Achilles heel

where shallow feet were bound

Life in calla

Word up

the vomit splatters against the page
to fill the white void blankly staring me down

convulsions repeat as the regurgitated
words instigate the process again and again

the spittle eats through the moist paper pulp
a corrosive medium used and abused

and tears the sheet from rattled fingers
their tremors shaking the work apart

alas the heaving of drivel desists
alas a paper of dribble exists

dabbing with napkin the corners of mouth

The drag

drab the years
spent in idle wait
and drag the years...

weighing down aching legs
that trudge
through the bloody earth

the mud longing to hold
what once
was it's very own flesh

the years a sharpened point
and drag
across the bloody earth

in grooves the needle flows
to hum
the hymn of this existence

drab the years
paisley wallpaper
of former fashion...

that there hang in hope
the turn
that spins the earth around

that brings the rays of sun
once more
through dusty window panes

upon faded hues the glow
of new
once known, now remembered

and echoes calling out
from years
dragging across the earth

So far

mother on the prairie
screams in sweat and pain
the new life delivered
in an afternoon rain
the motherless child
will bear that scar
as his mother's body
only went so far

elder man, he waits
for a bus to arrive
his eyes now too weak
for himself to drive
he savors the times
behind the wheel in his car
but he knows
his body only goes so far

he lays in the bed
unable to say what's meant
all the words are said
a few moments still unspent
those who have gone
he can now see where they are
he journeys ahead but
his body only went this far

blow up your balloon
and soar to the sky
your dreams are vast
expectations, they're high
launch your wish
on a shooting star
but remember this
your body only goes so far

Heart hunger

complete in hunger
heart's belly growls
the burn of yearn
bellows within
pumping valves and tubes

manifest destiny
of lone nights
waking rendezvous
of spent wonder
in passing could have beens

words regretted
spin and dangle
from cable ties
cinched up tight
around the gasping blood drum

emptied larder
heart's belly growls
eating what's left
serving up itself
at a fancy banquet for one

Am hurt

vinyl turning
the stepping notes into
each voice and key change
turning, screwing, fucking
ear drums


harmonizing
inclinations of those wants
strummed out on guitar strings
dancing over piano keys
tiny senoritas


twirling dress
in breezy sultry afternoons
that kiss the salt in the air
and palm tree erections
of friends


sands spill
off creased cotton and skin
yet sweat and ocean won't let go
what eyes gladly release in
early mornings


not found
in weed and orgy states
nor in oils and stretched canvas
nor in turning vinyl but
in free fall

A trip

lament the lines that pass us by
endless white stretches
disappearing in the distance
up in front and behind

the scarring paths across the dirt
who draw their knives
and bleed the wanderer dry

they are the thieves of ancient trade
and look for loot
in soulless waves

to pillage those far from home

ravaging the tumbleweeds...

the feathers...

the alone

The chamber

a chamber entombed in cold earth
stone walls inhale the echoes
of the soil beyond their reach

the chamber hosts a slender chair
and allows entry through a
short creaking wooden door

opposite the chair drools
a mirror down the wall
a silver pool stretched, suspended
a flayed reflection tanning in the dark

and what one will willingly witness
as he sits and waits and peers within
the silver sheen and veil

a single flame lights the way into
the depths of a slithering tale

shadows spill upon the floor at the
feet of the biding witness in the chair
the shadows pull and bind together
in a twisting mass of coiling hair

the lines then reflect in the little
flame's low light a hint of
reptilian scaly skin and form

slithering away from the feet and
into the hollow void that is the mirror
the serpent raises within the void
to gaze and smirk at the willing witness

from the corner of the tiny cell
races down on eight spindles of legs
an arachnid whose shadowy shape
ebbs and flows over the surfaces it rambles

a sudden jump and the spider joins
the standing snake within the darkened void

from overhead a darkness passes on wings
the rat of night who feasts on creeping
crawling things in the chill of moonlight

the sudden gush passes through the witness
and into the void as the bat joins snake
and spider in the gruesome form taking hold

for there the serpent forms curving spine
and curled arachnid forms full cage of ribs
and span of bat forms outstretched arms

and willing waiting witness beholds
the glory of the void in dark and damp and dirt

the warmth of tiny flame casts its know
upon the mutated being of the void
to see the pale gray flesh and sharpened teeth

the ratty black hair and fingertip claws
the stabbing and slicing want of yellow eyes
that freeze the breath and choke the heart

and the waiting witness waits no more
and raises the flame to toast the vision
to peer further upon the glory of the void
and what one will willingly witness

as one pale gray foot follows another
out from the silvery sheen of the veil
to find the willing witness inches from
those yellow eyes that choke the heart

and witness willingly chooses to embark
for with a breath he steals away the light
and flies away into the void and the dark

