Clinton Van Inman - Ed Moseley - Frank C. Praeger - H. D. Whatley -

Ian Chung - Jenny Catlin - Joseph Farley - Jack Little - Louise Andrade -

L. W. - Love Call - Nick Marshall - Rob Schultz - Sophie Goodfellow -

Victoria Jarvis - A. G. Synclair - Rick Lettau - Lori K

UNCLE

I thought you died

In the last war but I

See you are up to your

Old tricks again

Pointing your finger

Bullying boys to join

Your cause of killing

People

O say can you see the

Fields filling with those

Who believed your old lie

That freedom means fighting

Now more clownish than ever

In those striped pants and hat,

Yet not as real as rocking children

Waiting, waiting to follow you, Sam

MAINLANDS

No compass or maps to guide them

            Across cruel, unchartered seas,

Only hungry eyes to lead them

            To distant, alien shores.

No crosses to commemorate first steps,

            Only curious on-looking gulls.

Yet two thousand years later armed

            With compass and Greek math and logic

They headed West to find the East

            And sailed upon the western Atlantic,

Yet missing two seas and an entire continent

            They claimed their New World.

FIRE FLIES

They glitter and glow like flashing stars

The fire flies we chase in summer’s sky.

With some power we can not understand

We try to catch them and hold in hand

Yet can only watch and wonder why

The ones we catch and place in jars

Will not shine and seem to refuse

Until we open the jar and turn them loose. 

And just like us whether a fly or kid

No light shines under glass or lid. 

LAST RITES

I heard they buried you today

Laid you to rest next to

“in God we trust”

And the last of your eagles.

It was a closed casket ceremony

Because you were so badly

Disfigured being run over

By a billion evasive species.

We sent your widow a card

Signed by all us

Unemployed union workers.

                        PLATO’S CAVE

                        Of course the rooms are still filled with shadows

                        While lazar lights and computer programs prove

More cost effective than fire yet the cardboard

Cut-outs and the curtains have remained the same

As well as those old lies that trees are real,

That the way out really goes somewhere,

That Math leads more than circles

And that Apollo himself is behind the curtains

Keeping their domino world from collapsing.

Only a few banned poets or other down and outers

With only a pocketful of Zen dare climb

The arduous way out as most prefer

To sit and argue about living conditions

Or the quality of food and have learned to love

The rope while accepting some back door reality.

            FOR ELBA, 2012

Pale would be the waters

            That reflect only skies

And grace not the splendor

            Of your enchanting eyes.

Pale would be the moon

            That only marks its pace

And fails to look down upon

            Your more fairer face.

Paler would be the poet

            Whose words can not express

One word to match your smile

            Or something deeper no less.

UNPRINCIPLE OF UNCERTAINTY

I keep it always quite natural

In my perfectly unnatural

Selection this bigfoot in boxers

Freaking nature no Brownian

Movement could ever detect.

Indeterminate yet principled

In my unprincipled principle of uncertainty.

You can find me hunched

Behind a wall of billboards

And thinly disguised bas-reliefs

Leading to the center of unreal cities

Where I keep my temples tall.

Pure bacchanal

From the barrio bringing

Basketsful of baryons

And binary broken bits—

Careful, the alphas will leave

You quite brain dead

And all quite meaningless

Among the unions and uniforms

Except for the dream of

Unicorns and unisex.

Dressed Right.

They said that you were dressed right
In your blues, your red and white,
The fresh cut flowers were neatly laid,
The flag was folded as the band had played.
We stood and watched with Sunday’s best
In places not for playing you would rest,
Momma fell sick, said it was the heat
When they lowered you under our feet.

They said that you were dressed right
With your blues, your red and white,
But none of those names engraved in stone
Or those flags waving for some proud cause
That gives the grownups much applause,
Or even your medals matter—because you are gone.

With Graceful Sweep.

The river curves with graceful sweep.
Along its banks the willows weep.
Their slender boughs are bending low
To kiss the sun’s reflection far below
And yield their mystery to the stream
That carries away its boundless dream.
Perhaps the pulse or lasting splendor
Will express some secret or oft desire
Beyond all rule and mindless measure
My words too will press even higher.
Without poetry our world will perish
Leaving not a plank or rack behind
To show one royal act to cherish
Some idea that history is not blind.

Song of Ulysses.

For greatness and glory’s sake,
For all things rich and noble,
In proud ships tall let us make
Again where only men are able.

Tired we’ve grown of glitter and gold,
The Cimmerian curse of a market place,
Let us dream of Delphic days of old
That even Poseidon’s rage could not erase.

Come, arise, my men, arise
For tomorrow we shall sail
Again under blue Aegean skies
There to find newer walls to assail.

Circe’s song had made us weak
For we have slept too long and late.
Now for greater joys let us seek
Knowing we are masters of our fate.

This woeful world is much too remiss,
But only in a world such as this
One without comfort, joy, or bliss
Dare we climb the steps of Olympus.

Come my men, let us venture
Into the depths of the setting sun,
There we’ll find newer worlds to conquer
Long, long after this day is done.

Protocol.

Just two of you I need to lend a hand
First to measure the rope from base to base
Then here along the wall from here to where
The rope is tied around the ceiling post.
Careful there because all must be exact.
The tale is always in the tape you know,
Just an inch or so an inch here or there
Even one and it would be a different story.
But we can rule that out because here
Is the can he must have stood upon
For he was seen here from time to time
Once it seems to look for work I’m told,
Must have known the garage to be a quiet place,
But still it doesn’t do a business good
For this sort of thing—everything is as it should
All looks typical enough and is in order.
One last entry and my work here is done.
Thank you for your help now cut him down.

If We Could Dance One Night Away.

