A Man In Search of His Style
It so happens to be June.
It so happens that the picture window
Frames a contented, bay lit, full moon.
Searched for an answer lifelong
A devolving, lilting song refrain:
Man what is your tune,
What's your style, finally?
Examined so many rooms,
Tried out different beds,
Jumbled now, assorted, some sordid,
Some long winded, florid,
Some cursive, cursory and accursed,
Some so bitter-filled I shared them not
Lest I infect you, a sin in F major...
Love poems galore, and yet to come,
Some seriously desperate suicidal,
Some ditty, even a mite witty,
Some eurythmic, most free versed,
Rhyming is where you start,
Free verse when you're all grownup,
But all this delay, begs the question,
What's your style, conclusively?
Con-cluded, cannot be all things,
Took the con to ascertain the
Truest course of my abilities
At Port Serenity,
I write what I see,
A head lifted from pillow,
A seconds-long act of inspiration duration
Becomes in moments,
a fully formed poetic inclination curation
Literally my eyes see words awaiting coordinating,
Poems flying by, needing plucking,
How a child eats his morning cereal,
His rituals informing, of the man yet to be,
How our bodies lay, hair unbrushed,
Tying us into a conjoined knot
T'is the mundane, the profane of every action,
Makes my lips move, personalized prayers framing
Perhaps this is a condemnation of sorts,
Ordinary things might bake ordinary poem cakes,
Residue of an ordinary man, an ordinary poet makes
So be it, tomorrow is a farther day, when
My vocabulary may be a word greater, lesser,
But knowing now that the spring source topical
Fills a well so deep, so close nearby,
I rejoice, mineral springs, waters of inspiration, plentiful
No matter that plain words are my ordinary tools,
With them I shall scribe the small,
Cherish the little, grab the middle,
Simplicity my golden rule,
Write they say, about what you know best,
Surely in the diurnal motions,
The arc of daily commotion,
Do we not all excel?
For this, if be, my gift meager,
I, on blended knee, freely embrace eager,
Promising you that life ordinar,
Together we shall celebrate'
Fully, and most fair.
June 15th, 2013
Meister Fluff sat on his throne
Meister Fluff had a gruff tone
Meister Fluff had great guile
Meister Fluff had no smile
Duchess Grace heir to the throne
Duchess Grace had a nice tone
Duchess Grace loved by her peeps
Duchess Grace had rights for keeps
They hated each other Fluff and Grace
And wanted Grand Candy Place
To rule over the candy peeps
And carry them out of the dire deeps
Meister Fluff and Duchess Grace
Decided to throw pies in the face
Both felt that they could be king
But they did such a silly thing
Pies and pies and pies and pies
Attracted so many little flies
The flies then bit at the candy peeps
Now Fluff and Grace had no rights for keeps
Nothing in the nature lives by itself
Flowers don't taste their own nectar
nor they spread their fragrance for themselves
Trees don't eat their own fruits
The sun doesn't shine to warm itself
The rivers don't quench their thirst
by drinking their own water
The ocean provides homes for the sea creatures
the earth, the moon, the sun and the stars
have they ever lived even once for themselves
Living for others
The rule of nature
To provide and serve...
Poetry is just a tool
To speak your mind, not serve as rule.
Constructed help to bear one's soul,
Declare one's love, or friend console.
To speak in verse is but a scheme,
A packaging for fancy dream.
Fixing meter's common place,
But it's up to the writer's taste.
To rhyme, to pair these simple sounds,
To fuel the whimsy, feed these hounds,
Can sometimes be itself a crutch,
Or hind'rance if it's used too much.
The feeling and it's heartfelt message,
Speak more than some structured presage;
Create your voice from humble words,
An ode or sonnet, praise or gird.
Loose your arrows, verbal arcs,
And dot the Earth with sharp remarks
And when the last launched barb should fall,
Who minds if they should rhyme at all?
For my BPD,
From years of self-abuse and uncontrollable
Because I was always told to be better
Even at my best.
Just to sleep
Because I keep myself awake
Thinking about how fucked up
Everything always was.
My life could be ruled by these three little names
Until I have no more breath
Because I can't even rule my emotions.
A wave-washed gull calls like a silver horn, on the whisper of the Portwinds.
A heavy trawler slices the water, chomping seaweed with its rudders; a distant thumping thunder, on the whisper of the Portwinds.
A woman gave birth today to a lad at sea, but what nationality shall she claim for he? A radio signal goes out to her parents, on the whisper of the Portwinds.
A creaking mass in the dark of night; "Did you see that captain, or was it my mistake?" The shadow of a trade-ship from centuries past, on the whisper of the Portwinds.
But something rumbles, something turns, something quakes and something churns; what lay in the deepest parts of the ocean that we cannot rule? There's rumours only, and their songs are sung, on the whisper of the Portwinds.
For who we are, and how we are bound; how we are governed and how we were found, Australia is a young tale, still being told, on the whisper of the Portwinds.
Yes, Australia is a young tale, still being told, on the whisper of the Portwinds.
time and earth we plunder thieves of resources bellies filled with pride we can always sleep but never live again pushing houses together filling the air with death minefields cruel to ourselves and one another so easy to accept power over faith greed over truth name your poison I"ll gladly serve it free of charge limited minds come forth out of nowhere to rule over you each four elected year they teach how to pray save yourself for congress or the house surely won"t they will steal the air out of the lungs with taxes making all want to lie down until unmitigated danger has passed
I'm not your ruler, nor your king
I'm not your friend, nor your kin
I'm not your enemy, nor your rival
less you speak to me of items, non-trivial
do not speak little to me
unless it come in a riddle from thee
the darkness that flow from my being
is pure wicked from the chaos that is fleeing
wicked princesses and deadly princes fall silent
they try to be violent
in front of me, they pleading to stay by my rule
they want to be my simple tool
but this is not a game of chess
for only my grim princess receives my blessing
for I've become the dark king
with my demonic wing
the king of silence
War of man 'neath the flesh
brought protest to test the rest
where scripture and governments collide;
the death of a greed's republic
seeded minds in temple fiends and feuds
within the guise of mortal dissidence,
haloed in league of thorn and a devil's tide.
The foe's design birthed bestial rage,
whereupon the deeds of mortals took their stage.
Centuries of idle chatter and fell tongues
wrote themselves in silent text;
when the legend of the mighty Nephilim had passed,
the fairytale of a divine phantom
who resides in the alleged jewel of Heaven,
was elected to rule the devoted guests .
Holy tradition sought to torture billions
in the name of God and his flawless house
rent with soothsayers, perverts, and hermits!
Sedition in the tortured billions
were privy to witch hunts and praising palm fronds;
how convenient that Satan never changed
in the history of this church,
and the wars of mortal man
through the certain reinvention of the church
to destroy, abuse, inspire, and prompt
become its own end
as it is written in Revelations!
My friend with moods of thunder burns a rose,
On barren trails of blazing rock by shade,
Whose soft and pretty petals won't compose
The beauty, most explicit, gods had made.
Seduce me with your pinkish lips unlocked
Where spill the love once caught by virgin hands;
That in this present day, where I am mocked,
Removed from you to never free the man.
The ring received will end what I thought love,
And take away that angel face to rule;
Your flesh is grieved to wash with rain above
When you had brought my bleeding heart to school.
The tragic ripples in my life amaze
This mind that searched since birth in many ways.