Joy

the soil lingers beneath
her fingernails, nestled
between the flesh of
fingertip and unkempt keratin

gloves never suited
her earthworm like
fingers that reveled in
feeling the moist soil
against their skin

when she reaches
within the holes her
ravenous hands excavate
she becomes the force
behind earth and birth

she has watched her
fellow flower enthusiasts
hover as viceroys and
painted ladies over
the pots of nursery stock

they sip from pools
of gossip, a drink she
has always found bitter
as it has been mostly
thrown in her face

their words are as
that of the hummingbird's
flapping wings and they
drink and pick and prod petals

allure has mostly distracted
her from tame potted plants
and she instead looks for
specimens of the ditch

the fiery head of dock
waving slender clover arms
protruding and silver
thorns of purple thistles
these of the wild excite her

they are her feral lovers
that beckon to her
in the sun scorched heat
and sticky skin afternoons

and she dare not bring
them home with her but
rather savor them where
their roots run deep into
the moist soil that lingers
beneath her fingernails

Jargon jaunting: part bubble to trouble

she traveled the world
flying high, blue sky
in her wind blew bubble, bubble
she traveled the world

she scolded the world
sinking low, cold snow
within a blue bible, bible
she scolded the world

she perplexed the world
preaching long, numb throng
her windy blah babble, babble
she perplexed the world

she balanced the world
tipping late, fixed hate
windiest woo wobble, wobble
she balanced the world

she parted the world
leaving all, last call
when in true trouble, trouble
she parted the world

Cavern

a cavern shut up from the light of day
a cavern saturated in dark and grey

the hollow insides where time has burrowed
where water tickles the stones it sowed

emptied, this pocket from the shifting earth
bare tomb for death or womb for birth

rise the pillars with rooted calcium ore
adulterated figures posing across the floor

their dance, the slightest movement of matter
their life, the slightest touch will shatter

they sip, as we have, of primordial brew
and toast to the old ancients renewing anew

within a cavern starved of the light of day
a cavern of dripping rock, of frozen clay

Swing of sword

a pen, the spear
the sword they swear
swings here and there
in biblical times of old


but I still swing that sword
though it be laden
with curses of childhood
and strengths too weak
to word, I swing it still!


it is the sword of truths
known of my tongue
and heart and heats
the lamp I carry out
into the dark and unsaid


the letters, the lines
the pages that unfurl
from the Mecca far within
from the river running deep
coursing through the
temple's tomb where I
buried pomp and incense
and crosses that messiahs
had climbed off of when they
found no further use of


my prophets are the poets
who speak of the world poured
from their hearts, that shines
from their witness
their verse are the sacred texts
that continue to whirl
around the cycles of suns
into the eternal and inevitable

Right ear

thump, thump thump
of the beat in the ear
as it waits, waits, waits
for a call drawing near

beep, beep, beep
of the phone in the ear
as it signals the call
of a voice drawing near

blah, blah, blah
speaks a voice in the ear
as it yaks, yaks, yaks
from a lip and a sneer

roll, roll, roll
of the eyes from the ear
listening to the call
it wishes it didn't hear

roar, roar, roar
is the whine in the ear
it brews and it bubbles
as a full glass of beer

yip, yip, yip
still the bark in the ear
voice gripes, gripes, gripes
from the pain in the rear

sigh, sigh, sigh
are ghosts avoiding ear
who fall from the breath
from the eye falls a tear

drips, drips, drips
leaky mouth in the ear
a minute turns to ten
turns to a week and a year

click, click, click
sudden sounds in the ear
the call must have dropped
great relief, even cheer

Abysmal dark

deep in dirt their hands
reach down in abysmal dark
the absent color of pitch
that stirs and bellows forth
from the ancients of ancients
who swam in squalor puddles
absorbing into the color of pitch
that stirs and bellows forth
from steel trunks into choking
lungs, depleted the elemental
that rose from whose hands
reach down in abysmal dark

whose hands have reached
the puddles that remain from
remains settled in silted time
the grime the color of pitch
that stirs and bellows forth
into young arisen of the dirt
where hands still reach into
abysmal dark and cavernous days
the ravenous haze lingers
yet and swirls into the lungs
that turn into the color of pitch
that stirs and bellows forth
from chariots and trading
caravans and shooting comets
polluting, vomits, gasping
reaching into the abysmal dark

deep in the dirt they gnaw
calcium grinding calcium stones
whose bones pick teeth
and teeter as buried temples
where flesh and blood have
flown into the color of pitch
that stirs and bellows forth
for light, for words, for young
arising from the dirt where
hands dig deep into the dark
to forget, to remember, to
turn into the color of pitch
that stirs and bellows forth
and rises to fall upon the cold
the older than the old who
no longer remain as remains
within the abysmal dark