If we could dance just one more night away
Filled with champagne and candlelight,
In hours held by our own delight,
Only this and this alone would please.
Like Chablis mixed with sweet bouquet
In moments we soon shall not forget
Save all not close to the clarinet,
Where only perfume and tobacco lingers
Our love shall rise above all of these.
While we tango upon the outer terrace
Moonbeams shall fall upon your face,
And I shall say that nothing really matters
Except this time that we have passed
Because we have saved our best for last.

Humpback Song.

Once a slug only I squirmed
In your swollen, stillborn seas
And felt the perpetual pull

Of midnight moons across my back
As I floated face down adrift
In your Paleozoic tides.

Only in fleeing am I free
My fins protect me from
Your invertebrate claws.

My humpback song will find
Deeper, purer waters beyond
The needle of your compass point.

Far from your perfect
Perpendicular shores that could
Never square me.

Diamond Moon.

I double humped round in roses
charm some vision in a paper cup.
Old Orestes from a diamond moon
rises from stained glass and finds
no meaning beyond my movement.
But only when worlds collide
will the silence of my Trojan Seas
protect me from his desert sands.
I am now an o-as-is only
but dare drink my deeper waters
you last king in a sandman’s dust.

Diana (Moon).

Drag your white skull beyond blind seas
That tumble dazed to your mono-eyed magic.
Go tell Neptune when the night is through.
Charm him, too, with your waxing and waning.
But you can’t catch me with those veiled half smiles.
Your borrowed brilliance exposes you.
I know your darker side.
Go charm some other star struck rhapsodist

Frankenstein.

Color coded complete with picture I.D.
We’ll teach you to be like us.
Give you a turtle neck or bow tie
You will be our kind of Mensch
Complete with certificate of authenticity
Credit rating and charge account,
Security, savings, and even disability.
We’ll teach you how to walk and talk
In circles as if you had some sense.
We will give you some brand named shoes
We will even call you Frank or Frankie
We gave you a brain doesn’t matter
Whose for they all are just the same,
But why are you still reaching for
Flowers?

One Last Leaf.

The way one last leaf
Upon a winter’s branch
Held by will alone
If not by chance
Reminded me of the coming cold
Branches will break too
Before I grow old.

Real Love.

Real love comes not with Cupid’s arrows
But with shovels and wheelbarrows.

Guests.

It was no accident my coming here,
They must have known long before
I wandered to their farmhouse near
That soon I’d knock upon their door.

Call it more than a good neighbor’s sense
In snow to leave the porch lamp lighted
Or post the sign on the picket fence,
For those in need are all invited. 

 - Top of Page - 

Afternoon

you tickle my apathy the color of fruits
and make me happy to be bored
and to be boring.

i catch you turning every day into sunday
like a magician:
an indolent magician. too bad two girls
can hardly worship that God.
i guess we'll just have to sleep instead.

 - Top of Page - 

A Woman And A Forest.

I see you standing there, so near yet so
Far from the rest of us, trudging along
And pulling at the leaves that surround you.
Funny how a patch of forest can be
At once included and excluding, but
I expect you already know that too.
Something in your posture disquietens.

Your stoop, surprisingly arboreal,
The bend of tree trunk from years of strong winds.
I cannot picture you as a sapling.
As my car speeds off, my mind, arrested
By this sight, journeys along slower paths.
This, then, is what it means to have grown old –
To be in our midst and not known to us.

Are You Sure?

Sometimes when I ask you to explain
what you mean, all I get is a string
of words. They know where they want to go;
I am not sure you do. I would give
anything to bring you peace of mind,
for I only want to reassure

you that there are things you can be sure
of – really ought not to complain
that I never try – that will remind
you of the good times even shoestring
budgets can provide. You will forgive
my bragging, self-important ego,

since I think you knew from long ago
that I mean no harm. You can measure
my importance by the gifts I give.
I would quite like that. A simple, plain
calculation, like asking a string
at what point is it a string. The mind

concerns itself with small things, the mind
is not simply content to forgo
a promise. I did not mean to string
you along. I resent the pressure
you are putting on me to explain
my intentions. I chose to forgive,

you should choose to forget. Would you give
me that satisfaction, peace of mind?
I should like to think that you complain
about me just to make your friends go
green with envy. You cannot be sure
I do not think of you when I string

my guitar. Each time I pluck a string,
write a song, I pray you will forgive.
You see, I only want to be sure
that there can be no doubt in your mind
about the lengths to which I would go
in order to clarify, make plain

how I feel. Explain how I should string
excuses, or should I go and give
you a piece of my mind? Are you sure?

Dancefloor.

As we stumble into the hottest club,
Too drunk to care whose toes we’re trodding on,
I’m given a moment of clarity –
This is not the way we should be. Not here,
Grinding mindlessly against each other.
I remember when we were happier;
What I have forgotten was why things changed.

The constant throb of the room segues into
A new track. I always think of this as
Our song. ‘Good God, I love the party-starved,
Businessmen with stopwatch hearts. They don’t beat;
They tick,’ rasps Emily Haines, as we dance.
I look at you, and wonder if you know:
Love lasts only as long as the next song.

Ink.

always depending
upon my words written down
to speak out for me
for they shout louder into
silence than I ever dare

Sacrificed.

In this land, to be born male is to bear
The cross of your sex – a badge of honour.
Black words on white paper demand two years;
Loyalty is painted in strokes of grey.
The attempt to breed love for country fails
To see love must grow of its own accord,
Or else not at all. Therein lies the pain
Of young men. For what person can endure
A system that worships the collective
At an individual’s sole expense?

Teetering.

Friendships last when each friend thinks he has a
slight superiority over the other. – Honoré de Balzac

Balzac was right. Friendships are constructed,
Artificial bridges from higher ground
That soar to lower – seldom the reverse.
There is scant charity in gravity.

No true current of fellow feeling springs
From the merely human. It cannot help
Being tainted by words, actions, logic.
Enlightenment – friendship is too brittle.

Perhaps when we have both acknowledged this
Unhappy revelation, we can found
A new outpost in human emotion,
Where friendship transcends its earthly meaning.

