A Ruby At... Remembrance

"Write what you know

in the life you have lived."

All else is false pretense...

words wasted in a fleeting dream.

Thank you Grandma... I remember.

Balance

There is a blackened balance

in the silver scales

of the yin and yang,

when the dew of foam

meets the ticking clock...

in that moment

of shorn wool and velvet plumage

time freezes still...

upon a gilded frame.

Harvest Home... Revisited

Somewhere there is an Eden

of sorts... utopia for

the purveyors of science fiction.

It's an overflowing

of the ancient cornucopia,

a horn of plenty...

not for the Roaming elite,

they're never happy.

It's a celebration of harvest

and plow... the reminder

of workin', and playin',

and livin' in the now!

No smoking of your fallow deer

or boiling of a parrot pet...

entertainment is what you are...

not slaves brought in

from lands afar

performing in exotic dance,

enchanting songs

and limericks,

to a den of gaudy knaves.

The lazy elite won't understand-

their kind will fall

out of supply and demand.

The peasants, as always

will celebrate...

they ask for so little

but their thanks are great...

to Whom, who cares?

that hierarchy

can certainly wait.

The revelry will continue

as the lazy feasters

lose their guts to

vomitoriums.

No wonder history repeats itself in a burp of belch.

A Second Coming

Green eyed leer above

a camel colored peach

with it's nectar dripping

into sweet rivulets of juice

at the edges of a full moon.

A teasing of honeysuckle

to an entreaty of tease,

a rollicking surrey

with fringes that bow...

to a red-lipped oval

that quivers somehow

and the earthshaking

beckon that shivers below.

A second to gasp

a vowel's uttered praise

a panting,

a psyching,

a musing...

Cupid's spurting arrow

and Kewpie's sultry gaze.

A wolf will wait his turn to pray.

The Conquest of Nothingness

What do I know

and what do I see?

Nothing and everything

in sweet mystery.

Eyes have the nerve

to connect to the brain,

windows that mirror

the human terrain.

Ripped from their sockets

they're just balls of gel,

the heart gives its meaning

that the brain tries to quell.

Beyond physical places

where a human abides

something remains

when the body subsides.

A flicker of flame

beyond the intention

ignites intuition

of etheric suspension...

submerged in a shadow

of a dark lonely quest

lies the answer to meaning

of a pulsating jest.

I know I came

in sweet memory

to conquer nothing

of all I can see.

Autumn Spiral

A golden spotted leaf

with wry crinkled edges

spirals to the gutter

and takes it's rightful place

amongst the decay.

The Littlest Voice

In a leaf cupped world

that swirls to a fretful eddy,

Thumbelina in a grimace of gas

and the need of a Mother's suckle

opens vein lidded eyes and mewls

into a window of brown-eyed hope.

Music as poetry in entrainment

mirrors the water colored view

of an artist's communion

and summons a pink sleep

that coos a lilac prayer.

Maia is waiting to fulfill the hope

and then flit with gossamer wings

to cornflowers and bluebells

where she'll tender the hearts

of an unsuspecting clan.