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

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

 

 

 

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

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

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

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.

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

At a Loss

Beacons