THE other day i was passing a certain gate as rain fell as it will in spring ropes of silver gliding from sunny thunder into freshness; as if god’s flowers were pulling upon bells of gold.
i looked up and thought to myself:
And will you with elaborate fingers possibly touch the pink hollyhock existence whose pansy eyes look from morning till night into the street unchangingly? The always old lady sitting in her gentle window like a reminiscence partaken softly at whose gate smiles always as the chosen flowers of reminding me?
And it felt as if life as a curtain caressing the bottom and i realized that the back of my head was already the red rose but i laughed aloud and when i looked behind i saw a horrid twin with red hair from some diseased shade: who was standing watching us from the wood side until she saw her wayward twin and from the trees spring a golden fruit made of bitumen with hair whiter and flowing like ravens feathers whose bright eyes saw exactly what they looked at.
And one nagged black beauty who had apparently lost her black beauty as soon as the white back of my head turned white then all black beauty fell in sync with the waning sun devoured by the night.
:: 10.17.2020 ::
MANY times, more than twice have I seen the ghosts of family, friends and then some whose faces that I did not know.
Quaintly, with ethereal elegance they are silky touch, feather breath, and opal eye, outside of the tick-tock of father time. It is most inappropriate to ask of them to state their business or intended pleasure
extend your politeness over scorn I say. But if I may make a brief apparatus is there a paper in the room, a hall-cabinet or a desk on which a white sheet is available? Might I do with the sheet as a summons?
The respect that one owes one’s guests becomes tested with boredom, oft times probed with practicality of thrift for there is nothing useful to be erected in the holder of the sheet.
Only when it is needful to be done is the one supposed to write in it. The space for writing is too limited.
Must the words be in black to be read? Must they belong to make any good or neither would it do to pay homage to the white sheets anymore? Might I pour out some ink, some thread to fashion myself a gnomon of sorts. Searching the paper to be free from ink might I try another opal eye, like my mother and the razors my grandfather used?
To groom his hair, and his kinks, each time they wore them down, but never ending. Might I even fawn over a ghost. Might I shed a tear for no other reason than it would be distasteful, and uncivil, to not do so. The wrong that is done to ghosts, which is, who has time for them when there is death’s work that need be done?
It is said the uncle, being thin, frail with a rasping voice, would sit silent and tired; sleep nearly all day, never greeting the other relatives, as the family has dwindled to once, two at most.
That he would be found some hours before sunset, with no water and no food beside his dead little cousin. Who was his spitting image when his lips would open he would tarry another moment?
Recline again, only to open them and wander the empty halls, awaiting. Someone who could help him with his chores, is the scene I imagine. A half asleep and suffering ghost who will never rest as long as
he continues to obey the order of his keeper, waiting until someone pays his due respect.
Now the spirit, like some phantom to the nighthawks of the wind and the greens of the apple trees.
He moves as lightly as the wind.
He dances like the light of an airplane.
He looks to live yet again.
In a white sheet, with a black script which could read nothing.
:: 09.26.2020 ::
if i had two hearts;
one for your soul
the other for your beauty
if i were a farmer
i would tend to a garden
and gather today’s eggs
but as a broken-hearted
poetry i till words – so
you see, i am not here
nor there — and the worse
feeling is planting Love
and nothing Grows.
:: 09.17.2020 ::
Listen. Today i lost my voice — it left upward looking for my mind.
sometimes the strangeness of Life becomes reality and nothing more.
today i found myself within a garden of snakes and meat-devouring
plants. If not for the purple skies it would have been a wasted
experience. Meeting God was an experience before i found myself
inside a fetus that became my physical body.
the doves sang a brilliant but sometimes somber song;
peace of a piece so small it became nothing before i could
touch it’s sharp and exquisite edge.
Today i lost my mind.
and my voice flew downward looking for sanity.
:: 09.11.2020 ::
WILL YOU meet me
at the edge of Bliss
& we shall play ~ with flowers all in your hair/ parsley and
sage with Time in mine\ in time remember me — i shall
kiss you as the true love of mine
tell the world i found a deep forest green within your Soul
where i chased butterflies and laid in the greens
a true love of mine without clouds but blue skies
(oh sprinkling purples, blues and pinks — within your
thigh i found the nectar of a circle of raising Love)
the fairies of woodland communities sing, dance and laugh for this
kind of love as ours (all under a windy cloudless sky)
between us is water and air and untold famous kisses
sickle tall and growth inside
souls of sunshine — not forgotten
but the true of love mine.
:: 08.07.2020 ::
///////////////////////////Seditious countries and each life; closes minds
since mortal hearts within jars and intestines have no mark upon solemn synod – forgiven decrees;
all humans scream for release from the arms of colossal piteous complaints…
do not tear away yourself dear to whisper a break withIN a deep-divorcing vow? i gave you everything;
everything i own;i have given you everything and you blew it to hell and with blood mingled inside the
crime of lust: for if we were one, and you played false, i ate the poison of your flesh, being infected
by your contagion. And hell, shit, keep fair league and truce inside my soul and mind and spirit —
you blew it all and split the world of my heart apart.
:: 08.12.2020 ::
the armies of nations move forward
the women with their babies —
The Light of my last night from
a window with my wife blinks out
like an eye within the night:
i am everything and nothing
to shave a last time
while she sleeps requires
no more tears — no more fears.
i feel the heat of a sun
down the road; orders and marching
boots into the womb of death so
i say the light of my last night
with silent screams and no more tears
:: 08.04.2020 ::
could a Heart made of Poetry
ever die ; into the ferocious
tied-lips of Life?
as a free bird —
poets are c l i ng
to me dear and sir:
as a bird
as life washed me clean
so warm and dry ; cleansing all
of the bluish wine-stains
and splattering’s of vomit,
we never lost the touch
that meant to mean so much
–dying embers of deliriums
and grinding rhythms of my
Love; i came to know the
skies and even the rock below
; i know the evening, and like
rising Phoenix of Spirit
as stress and fear roll back
as waves into the distances —
their eyes crying regretful
:: 07132020 ::
And big indiscreet
kisses made my dry
thoughts turn wet
-as time ticks
the color of
Mind a wild ray
of ideas flooded
my Soul -the point
:: 07.31.2020 ::
why is night comforting
to lost souls
why evening rains feel
i do not know
i do not know
the beautiful Sun
knows my name
the moon too beneath
why is life so painful
i do not know
i do not know
:: 07.28.2020 ::