What I left behind was my hope
of a dying, a blindness that caused the untimely
decay and fraying of time
and the spaces which are surrounding.
Sometimes was this little smile
on lips undeserving of the words that
were never to be spoken. I have climbed onto
this hill, embracing the sun and moon, they are
part of my heart, and ever leaving me in circular
motions. I gave up my longing but all that was left,
all that lied in the well of my soul was still
rippled and mirrored.
Crystalline laughter and shared sighs, he
was gone so spritely. And there was silence in these walls.
Black on the white so lovely dark, negative sepia
ground down to skewed visions.
He had his voice and he met me over, in the
pitch blackness this release ought to have been
a make of delighted freedom. It is not my
prison now, maybe just a form of grief. Never more
would I be as lonely.
© July 24 2012
There was a man from blighty
of mature age yet spritely
whom quipped and joked
till others choked
upon their laughter mighty
...... ....... ...... ........
There was a man named Martin
that had a central partin
so he wore a hat
and thought that's that
until it started smartin
Let this be the sign that I am ready to move on.
That I am done with your games,
will no longer struggle to be your queen,
have been tossed from the board,
Let this be the sign that I will never again
try to be worth something to you.
Never try to fill up the bruised cavity of your heart,
or siphon out the black ink from your veins to leave them gleaming.
Because still, in your eyes
I am worth nothing.
Let this be the sign that I will find someone else
to fill me bubbly, spritely, sparkling and red.
That he will press petal-soft lips to my forehead
like you did, but he will mean it
like you never could.
Let this be the sign that being alone
does not always mean being lonely.
That my throat will someday open again
to speak the words
I know to be true:
I will be so much better off without you.
I remember reading
Martin Luther King, Jr's
Letter from Birmingham Jail
Beecher Stowe's Uncle Tom
Mark Twain's Huck Finn
DuBois' Souls of Black Folk
For the first time
The words of Chief Joseph
and Alexie Sherman
And others of indigenous kind
Linger like arrows in my mind.
Of course, there's
Gilgamesh's forlorn quest for Enkidu;
Osiris, Amun, Ra, and Seth,
Homer's Illiad and Odyssey,
And Virgil's Roman treatment -
(For whom the gods destroy
We all must learn bereavement).
I remember reading
Milton's Paradises (lost and found)
And Dante's Infernal quest for Heaven
Through the bowels of Hell with Virgil's spritely guide
And up the Devil's staircase with Beatrice by his side.
John's Revelation of Times' End;
And LaHaye's money-making Left Behind
Apocalypses here to chill my mind.
I have surveyed Dead Presidents
Both Roosevelts, Ted and Frank,
And smatterings of others...
Then hopped the bookish pond to read
Sir Winston and some others,
Not the least of whom is Gandhi G,
Taught by the Queen to free his brothers.
I have studied
Though Jesus is the "Word"
He never penned one).
British poets's thoughts,
Tale tellers long-dead
Have found their way
Into my head:
Beowulf and Chaucer
Old moral plays
Shelley and Keats
Scott and Brownings
Burns and (not) Allen
Spenser and Shakespeare
Dylan and Tolkien
Lewis and Auden
And so many more
That I leave on the floor
Western Americana I have loved
Hemingway and Steinbeck, all worth the time,
Mari Sandoz' Old Jules, and
Rolvaag's Giants in the Earth,
Keroac went on the road, while
Joseph Kinsey Howard showed us the West
Lewis & Clark in journals scribed
Their journey west and back again
I can't forget psychology
And so I will digress
Or Sigmund's accusation stays
That I have but suppressed:
Ellis, Freud, and Eric Berne,
Pavlov, Skinner, Thorndike, Watson,
Wundt, and Wm James, Piaget and Chomsky
Then Vygotsky and Bandura put a social spin
on cognitive psychology, and Everybody's in.
Diverging and Converging, psychic students, all
Could never make transaction
'Til Rogers tried to make some peace
But Ellis wouldn't have 'im.
And then, of course,
The lighter stuff,
The popcorn of the mind:
Clancy, Rankin, Carole Keene
L'Amour and Will James
Stephen King and Poe,
Cruz Smith and Leon Uris,
Grisham, Deaver, Cornwall,
Asimov, Bradbury and Herbert,
Carroll and Baum...
