a reflection in a passing current,
today's hobo, yesterdays ashes, tomorrows time.
the path was a trap, it was the illuminated face that dictated the choice.
the choice was a vixen and the reward was light.
the bridge was the path less traveled by,
one, two, three steps.
hanging, splashing in troubled waters.
how clean a body must be to enter your house.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
tea time
I.
table side alone
downward chord progressions
cup in hand, empty holding onto warmth.
II.
imagining
the glue, yourself to yourself.
the boat in the waves of uncertainty
the anchor abandoned at another port.
table side alone
downward chord progressions
cup in hand, empty holding onto warmth.
II.
imagining
the glue, yourself to yourself.
the boat in the waves of uncertainty
the anchor abandoned at another port.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
conversation
this is the conversation that finished the lessons poem. all i did was say "no" to atticus
"why don't you just take a breath, and maybe a sip and just give me what i want?"
"what DO you want?"
"those pumpkin knives. i promise, i won't get dead."
"Atticus, where did you come from?"
pause
"i came from the garden."
"why don't you just take a breath, and maybe a sip and just give me what i want?"
"what DO you want?"
"those pumpkin knives. i promise, i won't get dead."
"Atticus, where did you come from?"
pause
"i came from the garden."
odd lessons for children ages four & two
Are YOU really my teacher
i am always one of your teachers,
i am your mother.
We have nothing to hold, nothing to make the music!
our instruments cannot be held, without a bottle to catch the echos.
we'll escape, if only through a crack above the blades of laughter...
from the grass shoots souls and shoes; in a sudden void we format
the traces of red under the nightingales song.
giving too, my everything.
think safe, be safe;
grace is the choas and torture of what's left behind.
think box, act out;
the moment rides on a lark, and the impulse bites.
the sun softens yeilding to the moon,
bearing the weight of the world, resting uopn a ring and a whim
with the promise, the light will come again.
i am always one of your teachers,
i am your mother.
We have nothing to hold, nothing to make the music!
our instruments cannot be held, without a bottle to catch the echos.
we'll escape, if only through a crack above the blades of laughter...
from the grass shoots souls and shoes; in a sudden void we format
the traces of red under the nightingales song.
giving too, my everything.
think safe, be safe;
grace is the choas and torture of what's left behind.
think box, act out;
the moment rides on a lark, and the impulse bites.
the sun softens yeilding to the moon,
bearing the weight of the world, resting uopn a ring and a whim
with the promise, the light will come again.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
basking
we kill the mundane with every beat and resurrect it in every breath, only to have it die again.
children speak their truth, under the glaring sun spotlight.
young lizards at high noon on quiet Mondays playing peek-a-boo with reality.
the beads of sweat necklace disguises itself as glitter.
casting prisms on hands, testing toes for a pulse post overdose of vitamin D and pheromones
allowed to waft freely in the temperamental breeze.
bats sleep and butterflies dance between the teeth of the dragon;
SNAPS with ill intentions, diverted into lavish distractions and perversions.
bending innocence under the weight of observation. the tears of possibility collect
in the pink poppy bowl. the garden corrupted and baptized by lightening;
the tongue of fire tastes of temptation.
we melt the penetrating fingers of a frigid nobody while feeding from pomegranate nipples!
laid out wet on drying chairs. "Nobody knows my Name, Nobody is my Name"
screams echo off the rustling trees. bathing in the central strain of anticipation;
tasting the dirt of her soul, sucking teeth in satisfaction.
undulating in a vat, dyed the color of hubris. dripping wet piled limb high
only to dunk and pile until satisfied, the spinning sisters unravel their weaving.
feeble fingers entangled in the knotted tapestry, deconstructing free-will. failing
to fight the disillusion of fate.
i've smeared the future into the face of the past and tasted the seeds;
embellished in the crust, present of the serene.
children speak their truth, under the glaring sun spotlight.
young lizards at high noon on quiet Mondays playing peek-a-boo with reality.
the beads of sweat necklace disguises itself as glitter.
