Tag Archives: #paper

THE CHILDREN’S HOUR

A pause within the day to breathe flowers
is called the Children’s Hour.

Like the last brilliant star at sunrise.

My eyes, brilliant as any sun
does not call you to depravity.

a Day broken as a first morning
and song birds singing for grace
praise for the morning and praise all

fresh into a world in such turmoil.

Sweet new fawn born in briar
and new buds of nature painting Earth
how exquisite Nature speaks to Hearts.

Mine is sunlight
Mine is morning

and how crazy we fall elated into
confusion disregarding God’s Creation.

:: 05.28.2021 ::


NO AND NEVER WILL

i

We shared the sun and ate the rays of red apples in bed
the songbird perched upon the window sill sang songs
of forgotten riddles

holding hands we caught the whirlwind of love and sighed
never forgetting we have eyes and lips and hearts.

it became nighttime so soon we danced in the moon and shadows
followed us. If we ever lose our mouth north and south
we should never have to talk.

ii

In faithful candle light we laugh and eat bread with glasses
of wine and speak of love and time and art.

We were so very young, us two.

Never worrying about life and time — knowing we are only
dancing upon this Earth a short time and took it all in
stride. Although we wished it would last forever it never
shall nor never did. Oh very young, hold onto your dreams
and love and never cast away the words that have meaning —
so you wish to live forever you know you never will.

iii

Now time has squeezed our bodies into One and here we are
Across the veil of the grand floor into the sky and now
we know why it never lasts forever, oh well. Oh very
old one we leave and now go unto the mystery of greater
love. And although we loved every moment this journey
is not done now and never will.

:: 05.26.2021 ::


SORROW BEYOND TEARS

I have bound myself to God and to the Mysteries; all things also I comprehend.

AS love is not given to the wise man for his own personal gain. Love is neither given to the savage for his own personal gain, nor to the poor man for his own personal gain, nor to the country for his own personal gain, nor to the lonely man for his own personal gain.

NO.

It is given to the sick, in pain and those deep within despair and loneliness, for their own personal gain is not a thought given.

As Love is not given to the prostitute for her own personal gain; to the youth for their own personal gain; for the Love is the product of long awaited joy, and the joys and sorrows of the individual cannot be their own!

:: 05.19.2021 ::


RELIGIONS AND HYPOCRISY

DROPPING from the sky as a rain drop
i feel so good dropping from my life
i feel so very alive and the skies weep
and my soul sings.

i don’t believe in your religions or hypocrisy
and i feel like a drop of pure rain
my Soul is bare

falling down into the soil & feeding a new
seed of a flower and i feel so good —
oh yeah.

Don’t take my photo until i’m born
and i don’t believe in your sanctitude
i don’t believe in your lies
and wonder what my parents think of
me now

To give a Soul for a Flower
A soul for a flower
yea.

:: 05.11.2021 ::


HOW YOU FEEL SO ALIVE

HUG me but leave me alone
tonight kiss me but say nothing
harvested feelings come and go as
ghosts weeping for you and me
watching how we changed: smooth skin to lines
firm convictions weakened tells me there is more
i held the hand of failure and watched how love died
like we never had brakes once so alive and now changed
i watched the sun explode like nothing ever before seen
and once so alive — watched it change.
you left me alone / months into years and decades gone \ and its
like you never went away always alive and eating my insides.
watching how we changed ah oh ah i watched the sun explode.

i look at the plot of ground
and the green grass of Earth
tomb stone and words with tears
it is like you never went away
still so alive.

:: 05.03.2021 ::


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 ::


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 ::


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 ::


VEGETABLES

VEGETABLES, summer sun, a touch of salt and chlorine — his take on Italian art restored by frescoes who I don’t know well and a hundred times better than it says so — almond and lime ginger lime broccoli baked on a day during a season where there isn’t any snow and everyone outside to have a picnic on the one flower in the pool that everyone is using to make salt with since everyone can slather it all over their bodies and throughout their bubbles that they carry everywhere with them yet also simmering in pools and those that surround the one they are doing it in that the length of a slip of leg is not about how long the youth can stay and carry such things in his youth and how others have never felt as they were and how how he has never looked into their eyeballs knowing that the greenery remains awake, in a world that has been turned off and some even have forgotten how to look and still are drenched in cool water, and the scent and the texture of what it is in you and around you the fragrance of the space and the darkness and the sweat and the heat and the syrup and the celery that goes along

:: 03.28.2021 ::


POETIC PAINTINGS

SHE would pull back her hands to her sides, her furrows bear poetic paintings with a past unfolded in crosshatch, reprimands to the unblinking, to the untried to never covet an hour lost and found, the length of a sunset, a sun weighing us down, now or then looking away to a beach that doesn’t seem our way, reputed for its unchanging coral reefs and saying it’s way more glorious than the beach next door, as we know, the one nobody cares to swim into.

Then my hips, already weak, begin to shake though when you come with me, if we should go by car, we’re together, on ground heavy that your steps cannot change.

I must say more, but you know the story. You must hear the secret though only the Sages were allowed to hear it.

It is a light; my dark world turns into a coffin light, the whole thing collapsing, if i miss you, my sadness begs, but there are no answers what to do when everything in you, in all of us weeps for absence.

Better for the room’s overhead to be darkness, for me, for my heart’s an end that must not bend, a blade lost in sand. Can no healing be between our two lonely hearts without me weeping and no consolation
without you wanting to know, when we’ll fall in love again?

Want to buy a song give a gift of musical genius the way we never stop loving, until I can be safe again.

I’ve lived alone for the last thirteen years, still living off my memories of her, but having no contact with her — except for my last few days, of course.

I wrote the only song I can sing now, and there were no lessons to be had in any language even if you had known about me, about how I suffered in my anger, from the depth of my despair,
you would not have come near.

:: 03.26.2021 ::