Thursday, March 30, 2006

moonlight

he towers above our glittering home tonight
a beacon for the life that makes the planet
it holds us in the swoon of love's first flight
it holds us here all life from moth to granite

stories have been mustered in his honor
tales of gods who the elements control
the swiftly moving storm the fields of clamber
the oceans mountians all species their roll

there is a man in there or so they say
who smiles around an easy churlish charm
seeing all our folly drift his way
then laughing as we do ourselves great harm

man in the moon who's placement brings romance
gives us hope there is still one more chance




Monday, March 27, 2006

no conclusion

there seems to be confusion
around this illusion
called by the most of us
our life
what is this
what is the reason
do i justify
the desperate need
to survive

what is the purpose
and
where am i going
is life just a brief dose of
what

who is this person
who looks out
his windows
and why
is importance
so sought

seeming so small
as i look at the stars
and
i hear all the struggle
unfolding

what is the answer
and
where do i get it
and
will it come home to my
knowing

as i grow older
and hope seems to
drag
it's illusions
right over my eyes

i roll in my blankets
i toss and i turn
as i blink
and my life
falls away
to it's sighs

i feel that the gods
all of mankinds making
exist in imaginings
loss

so
i sing in one way
i laugh in another
i weep for my children
i dread coming war
i love as i'm able
i watch the world turning
i wish for a life
for my
troubles an ending
for the curtians to rise
to my seeing the reasons
i pray for the humans
who's lives have gone wrong ways
i curse all the evil i see
so whats the conclusion
of all the confusion
and how do i justify
me

there is no arranging or
payment or staging
that ever can give me the
answer
in time

so all i can do
is walk this with you
be the me that i make
love all the life
the best that i can
be with you till i pass through
my life

i wish for the best
as for all of the rest
it's beyond all my knowing
and prattle

good luck to you all
who here after the fall
who can figure
extential recall
to justify triggers
who make all the figures
that make us
seem
so
much more
tall

jesus and mary
the bushes and kerry
hinus and buddists
and
shamans and popes
are those who's solutions
that make all the problems
and tag all who
follow
just dopes

what is the solution
to all this confusion
there's no way of knowing i think
lets love one another
as sisters and brothers
and forget what comes after
the brink

amen








Wednesday, March 15, 2006

Moth Moon

this is the story of a moth of the moon
and a night riding hungry bat
who follow their glimmering shimmering light
to the jungles of my darkened room
as the shadows fall into the window light
moth flutters and land on my nose
i am startled a bit because of a fit
you had caused in my deep repose
to whome i say in my wandering spite
do i speak to about this magic
because i cannot here promise to you
that this will not become real tragic

up here said the bat from his small painted spot
behind the officers table
i'll tell you true nothing happens to you
if you sign on this line if your able

the bat flew down in his mystery cape
to the nose where the customer screamed
then up flew the moth to the screen in the sill
while the bat bit down on his mate

the customer screeched like the skin of a peach
when a little boys teeth crunches down
oh my god he wags mother mary he shouts
i'm engaged with a winged furry mouse

the wind she blew and the moon moth flew
to the warmth of soft yellow light
around it she fluttered till her heart turned to butter
in the full moon surrounded with dew

she swooned in the fire of her deepest desire
she fell to the light like a leaf
she rests there for now as if dropped from the bough
to the deep of the deepest relief

the bat struggles still as the customer swills
whiskey from a blue cobalt glass
then he feels luna's screen a portal it seems
has been made at the window's high sill

the yellow light gleams the bat's hungry it seems
so he flashes in black round the glass
the yellow light dims as around it he swims
in the dark of a summers last gasp


fluttering behind the glass in the light
the moon moth she moves there at last
she stretches her wings she wakes from her dream
of a hero who's strong and most bright

the yellow light out the luna is lost
she only can feel the fresh air
her glowing wings spread in the moonlight her hair
glittered softly most supple and soft

the bat in night air his breath like a frost
flutterd over to moon moth's soft side
he offered a wing and in the night sings
of his love of the moon and the moth

so let it be kissed that always is missed
the love of a love by your side
unlikely the pair surprising and fair
the bat and the moon moth in bliss













