Tag Archives: #poetry

Ninth Transimos

CYctors of Myrtle-Brilcy,

Of wong with blIes strewn on the shore
was not all that heard me then;
The manly roar of battle,
the deathly war cries of my fellow-men
then wandered we round the bower
of Myrtle, Archon by my side,
Clad in armed wreath, standing on the heddles,
Each armed with a sword
With Orchil, the pitch-plant,
with Herms, the samesid rose,
with VassilIa, Laurel, with the laurel
with YneriId and with Boulstas,

Each was criomo~us bower.

Tolemn still I tr~rised before me in mind,
giving my voice and speech through my breast
great thou sound was, with nobler speech,
Thou dost remind me of things long past,
Profound and blissful are thy echoes.

There I was weared down ere nightfall,
where Tiresias had feasted before
Now to cannot recall or see I came at noon,
where this spot was, which I remembered,
of which Siolphon I sung as he spoke
before, with the 8 oak leaves bent
at ere, with her child’s blood,
in this house I fell to live a beast,
or else to die at the stake.
We bore it to the penae,
bought it with our lives, and took it,
lengthened now the dreadful holly’s gaze,
that had casted on us a dark ray
of ill omen;

yet, as another walked with arms loaded
And this party not minces their flesh,
Despite its frozen grove, its verdure
Which once had been verdure
To all I say: Nenth transiMos stand
There, with others, hade the sword unsheathed,
Where the legions cowed, and the Ionian broils

Had spoken their pure words:

“Now in all Delphi had sprung a new fell
Womb of life and birth, which had ro
retroced them, or at least lessened their foot.

:: 11.03.2022 ::


The News Reached the Poet

WHEN i write of sleeping/lives Christ, i see him at midnight
in a crucified way, love wrought-out with grace:
the blood on the walls, the lusty grief,
the artist lying on freezing pavement,
like a drunk in an apartment.

Always?for whom
in whom: for the Lord.

Over it, dreams are made, then screams are made, grief, pain, loss, longing, fierce promises of life; a skull.

i try to create a shield, clinging to the truth of prose, where every word can express with precision an unreachable.

For how can i say?

THiEF!

A sharp wit?that haunts me, rattles the prophet.
i should write poetry. At first, i thought that a rhyme might distract my readers.

Then i thought it might frighten them. This thinning armor
is the price of the art of memory:

i go to my poems now like refugees crossing a flooded
river.

What is the music of the poet?

Nothing, a voice, the absence of a voice, as i write, the sound of a key in an empty door, the charmed silence of an oasis.

Even this room where i try to be alone, tortured, longing to die, might fade away into a memory, and this empty room with my dead dead body.

My childhood was warm, it was a long summer. i stayed indoors for weeks. Until the evening sky weeps, a smell that is sad and sticky, my brain yelling my mother’s name:

Hoelun!
Hoelun!

Father crosses to the bank of the river –i drown, he swims to the other side.

i leave this world with the stench of paraquat.
it kills all my green and the flowers die.

:: 11.01.2022 ::


THERE IS LOVE AND AT TIMES HIDDEN

There are darknesses in life and there are lights
and you are one of the lights, the light of all lights.

You are an example to all of us who love you.

He wished to kiss me again, and I resisted it this time,
but in the back of my mind it seemed to me that he had
almost been in despair.

You don’t hear or see somebody talking in this way unless
something terrible has happened to them.

I told him I was there. The man he wanted. I wanted him.
And then, feeling ashamed, I hugged him.

Now he was getting the message: I loved him!

That’s the last thing he needed: to feel loved, then to realize
it, then to die!

Suddenly I didn’t feel tired anymore, and we went on our way.
Him unto dirt and me into the world naked.

The next days I was determined to get some news from him, any news,
by his ghost but there was nothing.

As such I expired my body by blade. Bleed. And became his
as he was mine and I was his.

:: 10.29.2022 ::


A Very Private Conversation Between Death & Art

[Cosmos] Does the idea of death afflict you?  Does it, coward?

