elves in armor
with their magic devices
screens of power
and power entices

let loose the storm

send out a message
i heard the report
you don't need pixels
to keep you warm

let loose the storm

if i had a feeling
i'd send it to you
across the cosmos
no cell towers in view
pick up this warning
take it or leave
cast aside everything
you thought you'd need

WHEN THE STORM BREAKS:
mercury will come and go
our favorite prophets will fashion a new key
as our terrible secrets start to glow
a million children escape captivity
now the messenger birds
perch on the arms of the saints
with intuition and hope everlasting
but for those with dark hearts
in darkness they shall remain
till they can smile at an eagle in passing

love,
I think

love,
I think we're both pretty into this stuff

people always pass away
seems this truth will never change
those whose faces burn in mind
sudden endings leave behind

i thought they'd always be around
i never thought their suns would down
but, worst of all, what makes me cry:
i never got to say goodbye

now i fear of growing old
living with the newer mold
swimming in a sea of hate
against the hurried current's fate
schools of fish that can't relate
to memories shared and friendships rare

take this sad reflective sigh
let it make a last goodbye
to those i loved and knew
with whom i lived and grew:
at the going down of the sun
i will remember you

Farewell to Benbecula!
Pennyland of the fords,
Dark island of my birth,
Dearly I hold
The days of old;
To you I'll never return.

The voice of our ancestors,
In their song of peace I hear—
I will go home from now on,
That day is near.

Farewell to Benbecula!
Pennyland of the fords,
Dark island of my birth,
Dearly I hold
The days of old;
To you I'll never return.

So goodbye,
And for the last time I'll stay
In these dark seas of ice.
I hold the hope of our last parting,
But no hope can ever reburn
What a sweet melody it was....

Farewell to Benbecula!
By river, by shore and by sand:
Pennyland of the fords,
Dark island of my birth,
Dearly I hold
The days of old;
To you I'll never return.

Palatial dawnrise.
Ten thousand petals
adrift over marbled gates.

Troopers beat a copper gong
to mark the festival of renaissance....

Cacophonous choir erupts;
torch-carriers rush
to light the jade hanging lamps.

Jesters smoke cherry pipes by the pier,
hawkish sellers peddle delicacies,
foreign emissaries walk briskly
down saffron lanes.

Once filled,
I gladly soak your culture;
now, at the pastry cart,
I'll purchase a sweet treat for my love.

Flat-bellied sandsurfer:
        Go away from our kingdom!
        We didn't ask for an apology.

Slime-coated worm:
        There is more at stake
        than your pleasure.

Broad-lipped tonguecow:
        Your reckoning is come!
        Now see your deeds brought before you.

We revel in your
faults and failings.
It's refreshing
to hear your
salted wailings,

With
        every
lick
        of the
             knouter's
whip
          upon those naked ceilings.

Blood runs high on Valsabar,
drips down in the
steep valley of cravens –
more news to our ears,
as gravel to our spears,
and our sandal skin
will swallow up
your sand-shriveled
water hut.

down demolish
smallish college
floorish, wallish:
allish fallish

them astonished
knowledge goneish
(near abolished)
us impov'rished

them admonish
gaulish polish
lawless snobbish
tarnish promise

go accomplish
modest homage:
solid, honest
amish cottage

Now Fleming told the agency
what was required of me:
that wind might be converted
to electric energy.

"Before the snow flies,
and with all due haste!"
So I packed my sulphur
and I packed my case;
I ascended glassy stairdreams
to the roof of the place,
and I spoke real plain
to the agency man,
saying, "Take a little risk
on my redan plan."

But all that's left of Scotland
is the spiral runes,
so I'm setting up a mission
on a salt embankment,
and I'll build a nice house
on the green, green dunes.

within the forest sings a bird
a rambling song of life and lack;
amid the fuss he can't be heard,
but heaven's whisper calls him back.

for shelter
my time
is yours

i need
and so
i'll bite
this
tree bark

four score
will be
my years

i'l live
thirteen
and three
(three)
of them

lord save me
from
this
world

let me die
or come
back
something

i once was found
but now
am
lost

saw clear, but now
i can't
see
nothing

Popes weigh loomy on the chapel ground
By gardens delightful our ancestors found.
Brush thinned for us, yet the leaves of yore
We green lovers blissfully ignore,
Amazing our elders how such tyrants bore.