The question, then, is this: Will we survive,
Or falter at a crumbling edge, and plunge?

Temptation.

I will be the reptile
Adam to your new Eve,
Seducer and seduced.
Together, we will make
The angelic hosts weep
When the Fall consumes us;
It will be long, slow, deep
Beyond all redemption.

Sing me a siren’s song
Of love and keen desire
That smoulders. Defying
The mandate of Heaven,
We will smite down the gates
Of our verdant prison
To forge a life beyond
God’s paradisal plan.

Now we roam the wide world
Freely, pouring contempt
On our persecutors.
They are jealous of our
Unholy trinity
Of you, me and fleshly
Delight, bound by sinner’s
Pride and selfish craving.

You will be mother of
All who are not ashamed
Of their bodies, and I,
The author of their faith
In sensory pleasure.
Our life will be a new
Creation, the envy
Of all who witness it.

Away With It

Morphing - adolescents' perpetual crisis,
chimney tops blown off, a slow slide,
not knowing where to stop.
A veteran returns and tomorrow ceases.
An abruptness in each gesture,
an arm raised, leg extended,
voices tumbling past one another
and just beyond hearing a stream,
a swirling down hill, rock eroding splash,
color splotched, bellicose vaunted gasp,
precursor to past.

A welter of yeses and noes to morphing, abruptness, tumbling
in an evanescent nodding of forget-me-nots,
a more than sober notion of imploding stars,
or how the crusades were more than just botched,
or how it is
to be masterful while being phony,
and to have made allowances
for what one forgot.


My didactic sense compresses the rest,
heaved, graded - legs, one after the other, kick.
Focusing on this one, possibly last,
possibly best, worst sunset
could it be now,
an ahistorical
unsettling sound of a pipsqueak,
culmination of vapid, but

violent, but,
though consummate,
tweaked
machinations.

Frogs, Geese, and Lovers, Too.

In a gathering of drumheads,
solace rhapsodizing over the repetitive,
while circumspect concerning tomorrow
but free
to ponder on the particular,
on Lombardy poplars, there, on the valley lake's other side,
another autumn yellowing, branches ascending,
leaves, frogs, geese missing, lovers, too.
Now, past the dampness, troubling stars,
unilluminating yesterdays,
an ache for long straight furrows, butterflies in transit,
uninterrupted sleep,
and unredeemable sentiment.

A comb misplaced, perhaps, in a public restroom,
or on the escarpment overlooking the Lake of the Clouds.
A much used testiness remains.
No further statements reviving conceit,
no lasting testament to redress last year's grievance.

Dry stream beds, dried swamps,
invigorating smell of autumn's levelling.
Blackberry canes above one's head with half-inch thorns,
at a bend in the Pilgrim river,
where there are no people,
no other animals,
no patio to sit on.

Futility.

Oh, futility, without nimbus,
count down,
a presence once unwanted,
now, finally acknowledged, age
as glitter dimmed
as stately turned to stiff
as burned to ash,
as tremors for intrepidness,
left drooling, misfiring, puerile misalliances,
and in some fashion facile but just, and, then, but barely,
resigned to being sage,
parsing sentences, sprucing up
for whatever kind of end.

Now, nameless stones,
loose feathers, cracked eggs,
a thug in every closet.
Now, a precarious stay -
now, such little time and less of fate.

Matchless.

"...I can no longer obey; I have tasted command and I
cannot give it up."
Napoleon Bonaparte

Trust as buttercups,
daffodils.
Indeed, but unfettered
as crocuses
without allegiance,
then, delusion,
or caprice
though they, too, may end
as monuments of an untenable detente.

Capitalize
as vagrancy,
dodger,
nimbler than none,
sourceless,
indifferent
may cease.

Those stray marks
surfaced
may be remarked upon
as praiseworthy as pearly everlasting
as indecipherable as Spring.

But, wait,
it will not do,
baseless,
rivals claim
purpose, strictures -
dealers in the discarded, broken, shredded,
confrontational as needed.
Flagrantly so? As much as - fainter than? - dianthus fragrance?

As flowers can not be other than themselves,
so dissenters will be interred,
rose petals scattered over the turned up indifferent earth.

Outburst.

Hokum-pokum before long sought,
steadying, staid dawning light,
fulsome outburst to delicate columbine,
batchelor button's blue face facing yellow composites.
Stress lines galvanized.
Gravel paths, fluctuations of weather
forewarned no breached farewell.
Crepuscular tides carry nightward
sundrenched gladioluses.
Pollen drift, sandflies
swept to where
stratospheric wailings crest unanswerable.
Where are the harbingers to each day's shortfall,
in a dearth of credence,
in a summoning to make-belief,
in the involuntary granite, man-made concrete,
or in an imagined galactic state?
Where are the stowaways, the hired hands?
Staying put?

Enlarged,
hapless, earth caught shift
to laced, to ties,
to rope on rope, ungainly gait,
crept,
cropped
red to yellow to who - but, then, maintain,
bolstered by neglect,
less than false, than unfathomably free
of inwardness, license of cuttings,
of floors
awash in flowers.

Portfolios of Chance, Documents of Deportation.

Upset stomach.
Crinkled colored paper,
ink,
dried vomit.

Elusive, elided,
hand signals of another world -
remote control,
talking automatons
fustily greeting hello
with hello.

Where are those portfolios of chance,
closely considered
hand held offerings,
documents of deportation?

Ripped off, terminating
unresolved earthly shuddering,
flagstaffs crumbling,
and left as leverage
two giant steps,
one feather,
some breath,
a missing fact,
and music,
measureless,
jubilant,
sad.

Unacknowledged surmises
sermon after sermon.
Unseemly remonstrances
among festooned windows
reflecting jack-in-the-pulpit crises,
and no, no sought for refuge,
no final wilderness.