Tear the tears away

some days the wind takes her
beyond the technicolor shoes
beyond worlds of rainbows
above the clouds and the blues

some days the wind shakes her
by slamming the door
like it did to her mother and her mother
and their mothers before

but she is a child of the wind
and knows how to find her way
she knows it's worth the fight
and how to tear her tears away

one day the wind will make her
into the song sung from her heart
into the joy and the love
she possessed from the very start

one day the wind will wake her
and she will know she's so much more
like it did for her mother and her mother
and their mothers before

for she is a daughter of the wind
and knows there's a better day
she knows it's so worth the fight
and how to tear her tears away


- for Jaimey

Grains of rain

in the grains of rain,

so temporary and loose,

are captured small worlds

lasting as long as the 

grains of rains remain

moist eyes these wink

collecting the grains of rain

and peer into views above,

around and within what

the grains of rain contain

oceans puddle murky and

still full of the grains of rain

until sun straws dive into

puddled portals to sip

the grains of rain champagne

Cupid these days

found feathers, formerly floating
now fallen, fastened now

a passing kissing fancy
of this, a heart enwrapped fantasy
passing thoughts what could be

cheeks rest on forearms
a titled head with heaven glances
longing wishes of more those chances
at least of beat skipping dances
that linger in dreamy trances

but Cupid carries tasers these days
and is here and gone and rarely stays
to simply stun with a little fun

a tickle, a tease, please,
oh won't you please
instead draw back your bow
and penetrate this heart
with your sharp headed arrow

be done with it and me
in flesh bound satisfactory
let the blood flow down my chest
and in it find your rest

Car candy

multi colored jellybeans zoom
there and back again on streets
of black licorice lanes

and with the jellybeans join
over-sized gumballs and
jawbreaker freighters

dances commence within
the licorice tangled intersections
as red, green and yellow gumdrops
blink and wink and stare

maple syrup drips and drops
with glazing rains in early morn
to sparkle shine the streets
of sweets in later shining day

frosted wafers stand at edge
of licorice lanes to guide the
beans and breakers and balls
along the sweetened streeted lanes

and jelly wheels spin around
to carry each along their way
through maple syrup showers
into sparkling shine of day

Scenes from the Blue Garden: part 10

Grass flowers

  

I spy outside my window

a tiny bird simply sitting there

without a worry or a care

so still the little sparrow be

amidst the fallen blades of green

and as I spy so too does he

upon his world of fallen green

the newly turned darkened dirt

wet with rain and freshly sown seed

so strange this moment

I share with the little bird

as we both pause without a word

to simply stop in life's busy hours

and remember the stand of grass flowers

it once ran from fence to fence

and bellowed waves with the winds

and sparkled in the dawning rays

harboring a multitude of residents

the rains spawned fungi spore

as I found tiny mushrooms

and too the many clover blooms

which claimed the land as "ours"

under dancing stems of grass flowers 

the reach tempted me to tarry there

as the tiny bird without a care

and laid me down amidst the stand

to listen close to the grassy prayer 

Jargon jaunting: part 'cept for

ignore who wore
the crowns and scepters

look more to your
own frowning specters

a past in class
of "look-down" receptors

the caste amassed
in surrounding sectors

'cept for...
'cept for...
the squalling lector

'cept for...
'cept for...
the call of nectar

implore the cores
of all defectors

restore and shore,
enthrall protectors

deplore the lore
of pol directors

explore, care for,
above all, connectors

'cept for...
'cept for...
the gall in vectors

'cept for...
'cept for...
the thrall of scepters

May pull

it stands behind the house

with arms full of green hands

and dances with those winds

that bring the clouds to earth

dance partners they may be

in overcasts and humid shade

both letting go inhibitions

as they flow through each other

the wind releasing wet breath

an essence of stirring kiss

the tree releasing paddled seeds

promises spinning in the breezy sea

in the multitudes they set sail

from the arms full of green hands

to twirl and spin and float and fall

and fill the grass with whirlwind wings

Brain bomb

a ticking brain bomb
tick tick tick...
a mental mine to some

those aching coils
tightened within the skull
beating, throbbing in
time with the ticking bomb

inferno of the boil
fueled by cerebral toil

tick tick tick...
behind brow the bomb

heavy the head
pushing and pulling
grinding the stem
the pestle within the
bowl of the neck

the spinal rod churns
the fuse that burns

crimped and shorted
the white serpent tail
slithering the tether

hissing in pressure
under counting bomb
tick tick tick...