Thursday, March 09, 2006

musing heart

there is a love that holds up to it's mirror
all that one can see through lovers eyes
there is a love that can't be named or held
and still another that pretends the lie

there are lovers who have lost their way
and those who's path has bent toward running free
there are loves that are too great or small
then there is the love of i for thee

it is a light that shines inside this soul
the subtle light that holds my world in tact
this light from love is all i need to know
till life, this spirit, melts to solid black

this could never happen never be
for you have melded, deeply one with me


Wednesday, March 08, 2006

mutterings

voices hard to hear are singing now
in harmonies and rythms born of sighs
the farmer keeps his head turned to the plow
the horses plotting sweating getting by
an orange brilliant dawn is holding steady
a frosty morning air steams from his hair
clanging bells of worship ring all is ready
his constant callused hands are chapped and bare
"hold him to his whispers" says the secret
"seal his lips his truth from uttering
humm into his head and let them set
the chants of memories their lonely mutterings"

the farmer presses his determination
listening to his melodies damnation

suddenly his horses stall and rear
the plow jumps from his hands and races on
the farmer faced in muddy ground can hear
the droning of the fairies siren song
he moans beneath his aging dissapointment
the crop he sows must plant this very eve
why did he deserve such rude annointment
must he show his heartach as he grieves
he rises from the earth a ghostly figure
crying from the bowels of agony
his voice it seems is rising so much bigger
than the farmers prayers can fairly see

he rises to his feet he's sorely shaken
knowing all he has is almost taken


a light appears he knows not if he sees it
in his mind or is it really there
beatific vision fills his presence
holding him with loving tender care
"remember that this day of hardship passes
the universal door will soon swing wide
all that you are suffering all harasses
will disappear and peace will then abide"
the farmer turns his head to this great blessing
his manor and demeanor ease their pain
his breath comes softly to his healing resting
his body covered with warm gentle rain

the heavens open to quiet knowing
crops spring up the earth gives way to growing



Tuesday, March 07, 2006

watery eye

through the watery eye the bulbus nose
the artist shines his brownish leather spats
through a mirror at his best repose
he stills himself while in the laundramat
thinking crimson shapes and cobalt dances
with his softest brush he shapes a poem
to his living life his loves his chances
his missing parts and how his path still roams
in prarie sweeping winds in mountians stair
along the deepend paths of forest loam
full in the humid darkness perfumed air
far and near to all that he calls home

tumbling heat the droneing dryer calls
he stretches a bit then back to dreaming falls

the aging white upon his templed brow
holds his story canvassed in his mind
his vision is as clear as he allows
he tips his flask until his lips it finds
resting sepia's how he sees himself
the crimson then is tempered to the mood
his strokes are bolder colors from his shelf
now the painting tastes of sumptuous food
he reaches in his pocket for some barter
he crosses to the nearest sacred bar
he pays obeisance to the oaken alter
then steps outide to smoke beneath his star

the steam from dryng garments balm the air
the canvass waits in darkness neath the stair

along his easy way he trudges home
his duffel balanced on his woolen hat
a cigarette glows smokey rings that roam
round t s elliot drains and wandering bats
his creaky door he unlocks opens wide
a linseed soaked aroma feeds the air
flourescent light floods out onto the side
of grey and boarded windows that declare
police line do not cross forbidden zone
he softly closes to the freezing air
he hears a gentle beeping from his phone
wishing with his soul that someones there

the canvas stands prepared for his waiting vision
he stares at it then make a firm decision

cobalt blue on lead white burnt sienna
yellow ocre pthalo green red deep
on his pallate ready long ago
hardened to a nutshell fast asleep
he picks his paint he freshly squeezes color
he cleans his brushes mixes to his liking
with great determination feigns the scholor
contemplating line and shape then striking
he lashes out like pollak in his shed
his colors falling hard against the white
for hours on end he concentrates he weds
to shadow shape to texture and to light

his painting done at last away he falls
asleep with brushes palate gain'st the wall

his cigarettes have long ago exausted
his bottle gone his spirit soaring high
never thinking twice about the cost of
sleepless dreaming night to frigid sigh

he dreams of being somewhere in the snows
painting winter landscapes far away
watching chrystal stars light up the bows
of icey ships who's masts ner' know the day

he never wakes again he's still there leaning
next to his masterpiece a sculptures dream
he 's never been discovered and his meaning
lost to all who's passion rests in seem

his love of what he does all time trancends
he remains at vigil till life ends