Jargon jaunting: part Chopin

chopping Chopin flip flops
dropping, fry pan, sizzle... pops
beat one, two, three
sing doe, rae... it's me

thus see the dry
musty sea of rye
o'er plains where rains
more drains e'er stains
in delta laps poison relapse
the glades fallen on blades

slather of slithering
boorish come withering
swallowing gator smiles
hollowing later miles
of time dis-time
miming  the climb
priming the crime

wearing rare ring
daring, dare... ding
the ting, this thing

here and now,
crying sow,
in that habitat
cat needs rat
tit for tat combat

fry pan sizzles... pop
Chopin drizzles... stop

Autumn

she has shown her face
in early shallow mirrors
those crisp layered shells
to shatter under a nudge

she has loathed the youth
in vibrant tones and changed
their skins to ashen crones
and raven plumes and sordid
putrid greens of dying dreams

she has clawed at reaching
hands and torn the turning
sun with its inflamed forest

she has stolen the beating
hearts of the stagnant pools
and plunged them far below
into her dragoon graves

she has her knaves who
break the brittle and hollow
pits to leave the shells in
sightless soundless soulless
hells but whistle her tune

she has her names she
drains from veins the vamp,
the hag, the killer of Pan

she has her time that
blackens days into glorious
nights and hearkens those
back to hearths and frights

Flowers in your hair

shattered the life that was
and fell and flowed
into hands that now
itch of corn and reek
of late marigold essence

the life that fell into
halls only rabbits frequent
for royalty and pilgrim
sails in whirling puffs
for sips of divinity

the life that flowed
through those halls
as slithering hunger
to beget a shiny coat
to forget the shedded
skin left in shadows

the life in body wake
fell asleep the toad
in buried October mud
and married the little
gained from trolley tones
and Amherst rendezvous

the life not known
but once was home
now harbors beyond
the bay with first breath
in May little more to say

Twining days

in twining days
that slow with heavy fruit
the impatient nights
are sought by local gods

whose croaks are remnants
of former nocturnal glories
and cry now for what few
crumbs of creeping things
and dragonfly wings will
keep them in an icy sleep

in twining days
that shed what both
earth and light married
in the angels' lair

whose feathers drift aloft
in battling breezes among
and through the gnarled
halls of ancient lullabies,
through the arms that once
cradled, swaying us to sleep

in twining days
that crown the trees with
hues of Aurora's glory
bleeding from the eve

whose blackened cloaks
of indigo webbing and
cobalt silks ripple across
the midnight high, to catch
the Sandman's dust that
gleams above a child's sleep

in these twining days
that coil around trailing flame
and whisper out a name
to the chill upon the wind

whose deed is death in
a freezing breath that raps
upon the Autumn's door
and laces dreams of the
dormant seeds deep within
their terrestrial sleep

Neither now nor later

what will I know
when hopes are sold
of soldiers bold
to brothers, choke
on their polluted joke

and what was home
a country known
now country owned
by boundless greed
and twisted seed

the wind, it ran
now whistles through
heavy charcoal hue
pours down the pain
that weeps from rain

the earth, it slept
now growls with spit
sick chemical vomit
black blood reborn
churns in ocean storm

what was the home
where dreams were sown
and soaked to bone
the goals to feed
unknown paths to lead

what have I known
when my tales are told
and the sun is cold
when clears the smoke
from this sleep I woke

Cold creep

the cold is an audacious cad
making leaves blush from his advances

the cold's impatience marbles
the lingering September warmth
adulterating it with rushing vigor
that lacks in endless August days

the growing evenings glow
with fire revelries of patrons
needing more than one or two skins

the cold lures roots from
their soiled cellars and
fruits from their lofty perches

it spurs spinning of silks
by sickle shaped moonlight
until eight legs aren't enough anymore

Fleeting flight

a trade of toenails and head of hair
for dusty wings in the autumn air

and in the warmth of morning sun
an open blossom to lay my tongue

for salmon hued beacons of hope
carry troves of pollen laced dope

the rope from which to hang myself
in pooling oceans of nectar wealth

and gladly give my bag of bones
to swim among these vivid tones

perfecting headstands in the flowers
and to sip away the afternoon hours

what it is to be bee or moth
to hide in silky petal cloth

a life of whim in moon of cancer
dining amidst orange yellow anther

out to seek pistil lip kisses
flowing from sweet fountain head wishes

for this do take my human soul
and trade it all, paid in full

don me now my weightless wings
take my place among fleeting kings

for then when water stands as glass
my glorious flight will come to pass

The monsters that I've known

to wear silks
over a hollow shell
the spider's spit
in a woven hell

mind a trance
in forgotten days
in times where
the darkness stays

and blood turns to stone
remembering the monsters that I've known

color takes leave
in colder sleep
sepia seeps into
the dreamer's keep

ice to encase
a burning heat
to idle down
the restless beat

and blood turns to stone
remembering the monsters that I've known

liquid flesh falls
from ravaged arms
shedding what was
and other charms

for madness screams
from swollen eyes
witnessing the throng
of Beelzebub's flies

and blood turns to stone
remembering the monsters that I've known

feed the grubs
and slimy slugs
they are the dosage
of laced drugs

and mildew white
on sprawling leaves
where the spider still
fiercely weaves

and blood turns to stone
remembering the monsters that I've known

bows the high
with haughty head
to rotten roots
the shadow's led

curls what dries
to wither there
and twist within
the chilling air

a place it was
that woven hell
and mastered over
by the name of L

and blood turns to stone
remembering the monsters that I've known

Dew

hangs from webs
from silky threads
the lover's morning kiss
in the night to surrender
in light to dismiss

lingers on cheek
the taste of knowing
what wild beasts revel
in tempest winds blowing

to cease, release, the
inevitable calm at tips
of savage hands and hooves

bathe with earthly
sweat and wash clean
any lonely threat
that lingers within
the kiss dismissed

glows the peace
post tempest release
and soothes both
wild men and beasts

in somber groves
of stretching legs
and branches advances
surrender of the savage
beat in the moment of heat

and fades the pulse
which shook the dark
in the dripping dew

Jargon Jaunting: part how cow

a man with grass hands
the man on flat lands
has much at stake with steak
and a moo amore

a man on a hot day
the man who's fought hay
has much to rake for steak
and a moo amore

a man out in cold snow
the man laying out the mow
has much to make in steak
and a moo amore

a man bringing the herd
the man's horse being spurred
has much to take for steak
and a moo amore