[Humanity] No-no it does not!

[Cosmos] This prospect is inevitability.

And watch:  all the skies are chrysanthemums 

and the stars are little fish .  Dreaming wishing

to awaken you wished to die many times over, but now 

it is no matter — all violent are skies of your

heart turned red to purple.

[Humanity] To  die requires more than living.

[Cosmos] Then begin at the beginning and release the colors

of your art.  It is the beginning!

The weaker artist will say and ask:

“That’s why I asked you, because you are the only person I can ask

without scaring you away. If you can do it, I will give you all 

the money I have and say I will do it myself.”

[Cosmos]  Then you shall never create but reproduce.

[Humanity]  This thing must be arrested;  that is why I am asking you.

–silence–

:: 10.29.2022 ::


Mantra of an Artist

P O E T R Y
P O V E R T Y
P O S S E S S I O N
P O S S I B I L I T I E S

:: 10.29.2022 ::


We The Birds You Always Charm Atop Lookouts

WE are the trees that never change
We are the rivers and creeks that always flow
in our hour

We are the crown of the white chrysanthemum
and the brilliance of the sky
and the shadow that crept under my window
and how can the memory of those moments ever be wasted?

Without any help from you there is nothing here
can I write.

If a bee breaks the buzzing silence
the silence itself will roar with its own size.

After the waiting of man
the forest refuses to wait

Who would have thought the forest could be waiting
for longer?

No longer long in the curves of the canopy of its green.

What must the saw-whet owl in the felled tree
swoop to listen in the long grass
Who would have thought the air would be so full of bee and dusk?

No human in the forest lives alone
only forest and meadow, and me.

No man in the forest gives life.
No man in the forest gives and takes.
No man in the forest fights the trees.
No man in the forest tears to see
so the forest goes.

And trailed roots leave their soiled path.

:: 10.27.2022 ::


Eros! Do Not Flee from Me!

MY adventure began no less than upon this chilling night when homes of many lower their shades and kill the light.
As sullen souls lay down for bed and fall into dreams some common sense was telling me I ought to follow; but my heart stood firm and I – in place of fear!

While conviction (that solid shiny compass) melted color-pale and heavy fright that night my plan was nothing
more than this: to find the house of EROS to cure my heart of alder blight! After Chaos, Gaia, and Tartarus he
was born but for I — as I for him this night, my ambition over fear.

EROS, the God of Love and sexuality could show the path for enduring love of my bride to be … my writ of right!
Nothing more to keep me still so I fled into the frozen hills upon a whirlwind. Yes, me the mere mortal like EROS I sped
beating glittering golden wings upon my hidden fear.

Heavy a burden of knowing what must be, that fate of me. As my beast passed through the mist and soared in height she
bravely carried on across barren wasteland and icy bog as sad and frozen waters gravely sang to me, “CHAOS …” and
my eyes were slightly hidden – Monmouth and fear.

And it seemed to me that humanity might have just begun as we moved by wood and sullen hill surging forth in might.
Oh! Pity us as EROS must feel the greater that his bride was no less than CHAOS!

Soon I came upon a chasm which has no name but keeps a flame the light of Luna burned – to see the truth of life this night.

The dance of light upon the night stirred a feeling within my soul.

Soothing my beast I released the burden of my weight and there she fled into the night like burning crystal – who eased my fear.

And within the gaping chasm of this slightly twisted gash of soil I faced my future fate by gently carefully moving forward into that dim light.

And into the night like oil each footstep soaked inside my soul; the fear within this slice of time grabbing my throat
so fierce and I, like EROS, felt as one with love, less that burning fear.

My mind a fever beating like a raging river I slowly seeped into the porous night
like some hungry ravenous creature who only wishes blood and bite. But soon that moment of decision as I met that ancient door of lore.

And with my hand so cold and grey I took to knock upon the legend no less EROS. In retrospect I must confess: seconds felt as minutes – minutes like hours, all in fear!

