Hey do your hear my bittersweet wind cry
Can you see my bloodthristy moon rise
I thought I once caught a glimpse
of your veiled light
Can I be your joyful tears
Will you taste my ecstatic cries
Do you smell the musk perfume of my day
Can I eat your velvet black night
I once felt you touch
my caressing whisper
My purple thunder laughs
as your blue lightning
feeds my orange spirit
I know I saw you in the faraway
now of our distant future
where impatient time never occurs.
No bricks of hate
to stop his welcome
from jaded palms
this course holds faithful.
A tincture of sand
no problem too big,
he can't dissolve.
No yoke of tenacity
worn around the neck.
Diligence prevails
through rice fields
of laughter.
A year of intent
not fallen to deserters
the ox will carry
is weight,
on plodded flames
ith powers
no downpour
will acclaim.
The flaxen braids
of determination
and exertion,
displayed
ingeniously
by footsteps
he leaves
in a clay's image.
We as humans
can forgive our errors
of misguided tempers
by the oxen traits,
in the year that
is befallen,
now, it is your turn, tiger!
imposing
and overbearing
creating
disturbance
in a pleasant,
well driven hour
either
they fade
into yesterday's
background
r I'll
just throw
my hands
up in the air
and let them
carry on
or
better yet
ignore
their precociousness
completely
as if
they
really mattered
to making
or
breaking
the day
i set out to enjoy
this use
of misguided power
can be quite
"a dark lantern of sorts"
not very good
for predicting
the impending storm
we all seem to be
pin cushioned in
when it does happen!
Her skin
of velvet
her eyes
of a golden hue.
Took me
to heights
never
dreamed.
For in her
perfection
and
designer dress,
the color
that was chosen
found only
in the
dreams
of an aurora borealis
or
northern lights.
The dignity
of
her specie,
the reputation
she
leaves in her prime,
touches
the genuine heart.
For in her
karma
a reminder
of the magnitude
our creator
infiltrates
our soul.
A love
I find
and
eternal connection
in
Ms. Burgundy Iris
reaching
out in Spring!
Vase on the windowsill
Fire escape
Sounds of the streets
he has me
Wrapped in her eyes
Spiderweb
Empty chair
Sun colored walls
In the room of art
Photograph
Burned so bad
that death was a hope
his eyes
were the only thing left beautiful
the only thing left human
All looked upon this tiny charred shell
and could not see a boy
Even his parents disavowed his once-life
now a vagueness of scars
If I had one strong wing I could fly away
I could feel the soft breeze
and not this confusion of sense
on what was once my face
Someone heard
the quiet wail
He still had no wing
but he flew 5000 miles
He flew to where surgeons
were sculptors of flesh
and potters of noses
Operation
operation
operation
etc.
They failed
to make his face a child's
But the cleverest magician
took two toes
and made two fingers appear
on the once of a hand
If I had one strong wing
I could lift a discarded life
and make it seem mine again
But I have two near-fingers
so I can feel anything again
anything
except my face
You pottered a flawless conch shell
a billion years ago but during post impressionism?"
His criticisms were so matter of fact
as if they were never mentioned
but sharp praise always tasted of pride
Money couldn't understand him
Just his presence
made life an overwilling marionette
For me, my father never pulled strings
Strings were last resorts
His talk danced a circle
and a smile
would cameo at the right place
All would be done
He knew I'd have to learn
to pull strings for myself
I thank him for that
Now I'm cursed to wonder:
is he pulling a few for me now?
The talk has stopped
but I hear the shoes
Witness the failure of funeral directors to please trueaesthetes:
the dead Ingrid Bergman lacks the beauty of a living bag lady.
Tennis masters
given K-Mart rackets
win gracefully,
while the high-school violinist
playing a Stradivarius
fails to delight us.
Thus noses, lips, breasts have no beauty in themselves.
Perfect features are easily distorted by
anger, sloth, irritability, or conceit.
But in a rare few
energy, grace, composure, and sensitivity
are blended in such a quantity
that they overflow
and color with an exquisite beauty every pore of the body,
fill with a subtle music every gesture, every word.
I say there is no physical beauty.