Beyond

beyond the steeple spires
burn the eternal holy fires
that blaze over older skies
chariots charted by the wise

beyond the cathedral gray
burns the eye of golden day
that watches those below
under sailing solar halo

beyond the temple dome
where the wild angels roam
in their chaotic placid home
of auroras and dimming gloam

beyond the churchyard gates
where the endless path waits
to whisk away the fallen leaves
into silken sequential weaves

beyond the faithful's sin
and death's breathtaking when
dances the infinite rings
in love, souls, and other things

Sow

early hours of
Spring's early days
he goes to court the field

kneels low to
earthen furrows
drawn by iron and sweat

his brow still
bearing the dew
of his heavy burdens

he bows low
to that of which
his body came and eats

he kneels to
the bare earth
to caress its flesh

he feels its
warmth rise
in the early hours

a naked lover
rising at the dawn
under sheets of dew

his fingers slip
across the crusted dirt
that has sipped the falling rain

his forefinger
presses through that
skin to soft moist soil

his finger
seeks its warmth
lying underneath

the warmth
to tempt his hand
to spill and sow the seed

his finger
must feel that
warmth to know

the warmth
when right will
tell him when to sow

to drill the
stark earthen flesh
and spill and fill with seed

the bare field
yet waits for feel
of drill and spill of seed

too early in
the days of Spring
he has come to court the field

the Fires

soul driven machines
that wander plains of this

the madness in physical
formats and guidelines

the destitute of skin
stretched calcium screens

behind which the fires
seer and boil and stir

within dust of long ago
beacons in celestial dark

tiny whirling fires these
threads of matter casings

so eager to revel in
their constant orgies

for wings to fly
and tadpoles grow

for brains to discern
be it a friend or foe

for wind to sweep
lacy flakes of snow

for boulders to stand
while nearby rivers flow

layered the fires
throughout and deep within

of metal and stone
and earth and tar

of scratch and bruise
and harm and scar

of serfs and merchants
and nobles and czars

of moons and comets
and planets and stars

a mandala of matter
in bud and bloom to fade

flowing from wounds
to ignite once again

same fires are these that
have chosen new lanterns

Latent lovers

latent lovers
these bitter petals
that flutter as feathers
down from lofty perch
through stark arms of birch

latent lovers
these weary petals
that faint in hot weather
and drift in surrender sweet
in swift breathy kisses of heat

latent lovers
these withered petals
that are pulled with tether
of warming days in month of May
to sullen soil watching the overhead play

latent lovers
these tired petals
that cascade into nether
and splay across the moist earth
remembering the womb of their birth

latent lovers
no longer these petals
that at my naked feet gather
for they have blessed their mother
and will rise again to ever love another

The pain of grain

I bought of wheat what I ought to eat
but I ate of dough way much mo'e
and of the oats in leaky boats
I ate the pool seeped into gruel

did I stop? NIGH! there was the rye
and trumped a pickle with pumpernickel
said to the barley, "See ya Charlie!"
in a malted jelly, which was quite smelly!

alas a bowl of rice, well, 'tis merely nice
but was rather bland as a desert sand
and of the corn I was very torn
yet decidedly opted to have it popped

on the quinoa we did gnaw
a taste enchant of amaranth
and some other grain that escapes this brain
too many to name I thus claim

so forget these words, 'tis for the birds
of rye and oat you'll only bloat
remember your greens to fit in your jeans
and save your money for nuts and honey!

Ode to Poe

An ancient tomb, this thought I have
that houses bards of long before
and boards the hoards of poet smiles
just behind its creaking door

it's open enough to tempt me more
to look behind its creaking door

for ponderings are a pool so cold
that freezes faces in gaping stare
and steals the wandering wonderers
from the current before they're aware

thieving moments of time so rare
from the present before they're aware

these moments I feed to hungry dogs
the pets of parasitical mental ghosts
yet gladly I relinquish life's length
for those inkings on papers of posts

over deliberating coals my mind roasts
for many an inking on paper and posts

leaves in Autumn are those words from me
scatter to the wind after turning once more
to collect at some forgotten tomb's foot
and burying its creaking aged door

from the dead, new life rises in the core
of what lingers behind the creaking door

