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

Requiem for Pluto

there were nights when we
were smashed off Pluto
and tipped our brims to
lights stretched across our skins

we were not to spill
and were not to hold
what was passing through

the age and blood
and lights and piss
were sweat and tears
and endlessness

and there drenched
in perspiration we danced
on Pluto's orb

it was a land of
which scholars told to
toast and boast in
the night divine

but faded now is
such gratitude for duty
paid and played at the edge

seems our kisses and touches
and many time collisions
disappeared into the dark
and faded from solar view

The boy from Sasnak

In Sasnak, what's meant
to be forward is backward
and what's meant to be up
is altogether upside down

and round is square
where sharp is soft, the softest
folks with bluntest pokes

yet of these members
where scarce the timbers
was a boy, a young man in fact
who was born not shattered
but instead all intact

he knew the why
of the sky turning dark
and to light again

he knew the who
behind the tricks that
blinded both beast and men

he knew the how
in dreaming dreams to
make the future then

and for the time his
own life shall cease, alas
he knew the when

In Sasnak, what's meant
to be gone still lingers there
and what's meant to be still
is nowhere to be found

and the round that's square
blends together with the air
on a blank endless plain

yet though one there moves
but hasn't moved at all
the boy has seen beyond his
nose and further yet, beyond
where the wind blows

he knows the why
for giant skies to loom
over those below

he knows the who
discontent with rain,
or drought, or even snow

he knows how
to make his dreams
exist without an end

and for the time his
own heart shall break, alas
he knows the when

In Sasnak, what's meant
to be close is very far away
and what's meant to be miles
will always instead surround

and the round, albeit square
is here and there and anywhere
but nowhere and everywhere

yet distinct are its members
living where scarce are the timbers
and the boy, who has left them all
and has answered the wind
and its endless call

he forgets the why
of the blue sky that burns
from October to December

he forgets the who
of once he knew and
wishes he could remember

he forgets the how
a dream can grow far
beyond where he's been

and for the time his
own voice shall hush, alas
he forgets the when

We were bees

In slumber rest the glossy wings are still

when tiny buzzing yields to winter's cruel chill

and fills with dreams of feasts of flowers

while sleeping and slipping away the frozen hours

The revels of dewy petaled morning glories

stream through the golden striped pollen stories

to tip and sip of the sticky pistil chalice

while humbly abiding in the silky floral palace

The warmth of these, the faded golden days

preserve the dormant hope under thick icy glaze

when the sun slowly thaws and melts away from these

it is simple to recall the time spent when we were bees

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