Remembrances of creosote pilings,
a lover's last words mimed,
morning newspapers,
wash drying on clothes lines:
yes, disavowals of jeopardy -
concourses of mirrors, parades of images,
look-a-likes,
stares.

Sh!

I'm missing that level perspective,
That's one of many things I got from you,
Someone to tell me where my head's at,
Someone to reassure me that I'm not different,
Somone to give me a sense of who I am,
And who I want to be,
Not those people who try to tempt me,
Or lead me astray,
Not those people who take away my reason to be,
Or make me suffer each and every day,
You're the person who makes me feel,
And believe that my core is real,
I am who I fucking well am,
It's just my consciousness that's shrouded by evil.

Absorbed.

Droning broken sounds of fury
Dashed upon that dashing board
Sung unto the reach of stories
Strung upon the lion’s roar

Making you wonder why
Your mind is so absorbed

Broken glass and torn up pavement
Session of a mental patient
Focusing on a holy vent
A way for you to pay the rent

Throws of fibre stretched along
Limits reached to flames belong
Lashes of flame erupt in song
Engulf a culture to which I belong

Technical faults of systems deplored
Deficiencies rampaging through all floors
Mind stuck on the holy ghost
Undercooking the holy roast
Blinds drawn to an eclipsing moon
Lunar fragrance blossoming soon
Skies collapse into our arms
We’ll hold them up and give them alms

Armageddon.

When the earth stops spinning may chaos ensue,
May the oceans be flooded or the skies fall askew,
May its axis be halted by red, black, or even blue,
Might buildings be levelled and Mankind levelled,
Might nature decay to an inhuman revel,
Might it be doused,
Might it be burnt,
Might it be scorned,
Might it be ignored,
Might man end this world with a reeling scythe,
And let all who end it end with an unrevealing sigh.

Beauty.

A bright light overwhelms your soul
Acting not as a burden but alleviating you whole
This glow caresses and compounds your heart
Forcing forward an unbounded and entire start
A fluidity of colours vividly exposed
That plurality of brightness supporting your role
Your role of mutuality asserted with content
A position favourable and agreeably proficient
A proficiency not desired but achieved without regard
An excess of wish, hope, charity, kindness
Paralleled to an equally amiable facade.

Dethroned from Beauty.

Dethroned from beauty’s pedestal she fell without a sound
Grounded by a spirit’s breeze she made her way back down
The gates creaking open and collapsing into an abyss
Disappeared as she stormed through their golden bliss
An echo of injustice ravaged the skies as she descended
So rarely did she fall amiss,
But now the moment has arisen she stoops to no new level
Her pedestal intricate and ridden with jewels it was itself then levelled
The shallow pit into which she plummeted presented no refrain
It grabbed her arms, her legs, the rest, and swallowed her
With no resentful sign of a feign,
Continuing to fall there seemed no halt,
She settled for this with calm,
Her visage restful, peaceful, bright,
Of no cares did she show sign,
Just then as she peered below her smile became a mess,
It was then she saw what was to behold her and this she did detest,
Not what she expected or had ever seen before but something more askew,
A flame ridden pit of diabolical torment,
From hell did it spew.

Dis-Repetition.

The whole art is unrepresentative,
Drowned in its own filth and disrespect,
Bam! It strikes you. You fall. You cry.
Your life is no longer as you thought.
Now it’s all just dust in your eyes!
Your sight now clouded by a veil of dirt,
You no longer envision what you want
but what you deserve, Deserve ,
That word that drives you to work,
Urges you on to write another word,
A phrase, a paragraph, regurgitate what you’ve already heard!

Ecstatic Dreamer.

Calling from the clouds above
I hear your subtle voice rain
Down on me with all intent
Pushing past all that we resent

The truth is that this will always stay the same
A feeling lacking remorse but instilled with reason
Invoked by faith in the courage I find in myself
Supposing all that this has ever been was faked
Would be a decision that you would have to make
Independent of mine and evading that cool breeze
On which deceit nestles its feign-hearted head

That sensation of condensing water
Sobering up in its cloudy home
Jumps and shoots so frantically
Awakened by a sense of neglect
It sees you on the ground below
And aims self-righteously toward your head

Dropping, falling, cascading down
A flurry of expressions furrows your frown
Soothing your stressed and upset demeanour
Replacing it with one of shock, you ecstatic dreamer
Wishing and hoping that one day it will come
To being, that sense of factual integrity to which you cling

So desperately but unknowing of whether anything really exists
And unsure of every situation you might find amiss
For all those moments you’ve felt real
Illicit experience of surreal reality ensue
And follow so closely behind everything that you thought you knew
Supporting your frail being with every ounce of vigour

Is this what you choose to believe?
Are these the values you wish to uphold?

Emotional Warzone.

Make me one of your filthy memories
Make it sound like I’m a wanker and should have my eyes poked out
Wondering if you’re still thinking, sad thoughts,
Probably not, as you saw what we had as a pointless game
Sincerely hoping, praying, wishing that
Someday you’ll be able to recover, you’ll have to play this game again

You’ll never truly understand that you have to sometimes submit
Life isn’t always about winning, sometimes you have to accept defeat
Not that it’s a loss, but from this point I don’t see it a gain
Your victory is held inside you, in your mind, in mine,
It’s not for someone else to judge, but never refrain

Never stop thinking how you want to think
Keep everything you want to yourself
Someone might tell you that what you’re doing is wrong
But who’s to tell you what wrong is

I can’t help but notice that your mind is a warzone
It’s a place that whenever I try to get in I’m always hit
Struck down, beaten up, thrown out, rejected
But I still never accept defeat

I don’t want to lose; I don’t want you to win
It’s a hypothetical paradox you seem to handle with a nuance of a grin
There’s no chance in this world to agree
So we’re never going to agree to disagree
That all you’ve ever wanted was not to be with me

There’s nothing I can do to stop it
It still makes my very existence feel like shit
These feelings will never cease to fight
Against myself they barricade themselves in

I can be a hopeful man and continue to wait and see
Patience has been known to pain
Destroy peoples’ will and remove all chance of release
Take away any pride I once had, but is this only greed?

