Wednesday, September 14, 2016

The Light that has no eyes, or ears...

Well, I knew it was coming this wave of light
as I always knew everything is all right
in a left hand play the stage is set,
an actor in a play of not yet. The stage has been set.

Feeling quite human in chaos it seems, stifles all
thinking and heart wrenching dreams, a poet's dilemma
no secret it seems. I got onto my couch and into my dreams,
meditation if you will, the colors and feelings that some humans
spill... a fly on the colors shows up with free will.

I spy, then I cry... Love is my mantra, no question of why.

Calling for help from heavenly spheres, that come to my anguish
and know why I'm here for the basking... dolphins are there for
my asking.

The Light is blinding and I'm not afraid, cuz I promised to
be, and to be is just brave. In a full fledged attack I hold fast
to my heart, that barely quivers in a body of dark. No snark.

Wake-up from dreams that hold colors not seen, the One Love
of All Love is not what it seems. It's beauty without any seams.

A promise is made for my soft sorry soul, I have two more wishes
more precious than gold. Keep a family solid in love and in mirth,
keep the dream alive is my gift and my worth.

Blasted back to a humble couch, a dream that is living
if just for a day... a Love that makes all fear go away.

I'm thankful that I've been targeted today.

Tuesday, September 13, 2016

Catcher in a Ball Game

"Davey, everyone wants to be a pitcher, we need a catcher."

Famous words from the Family of God or some church,
we remember the animation and know the tune
and those lessons of children still echo as a rune
in our minds... these thoughts come in rhyme. or not.

There are pitchers who swagger and hold the ball court
and jesters who watch and know that the rules
that preside, secret hand jestures taken in stride
to the knowers only.

In front of a crotch, it's the manipulation
of the lesser of jock. A catcher will pick up the slack,
to make the game look easy as a crack in ice, when the
snow glazes over. As a simpleton dog, gives commentary
to the slackers that think twice. Dog-gone dogma.

Play you fools or don't get paid, and if you're lucky you might
get laid. A games of thrones, to the homeys unknown.

Now give us our bone.

How does it feel to be at home, all alone?

Saturday, September 10, 2016


In the beginning, in some circles was the Logos,
or the shhhh... word. A dangerous conspiracy of
sorts, when the wind, the birds, and leaves always
shone fine, like an infinity sign. An eight, like a
crazy, but not broken like a nine.

So the logos, or legos, or lagos, or sow the lugos
saw through from the beginning of our time...
a new age, so fraught in history and so sublime...
a matter of a concept so lonely, like a decrepit father,
could only be time... yes. out of mind. fraulein.

oh, no, it's mother goose on the loose... take a gander.

The word as I write is so proper and contrived, poe it try...
but it ain't like my homey who died. A mystery to the one who
loves poetic hisssstory. Honey, take a pill... I feel a chill
just waiting for the hot sweat of sympathy. Yea, you do know me.

Logos, the beginning and end of a psycho trend, your word is only
as good as your name brand... you jolly green giant, I saw it in a birdseye of yesterday. As green man of Starbuck grunge, competes with the runner of Dunking... I'd lay scones to donuts that it will never be free... it's just
Logos trash talking the money out of me. Curious or curiouser, I have none, don't you see? A looking glass wish that took a devil out of me. A crow giggles by,
thinking, a raven i'll be. Nevermore, a folly of wish for your soul...too easy. (duh)

It's when I sit on my tuffet, shunning those curds and whey, I am the spider
that frightened and fancied those lascivious gods and snared them away. Logos,
as word, has nothing to say. Uh...

Good day!  

Thursday, September 1, 2016

Antique Match Girl

Little antique match girl,
huddled in a corner starving
knowing the certain fate and yet,
in the shivering cold the new
becomes the old. An icy purview
is all that she knew, as the last
of the lighted tiny torch
burned her fingers and stung
her mind. Oh it's not unkind.

She came for this as a poor me dove,
did it for sorrows and did it for love
of a kind that the world never knew,
that lighted flame snuffed the fame
adieu. She knew that dreams that count,
don't come true. But still, she pursued.

Now some would say that it's perverse to
abide with something that longs to expose
another side of a coin, but the time isn't
right until the feeling is home. Alone.

The hero's journey is hard to bear, when in
jester's doubt you have not a care...
you sit like a lumpkin to some truths
laid bare... it's a rabbit joke to the march
of a hare. Down a whole of hard to swallow.

You came to lead but not to follow.

In a cold and wintry hollow the little match girl,
still... after all these years, will not and can not

... and i as a fragile hummel am apt to crack
if handled by the bargain hunters. For I am free
and not for sale.

An antique sentiment still dear to my heart. As the antique
match girl's world falls apart.