Thisisme's Poetry

October Frost

2009-03-12T11:39:00.000-07:00

No snowflakes fell upon the ground
They still engulfed the sky,
And skirt the mountains all around
With onyx-coated dye

That clothed the wisping trails of Mist,
That clung the sleeping grass;
With gentle, threading lines, her fist
Crept to the cottage glass.

She glanced within to see the boy
Asleep by fire’s blaze,
Surrounded with his every toy,
And dreams of summer days.

And then, so jealous, did She deign
A pattern with her hands
That snaked its way along the pane
As firm as marching bands;

So when the boy did rise awake
With wriggling of his toes,
He saw the outdoors as a lake
That, while he slept, had froze

And that the Sun begun to bake
The moment that He rose.

I Long for Misplaced Childhood

2008-09-09T12:24:00.000-07:00

I long for misplaced childhood!
When I was just as green
As the green, green earth on which I stood,
My senses just as keen

As the little fox I had chased
Across the shaded glen;
Before my mind was made abased
Under the stare of men.

Before my heart!—my little heart
(My dear! He sailed before)
Played the scoundrel, pirate’s part,
On sea and on the shore.

I yearn for every sunset that
For hours I would watch;
And as I gazed, and as I sat
My soul was void of blotch

That has me stunted well with age,
The yellow carousels
Have molded brown, and the page
Rings no more wedding bells.

And every field of Dragonsnap
I’ve wandered in has gone;
I feel a tree that’s lost its sap,
(And withering is long.)

And all I do is faint recall
The glory of my years,
While reminiscing of it all
My eyes could turn to tears

For all of these are memories
And surely they won’t last;
For all these, but memories—
And memory’s fading fast.

To Destroy Poetry

2008-05-27T07:10:00.001-07:00

You can stuff it with images
Articulately honed,
That are nothing but mirages,
A mirror that’s been cloned.

Or Emo’s you’ll collaborate
To write with them of pain,
And in their tears you’ll masturbate
A weeping with the rain.

Or, you can stand on syllable
And measure every beat;
But then the rhyme is irritable
And only bloody feet.

Or, you could choose a mark, or theme,
That at its best is terse;
And use that tense to mark your dream
Of second-scribble verse.

Or, you could be a bland satire
Of all the poets blessed,
And think your worst is all their peer—
To hell with all the rest!

Or, you could tell us how to write
What’s only meant to mean,
Forgetting beauty—though in spite
Of all its blessed to been.

Or, you could limit poetry
To single, stringent form;
Forgetting then that all beauty
Was made before your born.

Yet, more than this, the maul of verse
(Whereby its truly dead)
Is surrender it to the curse
Of the: “Its all been said.”

Astronaut

2008-04-05T14:04:00.000-07:00

I saw it in the paper
Pasted on front page Wall Street,
It said that you’re all grown up
And are flying to the moon;
And I can’t help but wonder
If you’ll see me far up there.

Darling, I remember you:
We used to share our classes;
I would beg for detention
Just so I’d sit next to you.
I’d bring buttercups with me
Since you hated cement walls.

I hid you from your Daddy
When he was upset at you;
We fell asleep at my place
On the scratchy, basement couch,
The pounding rain on the glass
Sung us both softly asleep.

But friends part, and life goes on,
Your dreams were always ether;
So, up there, above the world
Is living any better?
How is life inside the stars
That never could contain you?

When you get there tell me if
There is a God, and whether
He’s got the world in his hands;
Kiss Him for the both of us,
And tell Him that I miss you
Much more then He’ll ever know.

Sign our names on every rock
Reaching from the moon to Mars,
Dance naked over Venus
No one there will stare at you.
You know that I would join you
If I only learned to fly.

Sneak behind Orion’s belt,
And snatch it while he’s sleeping—
I’ll be looking every night
To see if I can spot it—
And won’t that be a sight
To confuse the scientists.

And, when in orbit sometime,
Look at the bilberry world
Maybe then you will see me,
I’ll be waving back at you.
Before I drift off to sleep
To meet you among the stars.

The Writers Bewilderment

2008-03-06T07:27:00.000-08:00

Evict your spotless tinctures from
My empty, calloused, head,
For all my life I’ve dwelt among
The living and the dead.

All my life has not exceeded
My superfluous verse;
Half my rhymes have superseded
Their ingenuous curse.