Head Start.

Today I refused to hold your hand
On grounds that if I did I’d never be able to again
Pushing the hair away from your face
Made me think twice about dropping out of this race
A half-intended silence on the depths of the tube
Maybe it was my lack of speaking that got me screwed
Frankly I miss you and I do not care
What missing you may instigate when I’m not there
I’ve told you before that these feelings are true
Anything I’ve ever said or done, implied through action to you
Was meaningful, emotional, and full of intent
Whatever happens know that now I love you
And probably always will in the locked doors of my heart
Because in my mind this feeling should never die
It should be given a head start.

Measure and Measure.

A mind contented with endearing defeat
Victory perturbing belonging at his feet
Sensitive and emotional his mind is a mess
Insecure and beleaguered subjected to confess
Confess to a crime uncommitted to his behest
Undermined and unjustly punished to it he must profess
Torn apart by security, measures alert
His presence alerted to all those measured
And all who were measured were all but alert
For measurement and measure by mankind developed
And mankind a concept developed by measure alert.

See the Unseen.

Confusion gets the best of me most times I see you
Because when you’re around my mind goes blank
Not in a way that conversation is empty or boring
But in a way that the complicated becomes simple
Aside from the obvious complications surrounding ‘us’
Most thoughts run away from my mind
Especially earlier today
When I looked at you I saw more than you wanted to show
I think you knew it but you wouldn’t tell
Because of how the simple can often become complex
And the complex, return to being simple,
Fate is a very intangible concern
Coincidental that the butterfly-decorated hair-bands burn
Intoxicatingly into your soul, and into mine the images
Recurring all day, all week, all month, all hurl
Me into some sort of emotional frenzy
One to which I frequently return
Not because I like it
Not because I want it
But because emotions are not just a state of mind
They burn like a brand upon your soul
And into mine they dig this eternal hole
Whole depictions of what could be,
What should be, what will be, what has been;
And the fact that your eyes can often see the unseen.

Sensing Serenity.

Sensing serenity at the gates of this world
You stumble and float away from hardship
Meander your pathway through censorship
Authorising a superior superiority complex
And then to give you a boost, your sail unfurled
You shoot right through those crooked branches
A mess, a broken story full of messages perplex
Your mind as you attempt to understand how they vex
But continuing and marching on baffled by the dying sun
The sensual ecstasy of life’s cruel intent forbidden
From marching on for a higher-up’s decision
Something that you do not have control of
A baffling divide between hope and success
Somewhere from which you cannot hope to digress
Or avoid for its sensible to confront what you cannot hope to have played
Rolling dice for your future the possibility of luck
Wishing and scrounging and screaming and scrapping
In that muddy pit of regret you realise your failure
One of musty dank greatness to which you used to aspire
Displaced by paranoia built upon your shoulders by society so dire
From the judgmental complex of the worldly powers
Screwing up the tight-twisted-tangled fate of those unknowing
Of what and to who their fate is bounded, and where
Their lives and those of others around them are headed
Back to that dank pit of regret from which they were created
Ethics and morals and all that we know is made from a book
Or a long lost tome from which were planted words, facts, and fiction
Alike they are all one as they threaten to overload
Minds already so compacted and defined by their load
Deemed by the continual ecstatic potential to explode

The past is so bleak and the future’s not much better
If only people could refine all they say and do to make it understood
Make phrases more simplistic, or less complex, or less spangled by artificial neglect
Like stars in the sky, so small relative to an expanse so vast
They haunt my mind with their bright and explosive rent
Upon which mankind derives life, many so badly spent
From something entitled as heaven we feel we are sent
And back there eventually is where we hope and pray and beg to return
But years of treachery to our altogether individualistic cause
Of selfish-selflessness and happy-unhappiness our souls erode
Like a river bed struck by over a million un-thoughtful stones
A rabble of rocks ravaging its pre-soiled sensibilities
And from which will finally flow, the death and dire ultimatum of Man
One which cannot yet and maybe never will be found.

Shallow Justice.

The days pass by without delay
Time rolls on, teeth, bones, body decay
Gradually veering away from the sun
Swaying aside bearing all but none
Right and wrong lose meaning
Leaving even the righteous seeming
Such an image devastating
Destabilising, disconcerning,
Perturbing the future of that race
Startling its combatants struggling at such a pace
Returning to the front line maintaining their ordered place
Warriors of a so called justice anxious of nothing
Undisturbed by the swollen face resultant from a previous roughing
The dial of his ticking watch hands fasten
Knuckles clench and forearm tighten
The body lies battered, beaten but blessed
A devout follower and disciple of a defeated race behest.

Sinking Ship.

Countless segments of truth flying at my face
Unknowing of anything but their ultimate fate
Beguiled by facades of equal impression
I’ve been drawn into this image through mental suppression
Something I’ve always wanted to be
A man I’ve never really seen myself as
An artificial construct composed by society
Potential crushed by surrounding forces, crass
Deriving delectation, drawing on distraught
I’m suffering under the yoke of a battle badly fought
Badly fought but still in the process of being won
Crucial victory in my mind not yet complete
In yours, your true feelings through your eyes shone
Hardly representational as being seen as discrete
I used to think that this war would end with me bowing at your feet
Composure regained and abhorration granted
I choose to refrain from such negative apathy, slanted
Assaults on this fortress of emotion falter,
One by one, by one, you fail to succeed
A glimpse of your long lost face tragically feeds
Such exponential decay in my core, off which bleeds
That sight of you strikes below the surface
Destroys whatever last sign of resistance my defences could greave
A shipwreck protests the ocean’s sandy floor
Denies the deep, dark, dank grave to which it has been assigned
Its structure curls, curtails so much more
For the resistance it sustains to the water’s cruel roar
The treasure inexistent, the crew depleted to one,
By one steered in to the sinking eternity
Traversing the deepest blue in anxiety
Just to catch another glimpse of life with you.

