Van Gogh Doggie Style

Van Gogh Doggie Style

There are stars embedded in the painted black sky, and we are there in love, dinning, in the black stomach flu, of van Gogh's mother's death. "He" is not allowed. He is too crazy to be here in HIS own painting. So we nibble the edge of HIS severed ear, while we hear OUR love, poetry out-loud, my love and US sipping noodles like Lady and the Tramp, getting closer and closer, but our lips never meet in the middle because they belong to someone else. We can't even love the movie because it has already been loved. She loves that movie. She loves that movie more than you or me. Even if, my little girl self and your little boy self still love that movie. This woman loves it more. She loves The Tramp. They are in a sexual doggie style tie, facing opposite direction on the front lawn of Disney Studio. Visitors are complaining. This is why SHE's dressing like a princess on HER Facebook, with a knife in her hand, blood running down her eye, and we are all parked here watching, in stagnant emotion, from our computer chairs under the starry starry universe of THEIR broken heart and OUR broken emotions.

 

Pupil on a Dream

Pupil on a dream

 
I am a small circle on a circle, a pupil on a dream. I am a pupil on a horse's eye, in a dream and again in art. I am a fractured text, intentionally designed. I myself painted that horse, the horse you painted. The horse he painted. The horse that waits for sleeping beauty to wake. Some days he's a cartoon, some days he's at war, others he is in the safety of myth. I ride the horse each time, his chiseled face carved in Roman statue. I rode him to the Vatican, his black mane, silver hide, like stars blinking, winking in the darkness. We are connected, this horse and its pupil. We know Michelangelo. He is the glint God put in my eye. I saw his dead rider, fallen. The horse alone, standing hopeless in a piece of art. Dried paint on drip cloth, scaffolding a bridge, a rainbow. His painters, still in their youth, always, always catching light, his pupil leading him out, into the space beyond art. Galloping, bucking, playing the cowboy. The cow and boy separated then put back, the cow horse, arena roping tying his legs in time. I never saw Snoop Dogg ride a horse or heard him sing about one either. This horse belonged to a prince, sleeping beauties prince, lost in dreams. I am the dead prince before his death. My spirit returned, to polish the glass case, the chamber where she sleeps. My blood is the artists brush, the song of Dali, the cube of Picasso. My music is my princess and she is awake. I run the track, while my spectators place bets.

No Paraphernalia Needed

No Paraphernalia Needed


With only a couple boxes left on the shelf,
I decided I'd better grab mine
a bowl of hemp oatmeal
to start my day
high the natural way,
no genetically engineered organisms,
chemical herbicides and pesticides,
and never any synthetic preservatives.
No paraphernalia needed,
just empty packet into bowl
add 1/2 cup of water.
Now baby is bouncing
up the right path,
whole grain with a hint of brown sugar,
tasty too.
Endorsed by George Washington himself,
who once said:
"Make the most you can
of the Indian hemp seed
and sow it everywhere."
Thank you Lord
for directing me to Sprouts
and Nature's Path
Hemp Plus.

Pathetic Poetic

Pathetic Poetic

Her arm was broken before they could hear
an infant that never wore a cast,
a sidewalk dumpster bumpster baby,
born in a dadaless wonderland.
She mapped madness and melancholy,
through a pair of John Carpenter sun glasses.

Her nursery was decorated with
Dali psycho schizophrenic illusion,
a distorted holy vision, she drew
along with a key to a golden city.
Her first words, gaga'd
a Sistine Chapel salad super,
hell tickled holy city.

She's the baby that didn't see,
her dietitian forgot to prescribe tea.
She learned her way underwater.
A tile cross on the wall, marked
where it all began, swim skinny sinny bones
seventeen laps by a dog's tongue.

She's a pathetic poetic horror flick,
vanity vanished a foot, off the path,
then back again. Sticks and stabs may slit her abs
but music keeps her breathing.

Her wasteland fed scavengers,
crows asphyxiated her sweet syrup love story.
Now she's sippen slipper juice
alive on the stone, a sequel,
dada come home,
She's a hip-hop baby revival.

Cling

Cling

Tree roots

cling to mounds

like the artist

clings to canvas

Like Madonna clings

to Jesus,

and a song

clings to ones soul.

lawn fairies Tanka

Lawn fairies delight,
raising neon bulbs of dew,
a safe landing light...

for plum blossom wind surfers
that glide on springs waking breath.

A Poem in Rome from Home

Oh beautiful City,
we find love.
Pigeons shuffle between our feet,
a fairy tale,
a composer of music,
history,
walking.

Green grass grows
on an empty lot
and a single flower,
white on white canvas,
unpainted.

Simple faith
for girls without a teacher
and a big bad wolf.
Stones,
windows for shopping,
pillows for dreaming,
God always knows the truth.

Follow the puppet,
never tell a lie,
have lunch
inside a whales stomach,
swim.

Books.
Education.

The roof is a mountain
for a City
and a woman- alone
with only key
gifted from angels
and a fountain of wonder.

Each soul has it's own mystery to solve,
the context of our life,
faith and blood
from birth to death.