A Chilion encased my mind
With chains that held astute,
My inner eye was left for blind
Auspicious voice a-mute;

And beetles crawling on the ground,
Lost in their symphonies;
Were boon companions that I found
To share my infamies.

I crept with them, I learned that chains
Were fastened to the ground
And couldn’t keep my thoughts, in planes,
From wandering around.

And so I soared from seas of night
And floated on the moon,
I met a girl of grand delight
And made her swan to swoon.

I thought of oceans, and of mars,
And drank a sea of ships;
I thought of thoughts that broke my bars
Like round potato chips.

Then, broken free, and hand in hand
We danced unto the end;
And made our home as well on sand
As every river-bend.

We slept in sheets of saffron silk
And ate the golden sun.
To every foot of ink we spilt
One thousand more we’d run.

Yes there, in white, did we alone
Lay down our heads to die;
Our liver, lungs, and grizzled bones
Were said at once to scry.

And in our bile we emerged—
The prophets of our doom—
To lift our pens and ink a splurge
Of writings in the room.

For only then, when one is dead
Does one speak of what needs be said.

Epiphany of the Creative Morgue

2008-01-27T14:57:00.000-08:00

Empty out my cauldron mind
And label it: “Infinity”
Spread me like an orange rind—
The herald of precocity.

I’ve drunk bile in my bones
At the grandest of delusions,
And reached alto in the Thrones
To clamber up confusions.

Down the river-barge I gait
To the questioning of Silence,
(A brief affair fall to spate
Volcanic nodes of violence.)

My fetus heart gone flaccid
At this chilling lack—emotions,
Has placed my soul a-placid
With each dizzying of notions.

To douse my head, and wipe my pen;
To write—to think!—of better men.

Befuddlement!—my Muse

2008-01-27T14:56:00.000-08:00

Follow me, unwieldy dreams!—
O’er unconscious ink,
Through Flanders Fields, each lined in reams,
To pivot on a brink.

My harp of gold Adonis hair
Has only left me mute;
My thoughts placed out in travels bare,
A scry that’s failed acute.

I’ve watched your holes—yes, pits agape
Were windows to my soul,
That poured upon, in every shape,
A lost, unseemly role.

Yet dry I’ve been in all of this:
The pouring and the draught.
An aimless mind has burned amiss
In every ingle spot.

To ply its trade with pigeonholes
Where ruined children play,
(Deploring practice in the night
Embracement in the day.)

All of our ruined Muse polis
Deluge upon debris
Of shipwrecked minds, in their solace
Were once sought out by me;

To stake a claim upon their earth,
Suspending my creative birth.

Words to Love on Her Apparent Nature

2008-01-08T06:44:00.000-08:00

And enchantment in your blisses
Stupors understanding,
While chills from wildernesses
Doles out a second-handing—
Narcotic to indolent minds,
Who care for this crash landing.

This is love!—or so they speak
Of treachery and flame.
Wrapped in gauze, their souls will seek
To do it once again;
Apothegm to all mankind
Of contradiction, plain.

Reflections While Waiting in the Snow

2007-12-28T11:05:00.000-08:00

Outside, the night is bitter dark
And all about, the snow
Glints on lamps as if some spark
Could cause in them a glow.

Yes, tis tonight by lamppost thin
On snowy Christmas Eve
That I have waited, long has been
My dewy mind deceived.

To celebrate the death of years
Hang tinsel on the tree;
If I were one, dressed all in spheres
I wonder which I’d be.

And what have I, this year gone by
Complete that I’ve commit?
A spotless mind has spun awry,
Emotions hacked a fit.

And footprints in the sand I’ve seen
Have only been my own,
The things in life I’ve always been
I’ve always been alone.

Then what I’ve gathered in the smoke
Of love’s worthless battle
Has kissed my heart till I could choke,
My very spirit throttle.

What have I gained, if not to find
That life continues on,
And what’s contained within the mind
Is never truly gone?

Yet still, by flagpoles in the dark
I stand, and still await my spark.

Journeys of the Writer

2007-11-18T19:28:00.002-08:00

You said it had been over
Before you entered here
And so you turned and strolled away—
Your mind a Cheshire Cat.
And it could have been several days ago
Had it not been memories.

So I turned another head,
Another hinge on my bed,
And traded the spice of cinnamon
For a luscious smack of thyme;
I watched the sky of Robin eggs
Slumber in a grain of sand.

Yet, time wearies spectators
So I picked up my blue fountain pen
And wrote of the goose from which it came—
A little grey thing
That swam in the lake every morning.