In haphazard fashion, I am starting a collection of writers who give me an understanding of the world's color and shape. This is just the beginning.... If readers have suggestions or reminders, I will add the ones I have read....
Daily next to nightly
a hurricane so spritely
she is lightning treading lightly
Watch the clouds part politely
the arch angels drop their jaws
eternities untold enfold
at exchange of awes
she who turn times cold
and marvels at my flaws
as if tattered-torn
was no means to mourn
I will never attempt to escape you
I seek the cure beyond a pill
a happiness that will not kill
I refuse to let hypocrisy permeate my veins
equilibrating the imbalance present in my brain
nature is no antidote, friends a strange reminder
photographs are no map and I dearly wish to find her
the girl beyond the darkest days, the delicate spritely flower
with prescriptions waiting to be filled, life waits another hour
and if my only option is cowardice
then valiant I will be
the martyr, the savior, the hero
prided in my misery
It's romance all is leaving in a spill, it's
caught between crevice hedges and the dawn, it's
over neat the nightly shadows climbing and it's
over you my spritely shiver coming.
I hear (not watch) the mistress harvest, ris-
ing buds, my swelling blood (oh) a time a taste it's
mine, it's teeming (touch). It's coarsing its ever
constant smooth its fragrant ruffled groove, it’s
it's mine, and in a spill its special seems
(oh) it's not the meld it was. It's not the
promise post oh promiscuous play it's
our closing breath, our little end of day
"The Gathering Storm"
Shifting, churning, swirling, .... the breeze comes spritely
from the slate colored billows of the thunderclouds.
A gentle whisper at first,..... then building to a crescendo,
tickling the underbellies of leaves..... and rolling them over.
Bending the supple tips of branches to a rythmn
unknown to any author of music.
A rythmn of nature following no rules.......
and knowing no bounds.
What reason shall it follow,....
when the flapping of a sparrows wings,
And brief stirring of the air by a single bird,
......a half continent away
Shall have a cause and effect on what...
we feel pulsing against our exposed skin.
Is it not so with us,.... each one of us as a single sparrow,
flitting about and mingling with other creatures
Shall we not have an effect on that,.... that we touch
with our alterations of what is... and what was
We can only have hope,.. to manage the chaos
of the seeds that we sow... and the sprouts of our intellect.
Not knowing what will grow from our aspirations of changing that
that is .... to that,... that we dream it to be.
Shall we dare to become the God that we have worshipped .....
Shall we dare become the ... Sheperd's of the universe.
Perhaps, !! ..... but we must lay down the rules and know the bounds.
Let us not forget,..... we are but caretakers
for the creations of a greater spirit.
"The Gathering Storm"
Written By Dennis Gilchrist
Let's go out tonight and in the cold, we'll
Spirit ourselves away until
The sun appears, in little
Nooks and hollowed tree middles.
Let's go out in the dark moonlight
And take these clothes off right
As soon as we step off the edge
Into cold wetness and nearly freeze to death.
The precipice will smudge
When we walk down the sloping blur
To where the water is photoshopped so nicely.
Our throats will no longer be sore
So we will shout some more,
So we will shout some more.
Hopping spritely across the river on rocks
With our hoods on and our knee high socks
We shall transmute into the smallest flock
Of Canada geese.
Crystal is once again, up the draperies.
She has a veritable path of claw marks
leading from the floor to the curtain staff.
I have decided to ignore her when she does this.
But, as she is lurking behind me, atop the draperies, it is not an easy task.
At any moment, I expect her to pounce.
Ah! Like father, like daughter.... in a sense.
I realized tonight that I excel at being a Vampire.
never a drop goes to waste.
Never a witness spies me. Not one that lives, that is.
Never do I go hungry.
Never am I bored, or boring.
Why only earlier this night, I went to the Ballet.
A spritely tune was played by the orchestra, while dancers ran hither and yon upon the stage.
I was dressed all in black.
Bland I know. But "Society" demands somber dress
at the oddest occasions.
I have my own box, from which I enjoy my privacy, while enjoying the entertainment.
Oh, not the entertainment on the stage.
The entertainment of playing the gallant host to my next meal.
I wine and dine them.
Regale them with lively anticdotes.
laugh at the right moments.
Look regretful, when called for.
Show shock, when due.
Outrage, when warranted.
In the end, they leave my box and my company, none the wiser.
mayhap a bit wan and listless.
But, always grateful for a lovely evening.
They always blame their condition on the wine.