Out of the Box

Her head didn't fit
in the box they prepared.
They believed
they could press her down,
but she rose,
opening the lid,
lifting her ears
over the edge -
and her eyes.

The passers cast hooks
into the box.
Little fish bit and teased.
To this they were pleased,
jerking their line
snagging bits of hair
and cardboard.

They yanked hard,
till the box
collapsed - spilling.

Water ran over her body
as she was freed.
Little fish
flipped and squirmed
at her feet.

12/29/2012

Feather

Feather

It found me,
though the bird had flown.
A feather,
on a red door matt.

It could have rode in
on a sock or shoe,
or maybe by
the wind's invitation.

Now sacred words,
adrift, out of place,
unnoticed,
by the passers.

Upside-down Tree

Upside-down Tree

It's roots reached clouds,
confusing birds, that thought at first
to fly down instead of up.
Cats waited under leaves,
fat cats with feather beds.

The moon rolled its face over.
A boy wanted to climb, but
his head was in the dirt.
He kept pushing but couldn't get higher.

A dog sniffed a branch,
jumped over limbs and pissed on leaves.
A man with a chainsaw
cut it up, without much problem.

Stuffed Monkey

Stuffed Monkey

Put him in the stuffed monkey,
hug him, wish him real.
Slide a finger under his red suspenders
talk about the jungle and his white tennis shoes.
Tell him he has kind eyes, attractive hands and a strong grip.

Set him on top a stack of books; let him see pictures
of angels and scaffolds, places to work, places to pretend,
tree houses and tea parties in Washington DC.
Remember home, love nature, never let go.
Birds sing like church bells in the sound.

Dream the river, remember a star that never moves;
collect a golden fish; follow the ropes; drift deep
into darkness, hoot of owl, eyes of moonlight watch.
Wounded ears spit fireflies, writing cursive scream
of wonder spun to quantum delirium.

Count your heroes as they jump fences into gunfire.
Kiss the monkey and wash the soiled sheets.

The Cellar

The Cellar

The hum that coasters on the wind
rolled off into a distant day
below what might have been a tree
rooted round the cellar walls.
The silver bars that kept roots sound
held the walls from falling down.
They wrapped like limbs of octopus
hugged tight to claim a treasure chest.

Beyond the stairs of rotted branch,
down which I never missed a step,
the night-one called me there to see,
block walls that formed a cave beneath
- beneath the sea.
and there she stood, a little girl
dressed in Sunday school attire,
with nothing there except her eyes
and a door that opened on - into the sea.

My fingers chilled like cycled ring
frozen on a crooked limb,
a cold that crept like spider webs
and tingled at my finger tips.
A wrenched call belched from the pipes;
the belly of a motor moaned.
It tried to speak in children's song
that lit a pergola scene, where ...
soldiers marched onto the shore,
each with a canvas on his back
that kept in time, the beat of sound
in paint of pergola light.

Upon return, I marched cross bones
that marked the path to follow home
back to the cellar neith the tree
where last I'd seen the little girl.
The walls were lined with jars of rocks
and golden fish with glittery fins.
Her footprints lead into the sea
beneath rock beds and broken bow
where tentacles of circles hugged
eternity - until the vessel creaked.

Ken

Ken

I went shopping for a husband,
one that understands the right way,
how to appreciate life, share responsibilities,
and respect each others dreams and passions.
I want a guy I can write poetry about.
I told my daughter the plan,
and she wanted to come along.
We ended up at Toy's R Us,
searching shelves for the right Ken.
I didn't remember them looking so young;
these guys look like teenagers.
The only one I found that looked my age was Spock,
attractive with his salt and pepper hair.
He was even on the sale table.
I wondered why nobody bought him.
"I don't know," I told my daughter.
"He changes the whole idea.
I'm looking for a normal guy.
Maybe if I dress him in Ken clothes,
something summery, shorts, T-shirt,
sun glasses, and I'll need a hat to cover his ears.
He might just work," I told her.
I carried him around awhile,
imagining what it would be like
to take him everywhere I go.
"I don't know; people will recognize him,
I can't write poetry about this guy,
it just won't be normal."
I decided to come home and search the Internet.
Maybe an old G.I Joe would be more my style.
I couldn't find anything better than Spock.
Even the old G.I Joes look too young;
I've aged, but the dolls haven't.
I considered bleaching and dying his hair grey.
Heck, now-a-days with all the plastic surgery,
who can tell the difference?
But, would I like a guy that spent his money
on plastic surgery?
We're having trouble just meeting the bills this month.
He looks great, but what about me,
working my ass off, so he can ride around in my purse
never pay for a meal, flaunting his perfect plastic image.
I'll have to strap him to the lawn mower,
and guide him around to even get the lawn mowed.
Grrrr.... I don't think so,
I'll be waiting weeks on this guy.
Our yard will look like crap.
My neighbor will think I'm stupid, his wife will be laughing at me.
I'll be dreaming of burying him up to his perfect face,
mowing him over... he'll bring out the worst in me.
Hell, that's not good poetry.

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.