Ah me! The books I have read
The knowledge ingested
While I have consulted the blazing sun
Coated in his sugar-sweat—
The ancient tomes of ancient dust
That crumbled at the slightest touch.

I’ve splashed my share of ink and pen
On a thin papyrus crust
And dreamt of Egypt—Isis eyes!
The noseless Sphinx, the Phoenix skies,
And the vocal barge of baritones
Floating down the binge of tombs.

Little flakes of snow, pristine,
Melted round my thermos toes;
A little tincture of frozen pools,
The dozen lessons of sadist schools.

There were fogs that I wrote of too
All chocked up in little bottles,
And sprinkled over the twilight skies
Above the Northern Sea.
The Spermaceti danced for me
With rolling fats for fins—
Wretched, wretched limbs!

And so I did seek counsel of self
Within my endless volumes,
And all the little papers filled with blots
That lay strewn all around me:
Notes of how I’ve lived, and slept
Beneath an endless field of stars
And my soul found its purity
By lines scribbled into the moon,
A dash of lovers dreams.

The pictures formed into my mind
And sculpted their numbers there—
Yet I still remember Alice
Before she came to Wonderland

And I’m sure I would have followed her too
Had it not been a memory.

Dreams of the Broken Churchyard

2007-11-18T19:28:00.001-08:00

There was a churchyard by the dell—
An awful, dreaded spot
That stands in shadow by the hill,
Whose barren roots have rot.

The church is old and moldering
With spires void of spine;
And bats in belfries loitering,
Asleep by tolless time;

And in the walls inscribed a skull
With tapers underneath,
That spoke of monks in drunken lull
By Word of Sword unsheathed.

How, lost they were in witchcraft rites
Amongst the swirling mist
That transfixed every Arab Night
One thousand one, to list.

Obsessive drinking of the blood
Of flaming infidel
Brought with its draught a thought that would
Assign its deathly knell.

Whereby these thoughts I thought had passed
And, sitting down to think,
The vision ere did end at last
And fell far down the brink.

And I awoke, by belfry call,
To find it was not dream at all.

Enchanteresse d'accordéon

2007-11-18T19:26:00.000-08:00

Sleeping under the moonlit skies
Your mesmerizing melodies
Belly-danced with every star
That spanned the space below us;
And people rose like smoke from there,
The massed multitudes were searching
For our dark, secluded, cove.

Yet I cared not, and you still played
Alabaster accordions—
Their tunes were tearing straight through
The hazes of hash and incense,
And their melody hypnotized
An Albatross to carry us
Off to the Caspian Sea.

Thoughts of the Debauched Drunkard

2007-08-22T08:28:00.001-07:00

I’ve often watched with lustful eye
A midget in her steady stroll,
Each step she took her fat she shook—
Her anus like a battlefield,
Pock-marks plenty her floral wreath—
A crown for my quaint Lolita.

And I’ve sat and starred for hours
At the blurring graffiti walls;
Wondering but what they could mean,
And why they stared back out at me.
Then, resolute, I turn to piss,
Adding my name to match the rest.

I’ve seen the sights of brothels filled
With the whores, both Rich and Red;
And stumbling towards them asked but
That I’d taste each their lemonades,
And have them cast me out again,
A vagabond for vulgar kings.

I’ve noticed then, when hells mouth is
Opened wide so angels enter,
And choosing the choicest captives
Bed them with a vigor unknown
To all that live upon this earth,
To wash their sins away from them.

Then, seeing this, I’ve turned away
My stomach churned to charity
(When chance I find a drinking well
To empty myself inside of
I’ll walk no more and, falling down,
Will find the street a welcome bed.)

That feels warm though I quake inside,
My dreams an equal hellish ride.

The Little Town Where I was Born

2007-07-30T11:40:00.000-07:00

I’ve loved this land since from my birth;
Its vernal greens, and grassy turf,
And oaks that spread their lingering shade
Over the slumbering virgin maid—
Her dreams of yellow carousels
Dance nimbly, lightly, to the bells
Of village church in valley deep
Twixt hills so wide and cliffs so steep
Lies quiet, sleepy in its mood;
Like owls with their youngling brood.

