Monthly Archives: April 2021

PALE BLUE PUDDLES

The little dog is gone, the little dog is gone,
and all that remains of him is the memory
of a coat of moss-green, with a few leaves,
and the little stump of a tail.

But the dog was there upon one sun’s first rays kissing hills,
and send the ripples of their rays through the pale blue puddles.

They are nocturnal folk, and they live, and have their days in the
dark and their nights In the dark.

But I know not who they are, Nor where they live, nor what they do,
Nor where they come from, nor where they go.

But I know the wind With one another, out of doors, In the shade of the trees.
Their fires, like those of men, Are small and swift and soon are cold;
And when the evening is gone And the night-shadows are upon them,
They light their fires again, And sleep by day, and by night and when the
day is gone And the night-shadows are upon them, They light their fires
again, and sleep by day, and by night.

They are like men in the winter when they have their feet bare, and
the snow is deep, And their hats and their coats are all but mended,
And their boots have holes in them. And they walk with their heads bent,
And look about them like so many old men, And speak to each other in whispers.
They are like men in the winter When they have their feet bare, and the snow is deep,

And their hats and their coats are all but mended, And their boots have holes in them.
And they walk with their heads bent And speak to each Sleep by day and by night.

The nightingales are still sleeping, And all the silent crickets and frogs are
out in the garden at the dusk’s last.

The owl is dreaming by the brook And the field-mice on the farm are fast asleep
in the wall.

The moon is a light, fair-shining stone That hangs in the dark hollow That glows when the stars have fled. And I know that the silent people Who live in that lonely house
Are wondering and wondering what I am doing in the twilighT. In the dusk’s long dark.

I am sitting alone in the dark, And I am thinking that I am The child of that land that is gone, That has vanished many a summer ago, And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls, And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.

O’er ruined fences the grape-vines shield The woods come back to the mowing field;
The orchard tree has grown one copse Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed. I dwell with a strangely aching heart In that vanished abode there far apart On that disused and forgotten road that has no dust-bath now for the toad.

Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart; the whippoorwill is coming to shout and hush and cluck and flutter about:

I hear him begin far enough away full many a time to say his say before he arrives to say it out.

It is under the small, dim, summer star.

I know not who these mute folk are who share the unlit place with me– those stones out under the low-limbed tree.

Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.

They are tireless folk, but slow and sad,

Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,– with none among them that ever sings,
and yet, in view of how many things, as sweet companions as might be had.

The sun’s first rays kiss the hill, and send the ripples of their rays through
the pale blue puddles.

They are nocturnal folk, and they live, with one another, out of doors.

:: 04.23.2021 ::


THE SILVER AXE

He wondered with horror how so many memories, so many forms to be branded on his skin and engrave there.

Then the wet rattle of a twisted throat, and he beats his last breath to his knees, gazed on from above as the wheezing thing sagged, and began on his shoes.

One God looked in that one eye of him, took in the whole writhing weight of him, and, from the spine of that beast, blew the darkness that will not let me alone!

It is yet again where we find the Poet’s Muse. Her eyes are green, and they pierce backward and forward even into his head and his heart, his brain and his soul.

I have been chained to this post for six months and now I am to be hanged, it’s a winter morning, half-light.

The axe’s face is pale; its teeth are ready to cut; the poet stands slack-jawed; and waits with a satisfied grimace.

She smiles with blind malignity; I am hanging here, she begins, and her voice gears in his head, makes him mad with every anger and whimpers sound with a silver-sparkle, It is another wish shattered, this one made to whittle the Golden Ace’s life down to a ring so narrow and brutish and pale and inhuman.

The writer cannot see her but his ears are mad With unspoken sounds.

She has left dark-green circles.

He had tried to fill them with wonder and beauty; she: they’re her, only more so, every blot and abrasion cunningly and by dark cunning by her own hand, ever more revolting; why the hell did you bring that creature with you?

There is nothing for you to do, (the axe growls). You cannot even reach me.

I told you that I wanted the axe.

Then are you sure you’re not just nervous?

I am telling you nothing.

The truth is harsh.

This is not true.

Well then stop worrying.

I am telling you nothing!

The Poet looks up in alarm.

The axe comes down, it makes a hideous, brassy sound.

And it is still: I am telling you nothing!

Her face is as white as that of the blade.

He is sweating.

I do not want the axe, he says finally.

I am coming down!

A chuckle.

The axe’s blade is laughing.

The Poet spins in place, does a somersault, lands on his feet.

He moves fast.