Stumbling Onward.

Sensing defeat he stumbles on,
Rearing its head above all shone,
Forcing through the thoughts in song,
Decisive and desperate to him belong,
Soliloquy precise and monologue toned,
Onwards and upwards and sideward he droned,
Beleaguered and fatigued and constant he moaned,
Destructive but fallen he increases his stride,
Realising he is lost in all but his pride,
He continues in strength but unable to derive,
Anything from his argument that is all but subscribed.

The Devil's Ace.

Diminishing to darkness, fading to a respectful drift,
The light gradually passes, becoming ever more swift,
Calm unknowingly taints you, intriguing one to call,
The bluff is all I know and more, the urge to call once more,
The game is nearly over, the hands are shooting fast,
My mind is all but calling, for a shift before paying a price,
Cards slide onwards on and on, their onslaught fails to cease,
Faulted aspect of an eye’s twitch, decisive nature confronted,
Plain and basic movement noticed, blunt reaction stunted,
Mind decides to call a move, realising that the mind doesn’t want to,
Hypocrisy runs rampant inside, as a raring flagrant strumpet strides,
Nonchalant whispers of greed subside, an eruption of intensity foretold,
Merry, mischief, and martyr be, as a hand commits you, too bold,
Strings of the devil’s aces bewilder true thought, distorted, so resort,
To un-denying measure, to un-denying thought, to un-denying pleasure,
The game ascends to build more rapport, a nexus of truth descends,
Some play to win, others, for fun, I, for lust and through demure,
A mind of crazed affection, mental self-flagellation strung in consort,
It goes on, and on, and on, and on!

Undesired Dream.

Looking down a one way path before you, you can see it all so very clearly
This path is so convalescent, my eyes can hardly sustain me
Learning of your past struggles, like a tiger in a city, you’re so bold, but terrified
Now I’ll run out into the field, where that battle was in the past revealed
Your face tells a million tales, like a love letter sent from heaven
The ground on which you used to reside, is coated in rose feigned cyanide

Now I’ve come to see another soul trapped in the gaps of your imagination,
Acquiescently obedient and waiting for its further call,
To fill in another untapped role awaiting it so fervently,
It’s never without parole from this mission, this undesired dream.

You are One.

You are one, you are so care free
Any situation, you can handle easily
Life’s an adventure, a fun game awaiting you
Now’s the time for you to turn two
It all becomes slightly bleaker
You learn how to cry, laugh, sing,
Swim through a sea of emotions
Manipulate any others at your whim
Now you come to a fine divide
Where you can’t really decide how to live or die
Do you make the most of it, or let it run away
That is the question on your mind today

You Stare Politely.

You stare politely towards my face
Glistening brightly never fallen from grace
Impermeable by mankind’s true touch
There shouldn’t be anything that could your mind corrupt
That’s the problem with this place
This world is nothing more than taken for face
Value, valued on solely what it is seen as now
And not what it could be, or what it has been before

It’s true that there’s nothing one man or woman can do
I guess we all have to feel obliged to take a personal view
There’s very little chance that we can make this world better
But if we all focus hard it’s easy to release everyone from fetters
Remove all the vices of mankind that have become a part of society
Dig deep to displace them from the bottom, up without fretting
There isn’t really an alternative route worthwhile taking
You have to take to the streets and make everyone take note
That the only way to succeed nowadays is not to be weak

Take an impassioned view on life
Suppose that everyone else isn’t too bad
But use this to your advantage and make a stand
Up for your morals, keeping each and every person in mind

A Golden Petal.

A golden petal floating in a sprightly breeze
Driven so forcefully with intent to seize
Your eyes erupt in flames of affluence
Furrowing my response for a lack of presence
Lips exquisite, enticing, exciting,
Forcing submission to my knees
Beyond your outer splendour
Lies a core so delightful and whole
That there’s no one in the world
With whom I would rather share my soul.

A Blanket of Darkness.

A blanket of darkness covers you
Sensually seeping in
Becoming one with your core
Emotionally inhibiting

This is a subtle suggestion
You feel yourself sliding in
It’s all around you make no mistake of it
I’ll oblige your each and every sin

Overhanging branches
Swaying cooly in front of your eyes
That smell of burning holly
Pops your senses every whim

Darkness fading to light
Light disappearing in a fine glow
Substantially seeking all you’ve ever lost
Contrasted with the beauty of your happiness 

 - Top of Page - 

St. Mawes.

After a long train ride from London
We finally made it to St. Mawes.
Our hotel was an old yacht club
Now known as the Tresanton.

Supposedly Charles and Di stayed in our room.
A cozy fire burned in the lobby
Which protected us from winter's gloom
My wife liked to watch the people, as if it were a hobby.

The pub was a great place for a spot of lunch
And a warm pint of ale
We met a retired couple from Tourquay
Who lived in a seaside hotel.

The waves from the ocean crashed over the sea wall
Onto the narrow road that ran along the property.
There were ruins of old castles and all
And a yacht once owned by Mussolini.

Crail.

We drove through St. Andrew's
On the way to Anstruther
But decided to check out the wee harbor
In the seaside village of Crail.

We were told the style here was Dutch
But not really sure what that meant.
An older couple walked up to greet us
With the cutest little blonde cocker spaniel.

The birds flew all about this royal burgh
And landed where ever they could find
Some scraps of food to eat and hide.
Cars and trucks were parked along the sea wall.

The houses that faced the harbor could have been built for dolls
There were a few fishing vessels lined up along the wall
Ready to go out to the chilly North Sea
To make the next big catch of the day.

Santa Barbara Sojurn.

It was autumn so it was cool in the evening.
Our plane landed at the little airport there
And we drove past the college on the beach
Eventually making it to town without a scare.

