Wednesday, October 28, 2009

The Comfort of an Old World Charm

It is gray, damp, blowsy,
and cold upon on an October
hearth of unwashed ruddy stone,
illuminated by the crinkled
lore of a child's knotted art.

A spiced orange candle
flickers in the light
of a setting sun, not seen.

The smell of an old book
devoid of linear logical thought
tangles emotive emissions,
unleashing the saline dripping
like a wash of unsobbed tears.

Rain lashes at windows
in tapping cadence
with the swallow of
a drainpipe's belch;
a backlash of rushing leaves
is heard through the windowpane.

No clocks are ticking
in the timeless luxury
of a plush pillowed couch.

A stoic velveteen rabbit
twitches as the yellowed pages
are lovingly captured and turned
into a tapestry of transcribed loss.

A sonorant sigh acknowledges a sentiment:

Ah.....Proust take me home.

Monday, October 26, 2009

The Screams of Attention

In a cold hearted world
of unfulfilled dreams,
androids seek their claim
to a promised land...
fifteen minutes of fame.

"How can I assure
my rightful place
in the televised majesty
befitting a royal flush?"

Shakespeare and Verdi
could not see it coming,
when everyone would get into the act...
high drama of tragic consequence.

A hungry world eats it up
on crumb laden couches;
dramas composed by lesser maestros
delivering popcorn stanzas and arias
devoted to misfits of ill-fated greed.

Thousands, nay, millions
worship the failure of
lives lived in plunder;
from a pair of crazy eights
to a jiffy pop launch...
now that's entertainment.

"When is it my turn?"
they wonder and munch
as they stare at the spectacle.

Tune in to your own tale
of woe... advertise, then broadcast
the last rite of despair...
they're at least clever plots
befitting a banal twitter.

Are you too waiting
for your own demise?
15 minutes of fame
isn't worth the wait,
of a lifetime of hope.

Sleep lesser gods of splendid drama,
you were trumped by a soup can.

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Parade of Wonders

Oh the clock ticks moments
in precise progression...
marking a moment that leads
to an end... somewhere.

The parade floats by
in a waving procession,
a wafting of hand
signals a vacant stare.

From the memory of lilacs
and hawthorne in bloom,
nothing compares with the
wonder of an innocent youth.

We live in our cork lined rooms
watching the parade of parody
march by with flags, and bugles,
and banners of bravado.

It's no wonder that the wizened cry
as the drumbeat of the past
dings a harp string and clutches
the last sobs of a distant bagpipe.

Silence is an answer too.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Spilt Milk

A dreaded howl already known
lurked on the horizon,
a storm had passed... or did it?
Inklings of dark clouds wafted past the pastures
that reeked of manure and primroses...

The first clue... a simian screech
igniting a headache
of pubescent misdemeanor.
There were soothings and smoothings,
as a lowing cow grazed on
in numb and utter resistance.

"Seek the high road,"
the gentle and kind Guru chanted
as the forlorned bovine
looked for answers in the cumulus.

In the chewing of dumbfounded cud
the Vichy water would not digest... I digress.

The eye of storm transcended
over pastoral plains
and rose colored glasses
were donned in the milking.

The screech of an owl forewarned
of a sorrow's melancholy,
the sleeping monkey has awakened
from a slumber of revenge.

A high road of victory has washed away
in a gully of mud and stones
to the hey of a delta.

A mournful lowing
will not share it's misgivings,
the cane will hurry
to it's sugary conclusion.

The plains will lie bare,
quiet, and contented
before a house built on straw.

The high road continues...
yours was a climb to a polar capped trove
not worth the expenditure
of a drop of soured milk.

The path to the least resistance
will continue.... unencumbered
by the vanity of a perfect reunion.

Friday, October 16, 2009


The carcass of a flesh eating behemoth
swings in the frosty flash-room
to the swing of a butcher's shining knife.

Marbled in grey and white
with blood clotted... it hangs,
no longer dripping
from a sacred slaughter.

The spatter of drops wasted
on an industrial washed apron,
as beefy banter of clobbered bull
blows frozen in breathy puffs of bravado.

Refrigerated caravans are coming
to take the crude hunks
of sculpted meat to the overfed.

In a darkened corner
a young mother cries
as flies feast on her offspring...

as the offal of beasts are offered to a wasteland.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Last Man Walking

A lone vestige of an old world order,
slumped and domed
he seeks revenge on a world out of order-
chaos really.

Holding the reigns of a glorified Dog...
a Loki of sorts,
as his wife chattels about,
while a daughter once pixied
broadens in horizons
of a designer label...
a harangued husband
is nowhere in sight.

A stoic banner of resignation
is no banner for a Hierophant's
cry in the wilderness...
he seeks a jungle of woman's despair.

If only he could have snared
the dusty relic of Lucy's bones
and pulverized them
into a gentleman's snuff...

he would still be a contender.

Saturday, October 10, 2009

She Rizes

In the soft blanket of a black wool sky,
she rises, as clouds drift below
offering white clasped hands
to hold her esteem...

The poets and dreamers and children
can see her sadness,
although she is smiling
in the melancholy colors of autumn.

Upon a leaf-strewn bed of crumpled leaves,
an offering, a gratitude is whispered...
"they know not what they do,"
and a clouded sky protects
by colors of graying wisdom.

A shifty preamble to scientific skiffs
in search of water ships drowned...
a blast of bussed explosives
shoot to silence her in a plume
of vomit smoke, not once but twice.

I watched in spite of my sorrow,
as images sought were images lost...

Alas, a Mother's forgiveness is boundless.

Saturday, October 3, 2009

Life is an Onion

An orb of thin skinned parchment,
a velum of belief
which coats our past.

Peeling the first layer exposes
the white lined flesh,
layers of thickness
like the dendrochronology
of trees...

somewhere in the undoing
of rings is a core,
where tears were never
meant to be shed.