At the touch of his right foot he has snatched up and spun into the air, caught, dangled over a canyon by the thin tip of his finger.

There is a rattle in his head.

Okay, okay, he whispers, I am coming down.

He lands and slumps, panting.

His face is flushing red, his hair disheveled.

He grins through the tears running down his face.

Just me, he tells the axe.

You are alone in this awful place with all the stupid, insane weirdoes.

Where is the fun in that?

This place is for people like you, not me.

He is in a mood.

The axe slashes through the air, a silver blur.

The Poet leaps into its path, somehow knowing, somehow having seen what it will do before it happens.

He leaps back and the axe cleaves the air, then comes down to strike his left foot, where it clatters on the ground with a dull clatter.

He starts to bend over to pick it up, but the axe’s weight is too much for him.

He stumbles to one knee and falls to his left side.

The axe rests, not quite pointed at him, but ready, at his right leg and stares at it, mouth slightly ajar.

The blade is warm against his right leg, the handle warm against his cheek.

He gets himself up, he bends over, picks up the axe.

He kicks his right leg up, the axe goes flying past his body as if to his left, and he stretches his left leg out to catch it.

He pulls himself to his feet and does not bother with the blade and bends down to retrieve it, and reaches, but there is nothing there.

The edge is dull. Within his mind and he frowns, picks it up, holds it up in front of him, glances behind him.

The axe is nowhere to be found. But it is mentally within his hand.

He looks at the blue-gray sky, frowns, turns to walk along the canyon wall, head down, watching for the axe.

He waits.

The axe sits on his shoulder, blades jutting up into his neck or so it feels.

Yes! he thinks.

The axe.

It is not true.

He is all alone in the world.

And an old man.

What do you expect him to do?

He thinks about the little old lady he saw in town today, and starts to weep.

:: 04.23.2021 ::


THE VORTEX OF LIFE

AND what is a friendship without warm feelings and devotion?
As those who go to and fro from bed to work without
a gentle smile or hello!
I would share a drink with you but first i must be sure
the label is not high alcohol but a label that reads either:
“life,” or “death.”
As the sun dips behind Mother Earth we eat and clean ourselves
then ready for bed. We read, watch something on the magic box
called television or stare at the walls. Some dream, some smoke,
some drink, some fight. Who is mad? All of us! Call it what you like
but the moral of that is — ‘Oh, ’tis love, ’tis love, that makes
the world goes round!’

Our human intentions only make matters worse!

Then the turtle spoke: “Those lovers we read about: to all the characters
drawing in colourful lines… you keep emotions at an anchor deep inside so
you can move far above the bubbles’ tricks — but the people swimming in
fish-glasses are freaked out. So many lives spilled, even all living simple
souls, cannot sustain the waters of love.

:: 04.22.2021 ::


RED TASSELS DRAPING THE RAFTERS OF THE TEMPLE

AS a lover should there are these red tassels
draping in the rafters of the temple as our Spirit guides us
to our individual lessons and our purpose to make sense
of that which we are and the sheer greatness of that which is
yet to come.

if we listen with wisdom and without wonder, without fear
but with a burning of our passion not for the past or the future
but for this place right here, right now and the miracle is
that even if the past or the future is never at last attained
we shall never die.

We shall live in consciousness; a blessed mind of perfection
to grow in each moment smooth, yet resilient — our heart having
learned the pain of the unforgiving from without and within.

So love is our own faith and no one else’s. Our time has come
and gone — a single drop of love discarding pain as we shatter
the darkness and accept with grace the fullness of life!

We can still see the red tassels draping in the rafters
of our hearts as our spirit guides us to our individual lessons
and our purpose to make sense of that which we are and the sheer
greatness of that which is yet to come.

If we listen with wisdom and without wonder; without fear but with
a burning of our passion not for the past or the future
but for this place right here, right now and the miracle is
that even if the past or the future is never at last attained
we shall never die.

We shall live in consciousness — a blessed mind of perfection
to grow in each moment — a Smooth Soul.

The last time I saw her was the first time. Like fire, like
art, like flowers and roses. With a scream I only called her soul.

With a gasp, she died.

I only called her soul. As I had begged forsaken my life
for hers, and touched her.

In a world where radiations stream out of the lungs and eyes,
through the nose and ears, to the heart who hears.

And everywhere burning in the Sun.
I only called her soul.
And had her call me master.

We obey.

In a world where we the smoky dust of pleasure and we the smoke of judgment
have no place. I only called her soul and have never come back.

/bitter dark \ quitting smoke As I take leave of the place,
into the skies of wisdom.

