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