Hidden in the Sound

Hidden in the Sound
~
I walked backward for a mile
a torn smile floated down.
Leaves waved like
playful children before they laugh.
~
The cut began to bleed.
I stared astonished at the miracle
oozing through my clothes.
I saw the pain, couldn’t speak,
~
placed my hand over it
to hold it in, hide it,
tried to disappear, held my breath,
couldn’t think, couldn’t feel.
~
They were already - watching,
waiting. Camouflaged vultures
hidden in the sound to
nurse the pain like starving piglets.
~
My soul screamed,
but the sound was occupied
by those already understanding
what it was about.

W for War

W for War

I saw it coming;
It oozed from the computer,
W for war.
I saw it in the paintings,
blood, interrogations.
It hadn’t changed.
I saw it spilling over,
creeping under the door
like a blob,
a full theater on the edge,
the producer being eaten
in grotesque natures.
It made babies of grown adults
then crucified them.
I saw it falling in the drawings,
a dusty rain,
mommies clean away,
ashes of another generation.
The seeds were planted,
sprouting in head phones,
and songs for the broken hearted.
Where do we go from here?
Patriotic courage waves
colors of a universal flag.

In Their Sleep

When I see them
In their humble slumber,
tired poets, sunken
deep in supple sullen rhyme
cheek and chin a-kindle
in the offing distant hills
rolling over yellow poppies
rich in color of their lives,
eyes and lashes like a drawing
model for tomorrow’s dawn.
I’m lost to know my own hearts calling
admiring these travelers passing
dreamers drifting, sailing time
each his own a stated ship
his Xanadu to claim,
saluting all the crowds of wanderers
walking vacant in their sleep.
When I see their hands are resting
lips defenseless to desire
on soft green meadow milky way
fingers long for pencil writing
laying gently on the grass
like a fragile heirloom treasure
safe on pillows kept to please.
I wish to bend and bear them
press into their sinuous lips,
to lift the hand that guides the poet,
caress the sleeping finger tips,
braise them gently cross my cheek,
never telling like a painting
careful not to wake them
beyond dreams gate and heaven’s edge
where death and peace collide,
cocooned in capsule beauty locked
where I sit gazing in.

Sometimes

Sometimes
Sometimes being alone isn't that bad.
My bed is comfortable when I'm sleeping.
It's warm and smells of perfume and fresh sheets.
I go to bed early
and read from a couple of books on his side of the bed.
When I read poems about other couples,
I feel like I don't have anything worth writing.
Sometimes one of them dies,
and the poem means even more than before.
They say things I can understand,
but can never write about.

Sometimes I move the books and someone sleeps there,
but it's not like them; the other's poems are better.
I can't talk about the time it took,
to give significance to their poem.
One line might have taken twenty years to say.
They are something that lasts forever.

Although, sometimes I read
about temporary love,
and the poetry can be satisfying,
but in a different way,
sometimes it's only sex
that satisfies the poet in variety of ways.
It might be his or her ego,
or maybe its make believe love.
After I read several of these poems
from different poets,
I turn out the lights.
Sometimes I feel a tear in my eye
then I fall asleep.

Before the Others Came

Before the others Came

I found a stick, reached out and
flung it off the road.
"Maybe I can save them."

The other's were coming, marching along,
the three of them and an old lady with a bird cage.
They were getting closer. I could hear
the sound of their voices
but, I didn't know what they were saying.

It drifted in the wind. I sat on a large rock
under an old oak tree, leaves fell, drifted
with the sounds. Many had passed before -
they played like ghosts in an old movie,
waiting on the sound. I listened so hard,
I wasn't sure if it was them I heard.

One of them was laughing. The road had a bend
that kept them out of sight.
They would be around the corner any time.
I could hear them - louder, and a little dog barked.
I could hear that very well.

One of the men was irritated at the old woman.
"Why did you bring that bird cage?"
"Because I want a little bird; I want a little bird that sings."
The man kicked the dog, it hit the rock - dead.
I climbed down, picked it up, held it back to life.
We waited together, the little dog and I..

They turned the corner, and we could see them.
The sun was bright, morning light.
It spotted the rock like a giraffe.
The little dog and I posed on the giraffe,
in morning light for a surreal painting.

The man wore a coat and held the boy by his hand,
tugging, shaking his arm to listen.
"Don't drag your feet boy, you've only one pair of shoes."
They were near now,
I scratched a face in the dirt with the stick.

They stopped - pointing,
"There's an eye." said the boy.
"No," said the old lady.
"That is a little bird, he's just learning to sing."

I tapped my pencil in my notebook.
"Did you hear that" the man said.
"Wasn't nothing" said the last man, and they passed.

I climbed down from the rock. The little dog followed.
We walked along together toward the sunset,
crossed the squiggly line,
where I'd tossed the snake away,
before the others came.

Kiss Kiss Bang Bang

This poem is from a couple years back. It's comprised of book titles from books on my shelves.

Kiss Kiss Bang Bang A book title poem

My life propagates
a genealogy of morals,
entangled minds cloned
quantum reality.
Misery breeds rampage waved to
the art of drawing dragons,
a moveable feast
of folk and fairytales bond to
the critical tradition.
The dream songs share
a brief history in time,
the metamorphosis
of the time machine,
a Romeo and Juliet
born to Paradise lost.
Each day soars bird by bird,
or half bird as Peter Pan
over Walden pond,
the dreaming mind shipwrecked
on Islands in the stream.
The elements of color
renovate a picture of Dorian Grey
drawing in perspective
a war of the worlds
from the Photoshop bible.

Frozen Wheat

This is a poem from last year that started as a five-minute poem at Alabaster & Mercury.

Frozen Wheat

Golden flowers stand erect
clustered, together to stay warm
under the darkest blue
calling of storm, a strange beauty
bending under winters breath.
begging not to break,
brush the scarecrow’s bum,
wake him from his
nap through Fall.

He jumps from the post
with a burr burr,
rubbing his hands together,
sending straw into the wind,
frantic leaps beneath the chill
throwing blows to hold Jack Frost
shouting bastard calls..

The Frost keeps pressing in
against his show of strength
reddening the scarecrows’ eyes,
blowing back, blasting,
throwing him into
the loft, where he lay
in a beam of sunlight.