Leading all with happiness. Leading all with all.

“I am my own treasure.”

Love, are you tired?

04.21.2021 ::


PHANTOMS IN THE SKIES

SO a lot happens when nothing happens
sometimes a knock upon the door
sometimes against the walls
watching them that watch us

picking flowers within a field
i can hear the babbling brook
and hear birdsong and wind
and see the phantoms in the skies
watching them that watch us

A mystery of intention sings
within the mind of woken ones
that we may be no one & nothing
at all within the scheme of
things

are we out or are we in?
we may all cry when the day
comes and pray for something
that watches us that we watch

Phantoms in the skies
when you see me when the winds
blow through the sun
when you hear me scream towards
the moon — can you save me when
they come?

A lot happens when nothing happens
sometimes a thought in the head
sometimes a feeling through the heart
watching them that watch us.

:: 04.19.2021 ::


CRICKET & BEE

(i wrote this while sleeping. I keep pad and pencil at my bedside. I have not read it yet — some may think that is a brave thing to do but I do not — my life is about expression and words).

As it scurried by, I noticed it was wearing a cloth (as if it were a tail!)
I had no sense of what time it was, but I noticed it was (after all!) about daybreak.
(This was later told to me) that many bats are nocturnal, or else they are so easily startled, they flee to cover their heads and hide.
In their defense, I suppose it may well have been mid-afternoon, for there was a palpable somberness in the air.
But, I felt there was no time to lose. I was to find EROS and leave on my mission.
With some haste, I left the dark streets, and headed south. I walked along a dirt path, although I did not really know where it went or to go.
The area was shrouded in darkness (though there was just enough moonlight to see)
and as I walked through a hedge of willows I felt disoriented and was careful to go very, very slowly (if not all in terror, I would surely turn to cactus!)
When I reached a “Road” I noticed it had a layer of pebbles on it, and walked past it, just in case there were some venomous snakes on that road. (At that point it would have been more like trying to get out of a sheet of plywood than to a mat of tinfoil!)
As I walked, it became more and more foggy, and though I could see quite a distance ahead of me, in all other directions it was pitch dark.
When I reached the far side of the light of day, I happened to look ahead of me.
In that brief moment, something fell down in front of me!
I saw it laying there, spread-eagled, but before I could move, it rolled right up onto its feet and began running towards me!

It had been a mosquito — and it had died — just because of me!
I was trapped in a painful searing haze of irritation.
I reached for a pocket knife from my pocket, and slowly began inching backwards.
I must not get trapped by the mosquito (i)n that maze!
I was already avoiding all sorts of vermin (e.g. earthworms, centipedes, snakes, scorpions etc) that night; why did it have to choose me!
So, I crawled backwards, very slowly, back to my camp spot.
I stood up, and in my irritation I drew a cross on my heart.
The mosquito landed on a rock, and I quickly looked around. There was no one around.
Then the mosquito’s wings swept over my head, and it disappeared down into the gloom.
I turned around, and began to head back.
But, as I walked, a dim, red light began to grow larger.
The light grew steadily, until it became a helicopter.
As it hovered in the sky, my exhaustion from the previous night began to grow.
The mosquito had chased me all the way to my spot, and was now guarding it!
And so I did what I had to do: I ran away, in a panic, back to my camp, where I found myself comfor(ing) again with the cricket.
I may have forgotten the sun was up that morning, for I was greatly exhausted.
But it was about that time I began to feel hungry, so I sat down at my cooking fire, and, while I ate, I watched the giant stone (that I had almost stepped on), turn slowly.
Eventually, it disappeared.
I then called out in triumph (albeit slightly in jest)
“It’s gone! I can go home now!
I can go back to sleep for the rest of the day!”
And the cricket replied:
“I’m so glad you could finally see that stone. I’m just happy to be here with you. Be sure you come back again and visit me some time!
(If you should find a bug in your hair, don’t scratch it, it will die! Just take me to its hiding place!).”
It may be hard to believe, but each and every cricket inhabits a different cave; though some are inside of rocks.
Some live in the stream that flows nearby,
and some live inside rocks.
But they all love to hang out together — all the insects in this area!
It’s a great group of friends, we spend all day in the cool of the cave,
and the nights are filled with nature’s best.
(These days the cricket — who I now know to be Augustus Insecta, was the only creature to come to my aid, and stand guard over my hut that night — and many nights thereafter.)
And, while I was happy to leave that place, I still took many souvenirs of it with me.
I used bits of it as walls and ceilings, and anything else I could take, and when I built my home at the foot of that giant stone, I built my roof out of it!
And, to this day, whenever I go up to the “Cockroach Tunnel,”
I still look back, and remember Augustus Insecta, who, I suppose, was the real hero of that place.
I know, I know, there’s a lot more to talk about, but I’ve only scratched the surface.
Those are just some quick observations about that particular cave.
There’s plenty more I could tell you, if you care to know.

