speak low
We could speak
poetry,
language languid with
eloquence and charm,
evoke meanings far
beyond
common conversation's
command.
Spin me daring scenes and
inspirations.
Call my essence to imbibe
shared meditations.
Lean mean serene
obscene,
we careen floor, wall,
ceiling,
fulgent air of ecstasy’s
semantic
play.
Speak low, my wondrous
love.
Echo within interstice of
heart and mind.
Lift magic's metaphoric
blind.
Elicit ribbon binds of pure
enchantment
only poetry can
conjure.
Neptune's Fool
I burst my bubble
daily
just to feel the pain.
I paint my face up
gaily,
and melt out in the
rain.
My bag of tricks is
magic.
Yet no one calls to
buy.
I wish my life were
tragic,
horrendously awry.
‘Twould explain my sad
refrain:
so bravely strong,
heroic,
a saint, stately and
stoic.
When truth be told I'm just a
bum,
the very lowest common
sum
of higher
expectations.
So, let’s elbow up and drown in
rum,
libertine libations
(congratulations obviously
optional).
It's not that I'm exceptional
(what a wrench that was to
say),
but that the conventional
I label reprehensible.
Freudian snake crawls a
cross,
a highly wired state.
Too late to deny
reliance
on random strangers’ kindness,
I issue this groveling plea:
Feed my sustaining
fantasy.
See my poetry, and shout out: "How
profound!"
Art Magic
Listen to the heart of
bliss.
Lie supine on vibrant
sand, inhaling,
under oceanic starlit
sky.
Breeze breathes eternity,
circles ever
inward to divine
intricately
expansive poetry
--
thought in magnificent
splendor.
All art is magic; all
magic is art.
Yet they are not the
same, and part
of wonder's widening
landscape.
Mississippi
Riverside
romance one dusky June
Turned
into a winter poem
By
firelight - light of the moon.
We loved
and parted all too soon
Each to
return, a separate home
Riverside
romance one dusky June.
I catch a
glint, a ring of spoon
Flashing
through the tale I spin
By
firelight - light of the moon.
Sometimes
at night I hear you croon
"We never
had a chance to win."
Riverside
romance one dusky June
By
firelight - light of the moon.
We are a well at the
center of the Universe
suspended like a spider
spun out from
a web of space and
time
All that ever is, like
sea and rain
catalyzed by light, is
processing
rainbows
or other
illusions
into effervescent
poetry
A forest is a poem
in a language of life, of
action.
Symbiotic energies swell into
echoing song.
Bright catalytic light, dark
layers of still
nurturing long decay, fragrant
rhythms
hold tune to animal play and
parry,
seeds joining in emergent glee,
new forms
for old, set in sound and
fury.
Forest
the word itself carries mystery,
tales
of magic and
remorse,
of maidens hiding from giants
and
handsome knights sworn to
fealty.
Sweet sprites, winsome serpents
and ravens
whisper oracular spells to trap
or free.
A mere parade of words may
create no sap,
no clinging moss, no berries
enticing birds
to build for a future
family.
Yet a forest is most
certainly
a poem.
A Woman
Disappointed and Disillusioned, Courageously Facing a Seemingly Empty
Life
Dressed in
sadness
Depressed to
madness
Mad to
believe in passion,
which never
lasts beyond the hour.
Shrieking to
bequeath the
power to
stand, to breathe.
Time appears,
macabre hag
preening her
wares.
"See how it
was, how it could be.
Drag and drop
your face, your fate
onto a
printed page. Can you see
new meaning?
New lamps for old."
She cackles,
like
a
metronome.
New maps for
a new age.
That charming
village erstwhile
known as
Hell
has realigned
into Helvetica.
All that pain
and sorrow
tomorrow's
poetry.
Life's a Mad Dog in Heat; But
At Least There's Art
I want a poem, painting,
song
to be authentic
heart to heart,
mind to mind
Not to tell me something about
you;
to show me more of
me.
Poker as a Metaphor for Poetry
Play the cards you are dealt,
inflated for the gaze of your
opponents.
Don't squander emotion
reactively.
Enjoy the thrill of being in the
game.
Pop Quiz
What is more useless than a
poet, and why?
Encloistered in my artist's
garrett, threadbare garments more holes than whole
Paint spattered, unruly and
unkempt
Barely aware of the need for
sustenance or even air
Entranced by the necessity of
exploring, exposing my vision
I am the essence of romance.
Writing words on paper, I am
merely effete,
Despite my black attire and
permanent scowl.
Even if they are good words,
finely wrought, expressing deeply true emotion
They are almost literally a dime
a dozen.
To expose my wound is
inelegance, to explore my essence a narcissistic malaise.
I am the real deal -- the
poet-philosopher, the idealist dreamer, the journey's fool.
Surely I should be surrounded by
accolytes at my feet, honored to breathe the sacred
Incense of my
magesty.
Yet here I stand with bills
unpaid in the squalor of a rented room,
Unadorned by
idolatry.