The little wall retains the gap
Where, as a boy, I used to nap
Within a ditch, where marigolds
Did bloom their flowers sevenfold
(During the summer days so warm
Their blossoms seemed a field of corn.)
Upon this wall is laid a vine
Of both the thick and creeping kind,
Which stretches forth with subtle limb
Towards the oaken groves at whim;
Straight through the ditch, and up the hill
It creepeth slow—but creepeth still!
Until, with time, it reaches those
Luckless limbs, with which it clothes
Those hapless few on forests edge
With its strong Anaconda hedge.

Nearby here's the Vicars house—
A quiet man, much like the mouse;
Whose squinting eyes and smallish head
Suggest he’s that, not man instead.
Nearby this grove, his house resides—
And man is proved where he abides—
So, like unto his noble trade,
The Vicars house is Vicar made;
Of grey and moldering granite stone
Is both his fine and finite home:
Though seeming sad in outward way
Inside is found alive and gay.
A brightened tone of lighter hue
Touches all within ones view;
The rooms are large, the air is clean,
The larders full, and thirteen
Types of wine sit on the shelf
‘Round half of which he’s made himself.
(He like most working in that trade,
Drinks only wine and lemonade.)

Yet, not in here, but in chapel tall
Is where he’s found most of all;
Among the hymns and rosary
He stands astute, much like the tree
Stands firm in base, but leaves entwined
Do sway with every wind-fall chimed.
The incense thick—his usual breath—
So seems dull the air when he’s left
These hallowed coves, and amongst soil
Smells the sweat of daily toil.
Lost then is the fragrance of myrrh
And instead, with a hazy blur
Is mingled others in his nose;
While yet, there lingers on his clothes
The perfumed spice of cinnamon
Which could confuse a better man:
The stench of daily commonness
Mixed with holy fragrances.

The chapels large, and loud its hall
Resounds with Sabbath mass to call;
And then, its pews with people filled
So full their nearly over-spilled,
Its organs chime with worship song
Over—at least—an hour long.
Loud, while lingering and mellow
Crowds follow the organ bellow,
So clamorous they almost strive
To make the Gargoyles alive;
Their songs will echo in the deep
Until the shepherd shearing sheep—
Whom stands quite some miles away—
Will likewise hear the mass that day.

Then, after this, the people will
Leave off that high and steeple hill,
And following the riverside
Will walk that way till it turns wide
To form, at length, into a pool
Upon which shores there sits a school,
Whose study halls of knowledge throes
Is sneered by child’s wrinkled nose.
Study they won’t—no, to the park
They will commence until its dark;
With lollipops and youthful games
They will indulge, and call the names
Of stronger boys to grab and fling
The smaller ones into the spring.
And grownups sit all the while
Upon their quilts, with a smile
Formed on their face from ear to ear,
While they indulge in beef and beer.

Tomorrow markets open seams
Will become Joseph’s coat of dreams:
(With tarps of bold orange and blue
It dazzles from a bird’s eye view,)
While fruits and meats of all delight
Are sold throughout the day till night,
And all the smells of ancient spice
Could cause a miser to think twice.
Then, when the grocers work is done
He will return to greet his son
With wonder at how fast he’s grown,
And gladness that he now is home;
And, hearing tales of starlit skies
The child laughs with wondrous eyes.
Until he sleeps he’ll hear the tales
Of blacksmiths crafting copper nails,
How tailors—by magicians art—
Could sew their clothes while in the dark;
Then, by and by, with sleepy head
Will stomp upstairs to go to bed.

Yes, all these things I’ve ever knew
And now have shown from me to you,
Have I known since from my birth
Adoring each pastoral worth;
Each person here I’ve called my friend
And married each river-bend,
And every cloud within the sky
I’ve clambered in with playful eye,
Each fawn that now becomes a doe—
I’ve cared for them and watched them grow—
And the hedge that vastly overgrown
I’ve slumbered in and loved alone.

The Hills Beside the Bluffs

2007-07-04T13:43:00.000-07:00

There are some hills beside the bluffs
Where we once, as children, roamed;
Their grass of green stands vast apart
From golden fields that hugged their base—
While their long, laborious arms
Reached wide and, silent, drank the rain.

We once canopied among those clefts—
Don’t you recall, I surely do—
I held your hand while we both slept
Beneath a violent swirl of stars,
We sipped the mists that surrounded
The passion fruits of our delights.

Fireflies indulging poison
Swooned in stupors around us then,
As we both loved so brazenly
Beneath a jealous, bulging moon—
There: near at those hills beside the bluffs
Where we once, as children, roamed.