But you have to start at the very beginning — where it all began —
and you have to come with me now! I’m happy to say I made it all the way!
That’s right — I can’t believe I’ve made it this far, but here I am.
It was a beautiful morning, and I was ready to escape the heat and sun and I figured I’d just walk around, open the gate, and take a look around.

I’d noticed some new flowers in the past days and wanted to see if there was anything interesting around the creek.

I headed up to the rutabagas, and there was something very strange about one that had suddenly bloomed, while I was gone.
I was flabbergasted by it!
Then, I heard a strange sound.
It was coming from the pines!
I was so shocked, I forgot what I was looking for — and, it was too late to go back, so I went to see what I had found.
I found it quickly, and it was indeed a bee.
But I could tell it was not a normal one.
It was not fat, and there was no veil in its wings — I was amazed by its size!
It was no bigger than the tip of my finger, but it seemed much, much taller.
And, it looked almost as if it might fly away, but it sat on a leaf near the creek’s edge.

It sat there patiently, and then, it began to walk down the side of the hill,
as if it was walking to meet me.

“Hi! Hi! I’m the Bee,” he said!
“I know you, I know you!” he said.
“I’ll tell you what I am — I am the longest living creature
who will ever exist. We share this earth with the other
creatures, but, only in relative terms, we have a lot more in common,
and they’re quite nice and useful.


BRASS AGAINST STRINGS

TONIGHT i was writing some prose just a word or two through my mind
within this confused world so i thought i would write instead;
the skin of my body // was warm and the thoughts colder than my head \\
it felt so good so i feel i could come to sleep; i dreamed so i dreamed
i was a thin thought of my mind and so taken to a place within the world
of those who do not care … could have blown my mind way out but again there i was!
meeting upon a mountain top all the characters of words and all those
sentences and incomplete thoughts — i had a woman climb up toward the fallen
characters — so crazy:  she said,  “Hey baby, take those words and make
a world, take those worlds and make my world”  i smoked caterpillar and
she was an island girl with sharp shapes and almond eyes and a mind
so sharp;  looking at me i said, “lady, you whispered something in
my ears so crazy so lady you have me.”  Oh yea i floated upon a cloud
upon the ground and took me into a place like a dream (all within my head)
ooooooh  one more time she said, ‘hey babe take those worlds and make
those fire characters words into poetry,’  and within my hand was a bottle
of turtle ocean wine and within my heart blood — we cut our lips upon the
fat love of feelings;  so take it and make words so take it all and make it words
— come on’ come on’ come’on come’on make it fine  as red wine.
we could ask Alice — where logic and proportion is small like the requiem of
songs so head — be your head!  be your head!

:: 04.09.2021 ::


SPEAK WITH A QUIET MOUTH

My inner darkness doth grow darker still and demons appear to men and birds and beasts by guise, and animals to meek men, and men to women, the last victims.  Thus we see the bitterness of our play; who act now dare not and then cry and rave and whisper in spite of the crookedness, the foulness, and recklessness of the blade of voice nay of mouth.
When did love and joy ever last? If the flesh of my thoughts and schemes do not dim and slacken and break and whither away, it was a Dream that made them.  My sight is now clouded with clouds of mystery, that look and bespeak as much as the good, yet give no good report.

But my angel of wisdom, and sweetest hearing, from whose lips the warring days have grown sweet, the graces, the attractions, and the pleasures and the choicest life-giving mead — in her throat have ever been heard; she, who drinketh the love-lamps still burn, and who never takes a cup or thinketh of death or pain.  Thus, to my mind, is wisdom’s knowledge, she who is a DAWN over the dark night, and rises on the dawn.

And as we look to the Day we see, indeed, in it the comely Maid that were always promised; not because she appear’d or twas talked but because, when our heart’s secret sleep e’er let slumber fall, our Mother had said, and the soul has thought since, ‘My dear, ah, come, see our love is done;’ Then do all things but with her, she that were never our mistress; and with her alone, who would let us loose unto that, and that alone, we trust; behold how round are the radiancies of my heart’s farthest thought; and the light of God’s Kingdom shines there, in the human’s heart; for I hope to learn of her more than of God.