casting prisms on hands, testing toes for a pulse post overdose of vitamin D and pheromones
allowed to waft freely in the temperamental breeze.
bats sleep and butterflies dance between the teeth of the dragon;
SNAPS with ill intentions, diverted into lavish distractions and perversions.
bending innocence under the weight of observation. the tears of possibility collect
in the pink poppy bowl. the garden corrupted and baptized by lightening;
the tongue of fire tastes of temptation.
we melt the penetrating fingers of a frigid nobody while feeding from pomegranate nipples!
laid out wet on drying chairs. "Nobody knows my Name, Nobody is my Name"
screams echo off the rustling trees. bathing in the central strain of anticipation;
tasting the dirt of her soul, sucking teeth in satisfaction.
undulating in a vat, dyed the color of hubris. dripping wet piled limb high
only to dunk and pile until satisfied, the spinning sisters unravel their weaving.
feeble fingers entangled in the knotted tapestry, deconstructing free-will. failing
to fight the disillusion of fate.
i've smeared the future into the face of the past and tasted the seeds;
embellished in the crust, present of the serene.
Monday, July 6, 2009
at rainbows end
ABYSS
i keep my weight under lock and key,
safe guarding each precious ounce. within every pound
a trapped poem resides.
the logos, in a holding pattern.
like the garden, saturated by twenty days of rain.
demanding the suns warmth to liberate the petals; the chrysalis of buds.
two red lilies in an ocean of orange
unseen ready to take flight.
a pea lost in a sea of tendrils
holding on as the siren speaks for truth.
we are at the half way marker without an ark.
LUMINIOUS
box is damaged, but i don't care
sing with me skipping stones among the flood.
having to choose between watching bats and fireflies is a fine quandary;
as is finding oneself stuck in the same spot following the moon
across the darkness. still as sleep,with open eyes watching
the tremble of flora shooting up. forever up.
everything is new again;
the keeper is on holiday.
TIME
is told by the rivers reflection upon the trees.
trapped by walls the jumping mimics the big-bang
and Atlas holds holds my burden. Love.
sleeps later than most days, hiding soft lips and acrid kisses.
the wind decides our placement in the pile of embraces, leaves, and memory.
under the weight of children, pressed like the last seasons flower
believing in life, as giggles become rain.
LOVE
tames the night in the garden. revealing its beauty only when the fireflies sting
the greenery like holiday lights. the moon hangs in a gallery of stars
framed by branches as the chorus of bats falsettos rise swoop like lovers
knotted in sheets.
the mortar of mud trying to swallow toes,
turning lustful maids into flowers.
first with petals erect, showing their wares to the sun.
dropping petticoats, yet always baring chests to showers
at sunset and rainbows.
she tendrils up a mulberry tree on the road to redemption.
her leaves eat only the fruit of life's pie. breathing rain
like fire, due west.
ready to come again into the layers and secrets.
back to the garden to find fate and destiny holding hands,
shielded behind a peacock fan in a bed of asphodel.
i keep my weight under lock and key,
safe guarding each precious ounce. within every pound
a trapped poem resides.
the logos, in a holding pattern.
like the garden, saturated by twenty days of rain.
demanding the suns warmth to liberate the petals; the chrysalis of buds.
two red lilies in an ocean of orange
unseen ready to take flight.
a pea lost in a sea of tendrils
holding on as the siren speaks for truth.
we are at the half way marker without an ark.
LUMINIOUS
box is damaged, but i don't care
sing with me skipping stones among the flood.
having to choose between watching bats and fireflies is a fine quandary;
as is finding oneself stuck in the same spot following the moon
across the darkness. still as sleep,with open eyes watching
the tremble of flora shooting up. forever up.
everything is new again;
the keeper is on holiday.
TIME
is told by the rivers reflection upon the trees.
trapped by walls the jumping mimics the big-bang
and Atlas holds holds my burden. Love.
sleeps later than most days, hiding soft lips and acrid kisses.
the wind decides our placement in the pile of embraces, leaves, and memory.
under the weight of children, pressed like the last seasons flower
believing in life, as giggles become rain.