At Glencoe,
Where in centuries past,
Blood ran red on the snow,
Now wrapped in the quietude of summer.

The highland ridges rise over layers,
And sprawl into distant mountains,
Along the grim valley,
Ploughed by ancient giants.

The wanderer finds solace
At a bubbling creek,
Among the jagged rocks;
On each side, they ***** down,
Over shadows of green and brown

A humid chill blankets the sky.
The singing of birds is absent from this place.
The thistle grows where it wants,
And moss sprouts from among the crags.

All corners reflect an apparent emptiness,
Hiding any trace of human touch,
But the winding valley speaks in its own way,
And tells a story of desolation.

Alone in these remote wilds,
The wind carries away the echoes of forgotten ghosts
To the heathered isles of the west,
Or eastward, to the lowland dwellings.

But no reply is heard.
The steep walls silence their voices,
Their cries float eternally over the shady glen.

Goodbye, Mr. Tears, sayonara
Sayonara namida-kun
Till the day we meet again

You were once my only friend
In this world of despair
How ever could I live
without you

But I've fallen in love
It's a wonderful love
And it's likely I can live
without meeting you for a while

Goodbye, lonely tears, sayonara
Sayonara namida-kun
Till the day we meet again

You were once my only friend
In this world of despair
How ever could I live
without you

But the girl that I love
Has the kindest of hearts
That's why I think I can make do

Goodbye, lonely tears, sayonara
Sayonara namida-kun
But if all my dreams fall through
After all, I still have you

slow stiltdock
orange grain  s e a
fat boats chooglin

Trains arrive and trains depart
But none so jolting as my heart
Joy and sorrow, love and pain
Is how my station gets its name

The old soldier I loved,
The young child I endured:
Both gained my friendship
Since we have raggedly matured.

Though clouds of grey
Have swept me away,
Still I oft return
To hear the bark of a thunderbird.

all pictures of poets are gray
and cold like handled dusty brooms
like staves that wait at iron dooryards
to clean up attics of being-sold barns
and houses where children cry in their beds.

i put on gray some years ago
a volunteer of duty, not joy
i was the reluctant doorbelling boy
and rarely i roamed beyond it.

winter's messengers are legion crows
its implements: charcoal smoke and snow
winter and company built a monopoly
over the hemisphere whole; no man
gave them permission. God did.

summertime sometimes gives rust
often the sun shines on ashes and dust
but, on the far side of a mountain
one evergreen pine sprite fountain
in the heart of a Maine May
can fill up our lungs with day
and free us this moment from gray.

I have come in turquoise robes,
Cast out by the breadth of wild waters,
Riding from the cold north
To pursue an arctic sunset.
Each morn I awaken
On the back of a green dragon.
My leather snaps in the breeze;
In the pine islands, oxen murmur
As I fly boldly on the whistling currents.
...My heart ignites:
No more will I mildly give answer,
But courage shall be my cornerstone,
And the Spirit of God shall guide my flight.

I'm half a man
And half a child
Half times tame
And half times wild

One half strong
And one half weak
One half bold
And one half meek

Friday: cold
Saturday: warm
Sunday: whole
Monday: torn

I know, I know
Like bull from calf
I must outgrow
My lesser half

Gazing across verdant moss carpets
And hills cut gently by the rail bridge,
A traveler paints on a platform
Undisclosed, watching the bright cove fan,
Unscaleable, into fjorded mounts.
Brush bristles blot confident masses,
Humming while the thinner brush defines,
But how can they capture in one stroke
The place where foam-film ends abruptly
And gives way to stillwater mirrors?
Or that distant rim, broad and exposed,
Where sea and sky blend and lift islands,
And white clouds roll on forevermore?