But my mind, which is mine own, says, ‘Ah, though fair she be, she has none in the world for me.  And in the thrice wise maid, who was our Mother’s delight, the last hope and fear, a pity and a grief in my bosom have yielded with dull persistence; and in my esteem and affections retain with bitter ache all my love of all that was ours.

:: 04.03.2021 ::


A HUNDRED POEMS – XXIICOUNT DOWN (4.3.21)

That blade which takes i took that made what cuts did so did I bleed and took my road: that dust and blood the path my blade had cut for me. My blood your blood my bad my flesh machinery.
i cried aloud to see if the gods were indeed touched by my rage; they did not answer and all my rage is now dust and blood without a single whisper on the sand below.
i did not fall in this glade but it made me fall.
Back to the Restaurant Hip hip ho!
There’s a man in the town who has a silver tongue and so hard to hear, but loud and clear,
he could read the babbles of the natives, they say he can see into people’s hearts
just by looking at them.
That he is wise beyond his years when it comes to the things of the heart, or at least the heart of men.
For this reason we cannot quite explain he is the host of the good banquet and so the heart in the heart of man is a place that deserves his much deserved
tender touch.

What are you looking for? You have asked me many times before. And each time cannot seem to find you. Is it my age? i am an old man. Maybe it is my hair maybe i am ungainly. Perhaps i don’t look the part. The thing is i don’t like them as they’re everything a man should be.
But then there’s a thought maybe they’re trying to eat you. In the middle of winter the sun won’t shine and a man will see only darkness, but the sun isn’t what i mean but you’re a man so you know what i’m getting at.
Of course you do — you’re a man and you have your masculine way of thinking.
Maybe they look different, a lady with makeup she wears it as camouflage as her intentions are to seduce you and are veiled in its many colours.
i am the first to say a woman can’t make a man do anything they don’t want to do. But a man can, a man with a small piece of metal can do what he wants.
If they say no you can leave, leave them be.
But most aren’t like that; they seem to be of that sort, you know why, because most men have never known what real courage is.
i do.
i have it in me.
It’s inside me.

That desire that secret desire that we think will never exist
when we’re a boy.
It’s a lust, a dark lust and i have it. i am a man and you are not.
You look for it though just within you — that thing which you don’t know you had but now you do, and this thing you now desire/ you can’t help but see
it’s in you all along.
It’s you.
it’s me.
it’s her.
We’re all of this and it will only be her.
It’s you.
It’s me.
It’s her.

In the middle of winter the sun won’t shine and a man will see only darkness,
but the sun isn’t what i mean but you’re a man so you know what i’m getting at.
Yes you are a man and you know something else: a man with a small piece of metal
can do what he wants.
There is no need to look far and see what that thing is, or what she has to offer and you’ll know it when you see it.

04.03.2021 ::


FAST FIRE

small SLANTS by which a high pitched viscous singing commences
(coyly shifting from plane to plane) who baby! (unknown, a child!)
SLEEPING.
??!! NIGHT
sonospy: cigarette, watercress-ness, or what? chewie.
some of us. .other: hemp-prickling.
trollis. !!

WOE. a human head pop-smacked onto knee,
as he’s LAPPED up by a bee’s lost game;
some guy’s shorts are tied with an abcrack pattern;
wipe cigarette ash from chin while a skull
reminds him “blackout ;l none much to watch here.”—let’s dash out to
the terrace before night’s turnip-spore thin streams go
swimmer; pools of restlessness abjure and submerge. Friends wave off form
gentlemen like pornography of their adolescent’s middle school
suction cups of intelligent perspicacity.

Here eyes are blind, the portals to the sky of the day O!
The totally torsioned and pummeled
currents that lay out of phase in the machines of society, night is
where a brain should be: where black spirits capture an unawake
dawn.

night, in a jungle of panthers and giant green beetles where
with their infernal cocoons flimsy victims emerge to sprawl
on the concrete roof.

fastfire.

epiploca’s glorious blind-spot colorizes the gritty whiteout,
shadows now reflect signs of a Saturday night black and wild
chewing the band fence the yellow floodlights of some
everlastied school are reflected and seem to immerge
along the flow of broken bodies into the black misty mud of a
street trashed via the wonder of NIGHT ? ;
One hot A.M. the city is hard and uncomfortably
heavy- lipped, a reverberating pebble smacks
through the window; an off-note of her roar
wears- the dry car-wash window from all openings,
smashes out through the corner light.

;; 04.02.2021 ::