LOVE
tames the night in the garden. revealing its beauty only when the fireflies sting
the greenery like holiday lights. the moon hangs in a gallery of stars
framed by branches as the chorus of bats falsettos rise swoop like lovers
knotted in sheets.
the mortar of mud trying to swallow toes,
turning lustful maids into flowers.
first with petals erect, showing their wares to the sun.
dropping petticoats, yet always baring chests to showers
at sunset and rainbows.
she tendrils up a mulberry tree on the road to redemption.
her leaves eat only the fruit of life's pie. breathing rain
like fire, due west.
ready to come again into the layers and secrets.
back to the garden to find fate and destiny holding hands,
shielded behind a peacock fan in a bed of asphodel.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
a flower deep in the valley
wine stained lips rush for rain;
trees growin' in gutters
morning glories climbing the beans.
fat bone fingers scrapping thru her gardens interlopers
a stain ,so natural in the center
something so personal;
the blue boogie in the nothingness of the event horizon,
everything collapses
into a breath.
the night sky and its travelling moon shower light
across the dew soaked new grass;
baptizing bare feet, their rustle rules the sound of darkness.
like spots on leopards, sun on rivers dancing
in the heavy-metal free rain.
children giggle thru possibilities of lost rail promises:
wine puddle memories, searching for excuses...
bruises on cotton calves,
and the idea of daddy died young on rolling knees
and heels,that dug too far in the mud,
and butterflies stuck in her mouth
and the dirty stained fingers with the stench of thyme,
almost trembling
toes mingle as tongues let loose
geckos wiggle in the river beds
legs up skin ripped apart
tawny from decay -dead
dead
deer lay decapitated
head near by, old crow
corn beak pecks at the eyes.
the scent, rotting flesh carried through rose thickets
transforming the wind;
sour to sweet...
the wanderer pauses, feet sinking
in the moment,
wondering if this deception will ground the winds roving ways.
sweet to sour
and in bitter rain
petals bathe in mud to disguise their beauty-
irony contracts and signifies
the horror of irrelevance.
as temperance challenges the integrity of the wall,
condensation honors the folds...
(her lips) as sweat eases the sweet immortal
melon of death and penetrates our weathered skin of mortality.
salvaging for scraps of an other amongst the pedals
and toys
and toil of her seeds.
amongst the dreams of many
and the cherished soften;
the moon now comes to collect her children.
trees growin' in gutters
morning glories climbing the beans.
fat bone fingers scrapping thru her gardens interlopers
a stain ,so natural in the center
something so personal;
the blue boogie in the nothingness of the event horizon,
everything collapses
into a breath.
the night sky and its travelling moon shower light
across the dew soaked new grass;
baptizing bare feet, their rustle rules the sound of darkness.
like spots on leopards, sun on rivers dancing
in the heavy-metal free rain.
children giggle thru possibilities of lost rail promises:
wine puddle memories, searching for excuses...
bruises on cotton calves,
and the idea of daddy died young on rolling knees
and heels,that dug too far in the mud,
and butterflies stuck in her mouth
and the dirty stained fingers with the stench of thyme,
almost trembling
toes mingle as tongues let loose
geckos wiggle in the river beds
legs up skin ripped apart
tawny from decay -dead
dead
deer lay decapitated
head near by, old crow
corn beak pecks at the eyes.
the scent, rotting flesh carried through rose thickets
transforming the wind;
sour to sweet...
the wanderer pauses, feet sinking
in the moment,
wondering if this deception will ground the winds roving ways.
sweet to sour
and in bitter rain
petals bathe in mud to disguise their beauty-
irony contracts and signifies
the horror of irrelevance.
as temperance challenges the integrity of the wall,
condensation honors the folds...
(her lips) as sweat eases the sweet immortal
melon of death and penetrates our weathered skin of mortality.
salvaging for scraps of an other amongst the pedals
and toys
and toil of her seeds.
amongst the dreams of many
and the cherished soften;
the moon now comes to collect her children.
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