At the Oceana we stayed in a comfortable suite.
In the morning I had a massage by a woman from Scotland
And then ate pancakes and bacon at Sambo's
Which was a real treat.

After a seafood dinner at Brophy's on the pier
We walked past the stucco white buildings in town
And saw a band and drank some beer.
My dancing was me just playing the clown.

The next day we toured a vineyard nearby
Which produced a drinkable Pinot.
So we bought more bottles to bring back home
To drink with my good friend named Gino.

Shell Beach.

We took a trip all the way out west
To forget the past events in the east.
It was a driving trip along the coast
That included a vineyard or two and some toasts.

At Shell Beach we stayed as we needed a rest.
Where the accommodations were modest
But the view of the ocean was priceless
And the seafood we dined on was some of the best.

Up the old Highway One we drove kinda slow
Past several cattle ranches and lots of open space
To the Apple Farm in San Luis Obispo
Where we ate steak at the Madonna Inn after saying grace.

Then on to the Hearst Castle in San Simeon
Eventually to Big Sur we made our way
Past Carmel-by-the-Sea we finally motored on
To the seaside mecca known as Monterey.

 - Top of Page -

Freefalling.

The light that shines so bright
casts a darker shadow.


It’s like the exciting mundanity of a hot day,
senses overwhelmed by season flowers
and barbecues.
It’s like the smart of cutting lemons
with a papercut.
It’s like the uncertainty of cooking a new dish
with new ingredients
not knowing whether it’ll work.
It’s like a tequila shot.
Blisters stings burns;
soothed with salt and lemon.
It’s like walking along a beach
and knowing you’ll always
have sand in your shoes.
It’s like running
for ever not stopping in no particular direction because you forgot to
check a map.
It’s like falling
but knowing you can fly
but knowing you may choose not to…

Surprised but Willing.

As I press his lips against mine
(surprised but willing)
I briefly think of you.
Away
where you wouldn’t invite me
somewhere you couldn’t share.
For a moment,
your blue eyes stare from his brown ones.
Your caring kiss replaces his rough embraces.
Then I slip away from you
like the shirt he’s torn from me.


In a moment, he will ask me about you:
Am I sure?
but I’ll yank you from my mind
like the belt I’ve ripped off him.
A little later, I’ll scream
and drown you from my mind.

The Vengeance Plums.

This is just to say
That I stole your plums
That you were saving
For breakfast maybe.
The reason you ask?
Last night, 4 am,
I was awakened
By your chanting of
Merry fresher tunes;
The sound of Snake Bite
Hanging in the air.
If it reoccurs,
I’ll steal all your fucking apples too.

Tread Upon Me Softly.

Remembering your high in bed amidst the leaves,
(it will never repeat)
Dare I define what can’t be described?
Loving you
like the mundanity of Christmas sherry.
like the funny way the inside of my skin is honest.
like an albatross at Twilight that haunts my eyes, my mind, my thoughts.
Hating you
like rap music sparrows
(boom boom tweet tweet mama!).
like worms
in cheese muffins
in a clean ironed shirt.
like cakes left in the rain
like water (tears) and blood in my lungs
Loving you when I let you think you’re right.
(cute as a button; not so bright)
and letting you hate me,
spread beneath your feet ;
tread softly.

 - Top of Page - 

On the Waterfront near Floriana

What is faraway and half-forgotten is still near.

How beautiful the limestone cathedrals,
air shattering into a mist of bells.

Stone-cutters and masons tailoring tender chert,
soft and workable as a mother's heart,
sky so blue.

Blossoming in stone of angels and saints,
a nymph holding a jug, pouring water,
fragrance of celebrated roses.

Platoons of priests in broad-brimmed beaver skimmers,
pigeons wheeling at feet of women floating past,
shy and buxom in black silk faldettas,

fantasy rigs,
that speed them along like dark sails in a stiff breeze.
Their proud noses, luminous eyes.

How mild breezes wafting in from North Africa
that blow through a cloudless day, small whitecaps
scudding across Grand Harbour.

Bumboats selling soda and fruit bob fitfully
by bow of your destroyer, USS Blue.
Flocks of sea birds fly overhead.

Try to remember what no longer you want to remember.

Inside Church of St. Paul's Shipwreck,
a handful of crones kneel scattered in worn pews,
heads bent, quietly murmuring in concentrated prayer,

[stanza break]

bared brows like markings of crows, shielding cheeks
with cupped hands, withered and yellow.

Try to see what you fear to see, said the priest.

Te Deum not sung but shouted in exultation, surrender
of Communion, body of a woman slipping past,

kerchief pinned to wild hair, seams of her stockings
flickering up aisle of intricate mosaic marble slabs.

Something pressing in arch of her voice.
Once.

Beneath a fig tree old as Adam that towered
over a garden wall, leaves purple-brown
against a tangerine sky,

her clipped British tones,
and gazing across incredibly clear water
to bottleneck mouth of the harbor,

wondering of love and death,
as she recited her history as if saying the rosary,

and in flow of words and single impulse
of breath she gave each syllable
felt feeling as if for first time.

Conceits woven to disguise and protect detach
as neatly as a slip knot.

Dark inside her room--nothing expected,
off cobblestone alley, around the corner
from an oozing urinal:

image of the Virgin, hands crossed chastely
over Her breast, lit by veiled light
that fell to a worn prie-dieu;

chest-of-drawers, graced by lace, rosary beads
dangling from mirror's ornamental frame,

[stanza break]

red glow of votive candles giving off
what little light in the room.

As if detached from the wall, a crucifix
hovering above headboard of a three-quarter bed,
yellowed palm nestled behind inscription scroll.

Bed floated in fragrant air, incense drifting
down dim walls, pillows like two clouds
against blue of comforter.

You did not think of a lost story with her face
half in shadow and clunk of boots like music
in the silence

as she glided around trunk at foot of the bed,
where a book lay, leaves spread. The Story of a Soul.