Abandon

2007-06-19T11:12:00.000-07:00

Each day I have waited for you
By barrels filled with empty sand—
The long pipes lying beside them
Are layered with dust by misuse,
While wires that hang overhead
Still squirm with waning energy.

Yes, here, amongst the rats at night
With their growls of putrid wrath,
Have I grown weary of lonely waits;
The hot rays of waning sunsets
Glanced my cheek, whereas my beard
Grew long to touch the twinkling stars.

The Five Sins of Cavalcade

2007-06-15T10:50:00.000-07:00

I saw you once, you smiled twice
And laughed three times again.
We walked by day and thought it night—
We didn’t know it then—

For all our talk, and all our play
Was only fun indeed,
We did not walk in our own way
But followed fourth in lead.

While rounding circle we would wind
Got lost in outer space,
And all the virtue we could find
Not ever could we face.

With amber cheeks and eyes of blue—
Could loose myself inside—
Contrasted lightly to the hue
Of stormy southern skies.

I smiled once, you laughed aloud,
But laughter not with lips,
They were with eyes that scanned the crowd
As long as lashing whips.

That held me hard, a grasp within
Your consciousness, the cinquain sin.

Vagabond Mother

2007-05-27T23:34:00.000-07:00

The nights of mist bite coldly through
The tattered shawls around her form,
While flakes of snow fall soft to greet
The shivering shadows of her tears.
An overpass does not shelter,
Nor does the lintel of a door;
Only thoughts of lost innocence
When she was young, with braided hair.

The child clings unto the teat
With eyes as wide as saucer-pans;
He sucks, yet finds not nourishment
To end his suckling, swaddle-cries.
So suck again—he’ll only try
In hopes that it will end the pangs,
While the void in his stomach grows
To match the pupils of his eyes.

“A dollar please, for formula”
Has now become her formal cry;
(Sometimes her hunger runs
More freely then her infant sons.)
There was a time, when she was young
That she drank not the dregs of fear;
Only cream from the frothy cup
Of the man-servants softened hands.

Yet, time does change, and bastard sons
Do end the innocence of youth.
So now—so frozen she could be
The breeding grounds of snow itself—
She gasps, and with fingers clasps
Her body closer to her sons.
In hopes that someone will pass by
And give the child life again.

The Village by the Sea

2007-05-01T23:15:00.000-07:00

The winters’ fog does sleep upon
A filmy, sunken sand
While mothers sons play anon
The solid, stony land;

A playful breeze tossed to the shore
With foam upon her heels—
Her salty sweat does sing of lore,
Of Angelfish, and eels.

And fishermen set sail within
The charming grasp of sea,
Their limbs, to water, as akin
As grass is unto me.

Where creeping turf and tundra grow
Clambering up the cliffs,
The whistling waves do beat below
With loud and violent fists;

The morning sings while whalers come
To gather bric-a-brac,
For, when the rising tide is done
They’ll go a-whaling back.

Their iron tubs a hollow gourd
(Hence their daily toil)
But, whence they’ve whaled—almighty Lord—
Lard be turned to oil!

The monstrous beast with foaming jaw
And terror in its eye,
Is ready prey by Natures law
To deal out death, or die.

Hark! The whale-ship with harpoon
Is ready now to strike,
And bets are made with bronze doubloon
As if the beast will fight;

Yes, fight it tries with ivory teeth
Yet steel does pierce its skin,
Until its breath is brought to cease
And flail its dorsal fin.

And, when their through, to dock they come
To taverns on the brink;
For, when the day is good and done
Forget all else and drink!

The stars reflect upon the shore—
A dazzling diamond haze—
Recalling thoughts of nights before
And thoughts of future days,

While lighthouse flares do part the mist,
For fishermen at night
Return to maidens they once kissed
To finish their delight.

Near docks and dunes recalled by me:
The little village by the sea.

Thought On Modern Poetry

2007-02-24T11:16:00.000-08:00

To create is humanly,
To inspire, divine;
Both found humorously
In all ancient rhyme.

Odd, by pen, that we then
Exault into the skies
What is now but by men
To bring our crafts demise!

Thy Words

2007-02-07T15:39:00.000-08:00

Thy words of exultation
Do rend in suffocation
The minions of a nation
That had encompassed me;

And harking, never slacking,
Their subtle whips were cracking—
While hateful, only lacking
The vice that’s born by thee.

They spoke their way to terror—
The nights enduring error
Brought me to be the bearer
Of salt and teary sea—

So now, though ships are sailing
And flaps of wind are flailing
Throughout the masts and railing
To whisper unto me,

No longer shall thy choices
(My hidden vice and voices)
Dare to chart the courses
That are set out by me.