This skin, this flesh, this bone
are but the clay of which we make our beauty,
the instrument on which we play our beauty.
I remember you coming out of a cornfield at dawn,
soaked with the dew, laboring under your basket.
All the tiny things you looked after --
kittens and toads.
And the strange foods you gave us!
O Gretchen, wherever you are,
I hope you've found peace.
How did you live in that harsh world?
Where did you hide your fragile spirit?
O Gretchen, wherever you are,
I hope you've found love.
Meditating the sea
The sound a sea shell makes
Headlights disappearing
Off the ledge cliff lookout
Into the red brazen sunset
On the run in a dark green Mustang
Blankly beholden to the yellow median ot the road
Snow flakes rushing in half-arcs towards the windshield
Passing through a white flurry as in a madly shaken
Dreamy snow globe of the night gone wild
Coming to in the amber dash light
Smoke coiling translucent through notes of radio
Dreaming as a young child
Of my brother and I
Left to fend for ourselves
In a runaway station wagon
Jumping into the front seat
As the car makes speed
Down a steep cobbled street
My fingers guiding our lives
Clamped tight to the wheel turning
Progress as if in slow motion
Past white sun dappled picket fences
The dream like so many piano notes
Plays quickly in the back seat of an automobile
White puffy clouds sweeping past breezy blue skies of mind blown
wind
Grand sweet auto vistas of soft corraline emotions
Seen in every distant corner of plain mountain ocean
The lands ululant vibrations
course through my body
Feet hammering out rythym on the floor boards
Life sounds crystal clear on the radio
Walk softly, oh sad one
how loudly your gentle footsteps sound
on the dew-soaked earthen path above
tonight I offer to you the moon and the stars
may you enjoy the view, my love
feel the wind on your face,
the beauty of the stillness,
for these are my gifts, too
and know that though you may wander alone
I’ve silently fallen into step beside you
Live, oh fragile one
how it pains me to watch you
idly knitting hours into a lonesome day
how much life overflows your cup’s rim
though my own was drained away
drink deeply of this short life, dear,
and know that when your cup runs dry,
you’ll still have a lover to walk with
when you come to the other side
oh, my lost one
I’ve come to you in your dreams, but you twist me
into things you can understand, can’t recognize
the man I am behind those jaded, assigned eyes
when I try to hold you there, to remind you of my love,
you turn your back, afraid, and will me away
we made beautiful memories together, you and I,
let me share your dreams, mend the broken pieces
of your soul, and hold you just one more time
oh, my love
breathe for me one more time, one more life
I’ve sacrificed so much to further your path
take these gifts and do with them as you will
but do with them, do something with them
take our memories
and fold them into the pocket of your dreams,
know that they are part of me
and who we were when we were together,
and that we’ll be together once again
oh, beautiful one
I’ve mourned for you from here
as you’ve mourned for me from there
and tonight, in your dreams, may you know
that I still love you from here
walk with you from here
miss you from here
oh, lovely one
know that I still love you from here
True the snow is made the same all over the world,
but every flake is special
in its own way.
If it be shape, size or decoration to give it life.
They are each a miracle
that last only for a little while.
Just as we are only a few
flakes that someone has molded
and given life to our still cold bodies.
Is it the heat of the world
or our lives that melt us away?
Some last longer,
others gone overnight as it would seem.
Are we the passerbys that say, "Look, see the snowman",
or are we the ones that shape the snow?
Can we also say "Oh, poor snowman,
he's melting" or can we say I'll see you tomorrow?
Are we the snowman?
What we are is up to us,
Lets just be thankfull
for the memories and the Snow!
And may we all create our lives
as we do the snowman.
With pride and joy.
Hoping that it will last through tomorrow.
He stands by the road
This man
With fire in his palm
As the lines of his face loosen
Joyous tears fall
Like summer raindrops
Communion
This day will never end.
she walked full-grown
through the blaze
of her burning childhood
heart-burnt
mind-charred
soul-scorched
a mature fireflower
beware!
don't touch
without love
she was flameborn
Splinters abound
Razor cuts
No blue blood
My friends will never know
The sun shines
Reflections blind
People laugh
I am in agony
The rain comes
To hide my tears
To wash the canvas clean
The act's complete