The sane and stable heart might wish to judge the fool I am but the need for love is stronger than the shame of fools
or mortal smite. To those who know the pain and silence of an empty life tonight compels the heart to find one’s lover
and to face one’s fear!

But this night my plan was nothing more than this: to find the house of that primordial god EROS no less
after Chaos, Gaia, and Tatarus he was born but for I — as I for him this night my ambition would find the way
feeble fear fled my coattails — chaos, darkness and abyss.

Nothing more to see so I fled into the frozen hills.

Yes me the mere mortal like EROS I sped upon a whirlwind beating glittering golden wings upon the night’s tempest
The burden of know what must be and that fate of me jarred my senses as my beast carried me across the wasteland.

The cold and waters so sadly sang to me DARK CHAOS by the grey woods and sullen hills I surged forth
ignoring fear.

Through my eyes were slight covered by cloth the light of Luna burned as though humanity truly only began to see the truth of life this night.

Pity us as EROS must feel to be when he mated DARK CHAOS

Entwined in wings they brought forth humanity who first saw light of day!

There within the smoke, within the mire of smirk and defiled fire sat Apophis. The one who took away the love that was the love meant for this soul of me.


Dead Girl’s Smile

Not that anyone cares.
In the lightless hall striking scores with hands, toes, thighs, waist,
the gesture becomes language itself; surgeons wear masks, the women wear masks.

Mirrors on the walls
Reflect glasses on eyeballs
As heads, arms, hands, feet,
And legs are moved and erased,
Draped in skin-tight gowns
Which hang from feet,
In corpses’ striving twists,
Untransfigured hands grasp pillows
as they are pushed back to lift dressings,
as they try to fold clothes which flutter to the floor like bared breasts

As heads are pressed into pillows, like soil into seed.

And he is no doctor.
A vampiress is there, and she fixes her eyes on him, her mouth curling
to cast a dead girl’s smile when she speaks to him in Her foreign tongue.

When he leans over her to press the mirror to her forehead
as she is being lifted for transfer to Healing care, It is a mirror
Of life, and he asks his patient

What she sees,
And she responds,

“You see?

You’re dead.”

And now her stories and poems appear in public space, best poets, prairie Schooner.

Too.

:: 10.25.2022 ::


Quietly Unseen

QUIETLY UNSEEN

Forgive me, father!
In youth, at country fairs,
I didn’t seek out boring shooting galleries where every shot hits,
Rather, those loud places where donkeys
With weary flanks unfurled long bloody tubes
I still can’t comprehend!
And my mother too,
Whose slip smelled sharply,
Rumpled and yellowed at its hem like fruit,
My mother who would climb noisily into bed
-A daughter of toil-my mother, with her
Ripe womanly thighs, her heavy hips
Creasing the sheets, got me hot in ways you shouldn’t talk about!
A rawer, calmer guilt came
When my little sister, just back from class,
Her clogs worn down on the ice,
Pissed, and I watched a mawkish thread of urine!
Escape from her tight pink nether lips.
o forgive me!
Sometimes I would think about my father:
At night, card games and bawdy talk,
Our neighbor stopping by, me shoved aside, seeing certain things …
-Fathers can be frightening! -The things you imagine!
His lap, sometimes cuddly; his pants
My finger wanted to pry open at the fly … -Dh no!-
To touch my father’s dark, fat, hard head,
Whose hairy hand had rocked me!
I shouldn’t speak __|

:: 10.25.2022 ::


Hanging for Your Mistakes

i kick the stones
out my way | take the blame
, eat the fruit & hang from
a branch or a cross ! lay your lace and get this mother gone — i bowed a cross so gather around : and i don’t like how you make me hang around | and i don’t like what you got me hanging from a blaming fruit ? could it be priceless taste or how you always make me hang from your mistakes? okay, taste the blame, eat the fruit, kiss the snake
i never liked you had me hanging
for your mistakes.

lay your motor-rage : eat the one
mistake got me burning you and your
soul | and i don’t like what you’ve
got me hanging from and I don’t like
what I’m hanging from : all your
mistakes.

:: 10.23.2022 ::