For hell is made by motion,
Though lost within the ocean.

Writers Block

2007-01-29T17:28:00.000-08:00

My quill has dried up,
No words from my pen;
No jabbering rhymes
On emotions of men

Oh why won't this key
Turn in my brains lock?
Why is it me:
Damn writers block!

My Own Contrition

2007-01-29T17:27:00.000-08:00

Alas, sweet sorrow, sing no more;
Bereavement, be gone from me.
Hearken thou to hell-flames door—
Tears which were cried by me.

Hearken, ghosts of paling mists
Be gone for the night hath passed;
Wallow in thy weeping wish
For a love that was lived to last.

Sickness of shadow, hear me out
And question not my deeds;
Leave me with your quivering doubts
For—to hell—thy whisper leads.

Hear me now, damsel of gold—
Sweet, seductive, angelic dove—
Hear this now: the whisper told
Of my hearts undying love.

Which heaven heard, my own petition;
My poem penned, sincere contrition.

The Dream

2007-01-29T17:26:00.000-08:00

I dreamt a dream as my tired sleep,
Bathed my body in darkening deep:
Shadows of silence in terror tombs
Hearing the cry of sorrowful loons;
As I lay in dark and dreary sleep
I dreamt a dream of thee.

I dreamt a dream, however gone,
I searched in silence, however long--
As if it were awaiting my call
Towards the sea--and searching fall,
Into the pain of love lost and gone:
I cried this tear for thee.

I dreamt a dream of waterfalls
And roses floating, and the calls
Both of the sea, to you and me,
And forests enchanted for all to see;
I dreamt this dream of waterfalls,
And this wonderland for thee.

I dreamt this dream of waterfalls,
And this wonderland for thee.

My Delight In Solitude

2007-01-29T17:25:00.000-08:00

As lost memories dawned I did not see,
All things in life I was meant to be;
And those things in life I should have been
Were eclipsed by my own mortal sin.
And I never minded darkness much
In search of truth, in search of such:
While long and far, and far I did roam,
For in truth, I liked to be alone.

And while I sat in shadows forgot,
Long lay the virtue, long lay the thought
Of all that was and was to become,
While many a mile I did run.
From what I knew, I never did know,
From what I could see, I never could show;
In search of shadows forgotten home,
For in truth, I liked to be alone.

And all the sea: the sands of the world,
Were filled by me, my tears unfurled.
The ship lost in port, encased in shroud,
Alone its encased, though in a crowd.
Forgot it was, forgotten its lost
Forgotten at sea the waves are tossed;
And none do care to call for their home,
For in truth, they like to be alone.

Deviating Inclinations

2007-01-29T17:23:00.001-08:00

I remember
How we used to speak;
Of places we wished
To travel when we
Would be older.
And all was sound
In our serenity
Of orbital silence.
Common purpose,
With common goals.

But now I sit
Suffocating,
Vitals barely alive;
I sit on my bed--
Hazed thoughts through my head
Are half-dazed death walks,
And half-dead sleep talks--
And you've left your path
With no ruby slippers
To take you home.

Quatrain de Douleur

2007-01-29T17:23:00.000-08:00

Throttle my throat
Harsh, helpless winter;
Summer's setting in--
A cold, dreary thought.

Sleeping on a Highway

2007-01-29T17:21:00.000-08:00

I watched you as you waited
The highway filled with headlights,
And wondered why you slept on
The fast-lane of the freeways.
Every eye submerged with fright
At the raindrops of your blood.
To late now, so we say: "Splat"
The Semi-truck squished you flat.

Heigho Geronimo

2007-01-29T17:13:00.000-08:00

Your simmered words weld upon
The crooked anvil of my ears,
Each note a twisted leap
As spiders shimmy on the cords
Of my marionettish heart.

Heigho Geronimo!

For, surely, there’s more fish that swim
In the murky depths of the sea;
Yet, I care only for you—
My hallowed, hated, dream-catch.
I am you treacherous Ahab
Yet you’ve torn my heart asunder
And left both legs attached.

For, this is the bare subtlety
Of our shared, divining love.

I Long for Autumn’s Cool

2007-01-29T17:11:00.000-08:00

The oceans fog hold no more chill
Upon my sunken brow,
My calloused heart bleeds but one will
Of what I’m wishing now;

The maritime drained from my bones,
I long for autumn’s cool—
The dazzled blaze top leafy thrones
Far from the waters cruel.