Found: one marble

speckled, chipped
dotted with fingerprints of earth
lingers from the capsule it left

tiny shiny orb
in white, as white
as bindweed lurking
below a board in the barn

tiny shiny orb will
remain as white as
bindweed lurking below a
board in the barn, unlike
the exposed little vine

for white it was when
born for games and play
and white it was when
lost some sunny afternoon
some warm summer day

white it was last Tuesday
unearthed and removed
for lily bulbs or larkspur seed

white it is on top the desk
exclaiming what once was lost
now is found and sound

Chomp

the vision last night, bite bite
a dream full of fright, last night
in swimming the sea, you see
was a carefree seal I be
and my mind played a trick
you could say it was a dick
for alone I wasn't in the sea

lurking down below, bite bite
the sharks in my dream last night
their teeth in the sea, I saw
in the terror, the fear, the awe
they rose up in the billows
as I laid on my pillows
on the seal their teeth did gnaw

then thoughts savored, bite bite
and pondered yet another fright
what it might be like in the sea
for a fish with a seal that's hungry
then seal teeth become shark's
leaving very similar marks
in the side of a fish in the sea

March 28 haiku

What will the wind bring
when March marches out the door?
tornado, perhaps

Paper mache

printing raw, mush
blue, blue in gluing slush
shredded words of
seconds or thirds
lying...

lying in buckets
of sopping slop
to plop down and
slop and to plop down
and stop the mushy
and drop the messy...

GLOBS! of watery
BLOBS, of sopping strips
and clips, the snippety snips

brewing in gluing
the blue, blue gluing
the letters stray and fray
the letters fade away
into paper mache

Snore

Spilt, the drool
a stale oral fountain
lapping the endless sea
of blank blue lines and
stark pale paper

Stands, the pen
a stilt for dwarfing voice
propping up tired weak
of hushed hours and
droning days

Sleeps, the bard
a tepid two-step tone
tapping out in stars
of wasted words and
languishing ink

...ratatat tat

Burnt ice

Jargon jaunting: part Ally Anne

she's a spook,
more a spoke
in a psycho spinning wheel
the thrill
out in the night
under her extraterrestrial light

bright beams,
only dreams
in a bee-bop insane mind
to find
out in the night
the haunting of Ally Anne's sight

dry and sun,
fifty-one
in a murky desert place
a face
out in the night
is it a small gray or tall thin white

round the globe,
prod and probe
in a flying saucer craft
metal raft
out in the night
the flying of Ally Anne's kite

Crack the egg

even the sun rarely goes unnoticed
as it passes into the dark of night
yet I wouldn't mind to be unseen
when it's my turn for last of light

so many care to live the lives
owing to the name forget-me-not
yet I would prefer no one knows
where my body's laid down to rot

the standing stones are futile attempts
at trying to seize what never stays
for even they weather and fade
in passing seasons and flickering days

what's owed the sower of life is
whatever the reaper tries to reap
of course the journey's end is
more so for what the mourners weep

for the shell may crack and out
pours the runny mess of any soul
but in its time a soul may know
it was never parted from the whole

the lives played out in checkered
towns, or fields, or deepest of caves
are simply ripples in a pool
that grow into eternal tidal waves

and one a soul may take alone
and one two souls may conquer with
and two or more may unite as one
having a life resembling more a myth

yet that sort of memorabilia
one of shiny brass decorating the bold
I never wish to ornament with
when the story of my life is told

better for me will be a grave
of a giant tempest whirling wind
that will blow away all my words
and my soul to eternity will send

The maze

it is a maze to run through
unblinking eyes the flare
to know and be aware
some one's chasing down
those labyrinthine paths

where their sprinting
might pour out of
into vacant wishing wells?
out of brimstone quarried hells?
only the languished runner tells

on visceral coils
thunders the lightning
sparks ignite the maze
to consuming flames
and the gaze of the runner
sinks deeper in the soul's panes

and thirst they may
for first light of day beyond
the nightmarish tunnels
they coursed through

relief at last from
a blink in the looking glass
the runner has returned
from a mental trot...

just a thought

North

his pale white flesh
blankets me in frozen memories
we lay in ice and awe
of the gray grandeur sprawling
into the heights

on tips of their gnarled
fingers dance the kisses
we surrendered to

I am what writhed between
his legs, what melted
the longing frost on his field

his thawing sank
deep within me
and burns there still

weep I may for frozen
memories he engulfs me in
and abandons me to taiga
wanderings into the dark

The howling wind

the grains of sand
the pitted skin
the dried up washed out land
the ravenous wind

the smooth gray wood
that bleaches in the sage
the howling wind
that turns another page

the tumbling weed
the boundless reach
the wind tossed sun scorched seed
the scratchy speech

the evergreen spikes
that blossom in May
the howling wind
that darkens the day

the stalks of brown
the faded vim
the plowed up over turned ground
the touch of men

the country graves
that bury good and sin
the howling wind
that ever sings its hymn