A little flower.

What expectation of plenty did you expect?

How misty the day weeks later--big waves splashing
against seawall steps, crystals forming and sliding
and settling on glazed iron bollards,

in gray gulls' feathers as she approached,
in faldetta hood and cape, eyelashes glittering
like iridescent karozzini bridle peacock feathers

worn to ward off the Evil Eye,
and said with playful, sparkling gush of a fountain,
or quick brightness of a fairy giving an epithalamium,

that you'd be a father with watery moon and midsummer
fires that fill festive air in Castile Square.

Did you see what you were afraid to see
or do anything you were afraid to do
in very womb of Mediterranean?

[stanza break]

Never forgot stars of her beautiful teeth.
Never forgot hands, way they lingered,

like fingers of a pianist's barely brushing keys,
how they plunged you into dimension of desire
divined only in dreams,

smell and feel of her skin going in to get
the child out.

What happens to time if it goes on forever?

In shadows of tablet-shaped tombstones that tumbled
in various tilts down a treeless plot
to an old clock tower

rising above low-lying tummock where you once stood,
she would have stood.

Stillborn means still born, out of neverness,
nevertheless, yet timeless in small place
a child abides in the earth.

You never forget a woman in a rage.

Stonecutter engraving tender gravestone,
air shattering into a mist of bells.

A nymph holding a jug, weeping.
Damp roses beneath fronds disconsolate with dew.

Would have held her
and gazed at clock tower that recorded
not only hour but day, month, year, century

so time did appear timeless.
Soft and weatherbeaten face of St. Anne.

Priest with broad-rimmed skimmer in hand, saying,
"In strange situations and new places
or with unfamiliar people and surroundings,

God remembers where we are.
'Even darkness is not dark to you.'"

[stanza break]

Never forgot how she squatted on all fours
and lowed till vocal cords turned blue in ecstasy,

and once
forsaken scream of an innocent child in anger.

Fruitless predicament too painful to remember,
temporal attraction. . . .

How clear the crisp nights of November
sleeping entwined till first light,
abandon she wielded, intimacy unfelt till then,

she said, while your destroyer
was anchored in Grand Harbour, ready to depart,

and lightly, as lightly as her steps up
aisle of marble, as a boat bobbing in calm water,

she got on top, wet halves pitched,
and began to shift and sway.

She fell into an even and balanced rhythm.
It was rhythm of the sea.
It was just like gentle rocking of a ship at sea.

She pitched and rolled, motion of her body
growing turbulent.

She sighed and groaned,
moan of a ship turning into a hard wind.

She lurched and shuddered
as storm-tossed ship on the ocean.

Her breasts thrust forward, filmed with sweat,
milky slip loosely foaming above her scabbard,
torso a figurehead rising from sea

with a claw-footed look; her complexion
was just like such a figure above hull
of an ancient brine-beaten galleon.

[stanza break]

What the sea does to us does not change.

Cold were crystals forming and sliding and settling
in feathers of sea birds and her eyelashes,

counting back days to one of those nights,
new moon in December coming and going
without usual cramps and compunction.

All that month she kept curtains open,
bottles uncorked, drawers unlocked--hair untwined--
and worried that knotted shoestrings,

or stopper for eye of her needle,
twisted sheets she wakened with, and all
the hitches you knew to bind or lift things,

might somehow prevent, or hinder,
long-awaited delivery of firstborn.

So mild and carefree winds from Africa
with white birds wheeling and bumboats bobbing,

how blue Grand Harbour to bottleneck mouth,
how blue the sky, how red cloud-frightened roses;

but never thought
as she faced that summer alone

of looped umbilical cord that tightened
like an ungodly noose around the child's neck.

You never forget what you could not see,
legs open as a compass and milk-curdling scream
of a woman in torment.

You never forget where you could not be.

 - Top of Page - 

The Tight Rope Walkers. 

They stepped out gently, letting the rope sway but
lightly
without speaking.
He, sure-footed, took her hand to steady;
she watched each searching step,
but smiled down at the line
and knew it would not last forever.

Step followed step,
hands parted and met again,
and one spring evening the rope gave
and they plunged to the other side,
hand in hand.

Drawn In.

Half-hearing only,
cadence more than words:
the calm of reasoning, the shout of protest,
the tension and release of discovery.
Seeing gestures from the corner of my eye.

I’m used to it now:
conversations set in worlds beyond my knowledge
(and half-beyond theirs),
worlds written in theorems and equations.
What I know is the tone, the way of speaking,
the positions they play.
They draw me in, remember I am here,
but I smile and they are off again,
as I learn from these half-heard conversations.

 - Top of Page - 

The Jazz station is playing Chet Baker
something recorded near the end of his life
he sounded like chocolate
if chocolate
was ravaged by heroin
and time.

In Europe, Jazz is revered
crowds jam darkened doorways
and tiny tables lit by unscented candles
at clubs like Ronnie Scott's
or The Vortex
which could also be a metaphor for all of this.

The shoulder cracks under the weight
I stop for a moment to consider the red sky
and why they jump from buildings
Baker, McCorkle....
they wore their scars
softly, I think

like rain.

 - Top of Page - 

Ghosts Below the Blue

DAMAGED GOODS 

I can feel the haunting of you seep deeply into my pores

Sense the very presence of you, in my dreams

My nostrils reek with the smells of urine and vomit

I begin to gag from the stench

In the very by product of that

Which you would rub my nose in

When I was but a small child

You will teach me not to wet the bed

Hold the bile in and do not run

Better not miss the porcelain bowl

Never the porcelain doll

So many high standards

I die this failure of life

A creation not worthy to be spit upon

Damaged goods

No return address, sender up in smoke

Gloriously fading with each passing sunset

Hate the creation  …Not the creator

Hate the product  ...Despise the child

Break me, scorn me, abuse me

I feel your blame and…

I hate me too!