For ships were once sailed afar
For a Fairy Queen,
And all stood—both mast and star—
To hear her laughter sing.

And sang she did, her melody
Guides my turn of wheel,
And led me far in memory
Of what I’m feeling still.

Her voice sang for me, and yet,
Her heart and eyes were not;
They were upon the shoreline set
In reminiscent thought.

Heart beat loudly for the love
She wished to leave away,
Following the stars above
That shone each night and day.

And the band that played upon the deck,
Its music bore my heart,
Mingled with her mind so set
To rip my ship apart.

And so I swam while my ship
Floats with Fairy Queens;
I returned to lands of crypts
To invoke my broken dreams.

And may autumn come so swift
(Her leaves will hide me well)
While red’s and yellows downward drift
To ebb my bloody swell.

For it would not be good on her ride
If she spotted blood upon the tide.

Remedy

2007-01-29T17:10:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, on sleepless night like this—
When even the moon dims her brow
And stars are kept in timelessness
To shade already shadowed howe—

My thoughts are turned, my dreaming too,
To the sphere’s of your emerald skies;
Auburn locks of luminous hue,
Enchanting mystery of the eyes.

Glaze my gaze with your summer days,
In glades and lakes, secrets revealed;
Myriads of Dryads dance your ways
With secret souls, in heart, congealed.

But nights too short, and days too long—
Too short to dream, too long to wait—
While yet, I hear your seraphim song
From pearly thrones scintillate.

When on sleepless nights, such as this,
I hear your voice and dream of bliss.

Spirit of the Sailor

2007-01-23T21:42:00.000-08:00

Silent dreams sing here no longer,
Atlantic mists roll back His waves,
Souls which once had made him stronger
Lie sleepless in their watery graves;
And, high above the aqua flow
The seagull glides with haughty breast,
His hungry eye set far below
To flesh that waits in fluid rest.

For, deep beneath the smell of salt,
And deeper than the golden rays
Of sunshine gleam on Neptune’s vault
Recalling thoughts of summer days,
Lay men of war, and sailor ships—
The wooden hulls are rot inside—
They bled in battle ever thick
By cannon wounds so gaping wide.

There’s few that speak, and fewer tell
Of lives before this darkened life.
Its Heaven not, yet worse then Hell,
This graveyard built by nation’s strife.
Here, shadows swirl around the masts,
Their courses halt not by the day;
They are as curtains for the cast
In this paradox of play.

Yet, there is one and one alone
Whom sits beside the gunner’s shafts,
Of a vessel sailed far from home—
Her crew as children in their crafts.
“We are the damned, Poseidon’s slaves,
Held fast within his solid will.”
He weeps to all who come his ways
And all of those who listen still.

“We are the dead, yet once alive,
We laughed and sang, and even loved.
We stood at peace till war arrived—
A mountain that could not be moved—
Yet still, we loved, our women bore
Our children by the hearty throng:
Daughters for joy, our sons for war,
And both to sing ancestral song.

“We worked and gathered in the field
The fruits of our father’s labor;
And we danced till night would yield
To mornings sweetened savor.
Then came—alas—the call to war,
Our Queen enraged the Philip’s fire;
So we did sail ‘gainst Spanish score,
Our ships, though small, filled with ire.

“Though win we did, my ship they sank
While rats—they were the chosen few—
They fled unto the Dover’s bank
And left my ship to sink with crew.
We landed in the murky deep
Where many Spanish ships were kept;
Men, merged with water, longed to weep
While water, with men, sadly wept.

“Yet, we could not, nor could we try;
No longer breathe, nor laugh, nor love!
Tears we eat, they are the sky
That drifts below the sky above;
And locked we are, as prisoners here,
Water halts our way to Heaven,
Nor can we dig to gates of Weir
Our spades, to rust, are freely given.

“Poseidon—that great god of sea—
Is more hated then Hell itself;
He rules over us, yea over me,
In all his rich and water wealth.
Yet, since in war, we were led here
His punishments saved for us alone;
And his dregs, more dark then fear,
Proceed from his own lichen throne.

“The manta ray does plague our soul
With stings that stung forevermore,
And darkness that looms black as coal
Seeks to erase all thoughts of yore.
The Octopus does drink our blood,
The kelp entangles round our throat;
And, through this all, our lord has stood
His eyes upon his captives gloat.

