Wednesday, August 26, 2009

A Token Moment

Take me away to the land
of sun drenched cotton sheets:
white, crisp, clean, and cool,
to wrap me in cozy comfort.

Let me live in a land
of baby kittens, fuzzy bunnies,
and lovely lambs who stay
cute, cuddly, and curious.

Fly me to castles of mist,
floating through magickal chambers
where dreams come true
in the wink of an cloudy eye.

Wash me in a gurgling stream
of chortled laughter
and then dry me, gently,
in petals of wild meadow flowers.

A simple return to the sweetness
of being alive...

if only for a moment,
now and again,
as I gaze through a grimy prism,
squinting for rainbows.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

Joni Mitchell is my Heroin

Down by Sea, in a colonial
living room of plaid
middle class disdain,

a teen lit a candle in despair,
woo'd by a voice in breathy
soprano and mystical chords
of a strumming guitar...
she sung my resonance.

She knew the way down,
the darkened ladder descending
into a marrow bone of waves:

I was a bleacher blond living
in a concentration camp
of mediocre canyons.

I followed the pan flutes
of her voice, the flickering
of her enlightened chanting.

The soul-less grunts of
yesterday's hero:
of an unmatched cynicism
shook his patriarchal head...
"turn that shit down"
"the dark ladder," I retorted?

A roofer-sider
out of work from falling,
out of work and broken.

He hated her singing.

She warned me it would be like this
as I swayed and swam
in her spirited enchantment ...
the bass of piano chords rowed
me away from my dulling future.

Her neon beckoning...
I knew she was knowing ,
the candle never fickered
as my mom peeked in
from a distant room...
"leave her alone,
she's different"
was all she dared to say.

The only thing I have to give;
"morning in Morgantown"
lulled me to a silent acceptance
as wind rushed around our dirty town.

Now, I hear the voice
graveled in a paved paradise
of fuzzy croon,
warned us not to lull in the
wooing of an unfeeling world...
tears fall as I tune into my fix...
her voice
wafts through our bedroom...
conscious sedation and jungle
quietly in the darkness
still blow a womanly jazz riff.

I love her dearly. I love him too...

Thursday, August 20, 2009

A Whitechapel Moment

A fog of incoherent descent
on the impoverished streets,
alit in the glow of gas lamps
and the whetted stones from
Clydesdale hoofs on the
dusty, drury, cobblestones.

A trellis of bloom in a night's
tethered earning in tawdry
tulle... red, ripped, and spent.

Pollyanna walking to a brindle
of a hazy birthright writhing,
then marching in stride to macadam.

Each step a drunken death march
to a barren chatter of a silent surgeon's scalpel,
eviscerating a soul with no known enemies...

The silence was deafening.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

The Bite of a Klondike

A silver cloak of Arthurian legend
with the Nordic lyre of Runes...

Unwrapped in the biting
cold of a milky melt,
covered in hard, dark, shell
of chocolate...
a brittle break of ice floes
and Aristocracy, once known.

I bit in...
candlelit envy
of a partaking,
misunderstood as
sweet flowing cream
encircled the wrists.

A cow formed in the silver cloak
without a wrestle. A hedgehog
in misty melt of pagan mist...

Avalon calls in a druid dream,
fluid as juicy remembrance
biting at the bit; the bark
collapses in cream and a licking...

a paper fragment
of a dancing palate
to a clock of
sleeping babe...
a pig in nestle smiles;
sleeping sure solace
of a delectable future.

bang! crumple and kiss
in the shadow of a
flickering flame,
swanning dive
in a bracken pond...

The crickets sang for me-
those who remember
a stock in trees and
wood hugging.

I believe in miracles,
and magick...

i don't wonder why.

Monday, August 17, 2009

A Gypsy's Life

It's a rag tag tale of talisman...
roving and wondering
what went wrong...
awry, askance, avarice
for solace,
and then the slide off
of an elliptical moon-
them not me...

They want sense out of
I laugh and writhe
to a comical find,
bodies are not night
of the living death.

A moment , a flicker of firing
and a nap...
oh, all the world could be
summed up in a map
and sown to cover; a featherbed of fret...

Pithy and poor pithy me,
is shrieked in quicksand corners,
pointing a glued finger to toddlers who
merely ask, Why?

The sap of the past in dismissive,
says it's not really so...

An antichrist who dares question,
bold faced and unabashed
in the drinking of an innocent
fountain of thirsty question...

I'll not be condemned
by a chorus of dead scholars
or those who seek answers in ashes...

Your Phoenix has no wings to fly...
it's all the same to me.

Cry of an Apache Rain

A soft spoken mountain man,
a real butte
dusted in coal clad dreams
of a pipe and a fiddling,
a nursery rhythm of
flowering trees
in a rebuke of nitrous
manure; the playing
of pinochle from
a pasty of pope
in a shale filled lunch box.

Edgy in a mumbled sentence
of illogical rightfulness,
swaying in balding
sad eyed wonder...
what went... wrong?
as the world raced on,
he slowed to a crawl
of cynic lefty,
shouting slurs at a TV
that no longer cared
bout truth...

Rain on an Apache plain...
it was supposed to be palliative,
radiating a scalp of speculative
knowledge in an excruciating
twist of a broken neck...

Tuffs of hair fell out
as a second torture-
I felt his pain in the recapture
of a howling cry.

We as dancing Matildas
relied on morphine and grace
to set things right...
we shared a Guinness
by the light and song of a rose
garden and fallen tree...

There is peace to be made
in this broken world,
at least he knew the meaning of pal
if only for a moment.

A patch of forgiveness
and acceptance is all he sought
from that fearful cry.

Dry eyed, I kept his promise secret.
The rains will come again.

Thursday, August 6, 2009

The Tease of the Updo

We the downtrodden,
try to make pretty sense
of the world marching to the beat
of squeaky enamor in horny
tunes of dissonance,
the chaos soothing...
a men's club and a
hair full of female undoing.

It wreaks the havoc of
a good coif and a teased bouffant,
we know they like the subduing
in an up-do tourniquet.

We linger in wait, as waifs
on a wharf of retching barf,
in submissive undoing
in the mission of a position.

Name me one female jazz musician,
respected in a man's nested nurture-
and I'll rest my casement.

Sunday, August 2, 2009

A Quickstep to Your Dirge

I hear the gravely nostalgia,
an inarticulate genre
of American roots,
strumming kindred
rolling blades...

A sharpening awareness
butter churns a wink
and a slow dance;
cheek to nipple, delivering
raised upturned brows
and crooked grins to
speak in silent tongues.

The swaying dance
of a token minute,
precedes a tidal moment
of a savory minuet;
timeless in fetching clutch
and whispering touch-

un fait accompli
head to head,
pinch and tweak,
thrust and squeak...

we save the sands
of the hourglass
in flip tide and green grass.

There's no sleeping
in the daylit hours-
efficiency has its just desserts
in rocking shores of an easy chair.