“He seeks to break our very minds
Yet, this he’s done, and knows it well;
But still, upon the stone he grinds
Our souls within this hated hell.
For one thing yet he has not broken
And this we cling to as the vine,
Clings to the oak when storms awaken
To tear her grasp, and fit in line.

“It is our souls, our spirits youth—
Though, unto him, they serving, bow.
We still recall, though yet aloof,
The lives we lived ere living now.
We remember, as once it were,
Our youthful wives with angel face:
The touch, the voice, and feel of her,
Each thought our memories can’t erase.

“We recall each quaint daffodil
That bloomed throughout the summer long,
With every valley held silent still
Though thrust amidst all sight and song.
Our children with their smiling faces,
Do light our heart and cheer our minds;
For from us, it now erases,
Rekindles spirits of our kind.

“So, though our hell be dark and deep—
We see not the light of day—
Our eyes do shine, our spirits keep
Our hearts preserved, to guide our way.
And, though damned of damned we be—
For Poseidon’s slaves we are now—
We cannot, will not, honestly
Bend our knees in gracious bow.

“For, though long and far we now roam,
In time the dead will find their home.”

The Weights Which Atlas Bore

2007-01-23T21:39:00.000-08:00

Erase the tremble-some tenors
Oh early dew of my chorused heart,
Thy lips of sweet, moonstone perfume
Burn as flames within my senses.
Each petal from my frozen soul
Of lilies feels dashed ‘gainst the shore
Of foaming southern seas; the fog
Filling the salty air we breathe
As we flail our arms futilely
To fail from drifting far away
Toward the murky, Hades depths
Where no ships sail from sepulchres
To greet us in lonely passing.

I feel the weights, which Atlas bore
Wound across mortal shoulders frail.
Alas! Round world Angels can’t bear,
Where are my sacred wings of gold
To guide me to eagle clefts?
Gone! Their gone away and now none
Do dare to hide my hated form
From the cold and calloused handling
Of natures grip ‘gainst her kindred—
The monster his master could not,
Nor dare not, save for his own self.
And so, he bore: faithless
To fall, and watch all fall away.

The last vestment of the chilling night
Hid by children—vestiges
Of all unspoiled innocence—
Is now defiled so greatly.
Greatly, greedily, why fall ye
So far from you charted courses,
And cause deviation to death?
Yet, could not even Seraphim
Seduce Satan’s torture chambers?
Yea, they could, and yet, they give me
The burden of their blessed crafts;
So, in my sorrow, I carry
What they could, but refuse to bear.

And in my sweet, sequestered, spite
I hold both our pains tonight.

The Goblin Dreams Alone

2007-01-23T21:38:00.000-08:00

Slink slowly down this passage
For it was formed for thee,
Slowly, softly, forget me now
In the screaming of my terror;
Forget me through this fright
For the Goblin fears alone.

Weep in your silent serenity--
Dismal tears on stainless black--
Bound for all eternity
Upon demented lack.
Weep in all your silence,
For the Goblin weeps alone.

Dream the darkness of the night
It deonticates for thee;
Sleep in your succulent fright,
For the night sings for thee.
Dream in your serenity,
For the Goblin dreams alone.

Dream in your serenity,
For the Goblin dreams alone.

The Night Was Made

2007-01-23T21:36:00.000-08:00

The night was made for loving—
For lovers like us two—
The night was made for holding,
Embrace both me and you.

The night was made for kisses—
Our lips in rapture meld—
The night was made for wishes,
In both our hearts are held.

The night was made to listen—
Our dreams conjoined as one—
The night was made to glisten
In beams more bold then sun.

The night was made for fire
(For passions dwell in flame,)
The night was made Desire
In pleasure chant its name.

And night was made for loving,
For lovers like us two;
Yes, night was made for loving,
Embrace both me and you.

Vol De Folie

2007-01-23T21:34:00.000-08:00

Tears which fall upon the shore,
Gild the lily with the gore
Of my heart, which sings of your
Melancholy spite.

Tears which fall upon the waves—
Which your silence darkly saves—
Hide your facets from the days,
That were filled with light.

Raise my body—necromancy—
To live again, with every fancy;
(When sprits spoke of geomancy)
Hidden from my sight.

Hear me now, ghost hark of flame;
Fear my song sung in the rain:
A solemn chant of bitter pain,
Sung only by the night.

Sung in reverent solicitation,
To fly from darkened deliration.