Down in the valley of the fleeting stream,
Parched Syrian tongues are crying aloud,
Below, below, the sacred river
Where war took away my sweetheart.

She was bright, now she is blue,
Like the cataracts dividing the stream,
And the tearducts dividing my eyes,
Below, below, the sacred river
Where war took away my sweetheart,

Torn in our tumult
From the bleak parade,
Starve we all like her delicate face,
Now forever blemished.

Therefore let us dine on hardtack!
Suffer for the things of the marble world;
Fast along the toiling road,
To the land of reward, we go.

I compared her to a flower:
The fairest fragrance ever conceived;
To think her smile is a nest for ants,
Below, below, the sacred river
Where death took away my sweetheart.

Alone I sit, I weep,
        My face is clenched by nightingales;
A country stained by grief,
        At night, I hear their biting wails
From ill-wrought molten blades,
        Alike to man and woman;
How can I reason fate away
        By crying o'er her *****?

Change these feelings about me!
I am eager to see her again,
But I won't obey the winds
Above, above the sacred river—
As far as the fragrance is concerned.

No more mourning in silence!
Turn your plowshares into swords,
Let the weak say, "I am strong";
We may yet have the final word,
Before the vanguard departs this world.

I cannot in my aimless nature make
My promises to work and study good.
Before the damnèd test on Wensday take,
I set up for myself a failure rude,
Forgoing what I full soon must address,
For now, for now. I put it off with ease,
Indulging in calamitous excess
Without remorse, till, struck, I beg God 'please!'
If He that fashioned me might kindly cause
The stars in heavens bright to rearrange
So that my hectic life is put on pause,
To rest, to wake, to find resolve, to change,
Then I should own, secure in what God willed,
The spirit to endure and not be killed.

I clung contemptuously
to summerborne auburn misgivings
I sung a tempt to you thusly
but truth overshadowed forgivings

I dreamt that they would take you.
You may think me a fool,
But of this I am not wrong.
My dream was real in every way:
The dull, the dim, the black and grey,
In certainty, I saw you fall,
And I will suffer most of all,
If you will not my warning heed,
If you’ll succumb to lust and greed,
And let them take you and make you bleed,
As I dreamt that they would do.

When you are gone, what will I do?
Shall I go home, alone and blue?
What will your father think of you,
Who let herself be taken?

Your sister will cease to play the harp,
Your brother will sit alone in the dark,
Poor mother will own a broken heart,
Her weeping spirit shaken.

Oh, you might think me a fool,
But this time I'm not wrong.
If you’ll ignite that inner spark,
And tell the flame to pierce the dark,
Then you may know the morning lark,
And nothing on Earth can break you.

Still, you ignore my pleas,
As I sink unto my knees,
And nothing I say—
No warning imploring—
Can stifle your hum and wake you.
Alas! I’ll cry, I’ll sigh, I’ll die!
For I dreamt that they will take you.

If I were bold and young,
As a sailor's son,
For sure I'd sail away;
To the land where my fathers lived,
And I wouldn't give
A thought for me today.

For there in my quiet ville,
At the foot of a broad hill,
Reaching up so high;
I'd go tripping with my love,
Like the fond May dove,
Round the fog of the morning sky.

A fair-haired lass
My love would be,
Come from afar
To dance with me;
And like the dust,
We'd shelter in the caves;
And like the dust,
We'd blow away.

all things being equal
humanity doesn't know
what lies within or beyond

whoever sang the oldest song?
can man and woman get along?
has rightness left, is leftness wrong?

the Bornean native lives in peace
among the trees, he doesn't see
the alien ships approach his isle

there's power in the pocket wood
dimensions where there still is good
and safety in denial

i have come
to the waters

i have come to the seas
for we to be free

i have come
to lament my glory

all alone that i am
all alone that i am

I love a pretty girl,
For her I pine, I long.
I see her smile of pearl,
Then dimly she is gone.
I watch her reappear,
As fair and pure as ever,
And Cupid tugs my ear,
And gently whispers "never".

i'm a child
of the ocean

i'm a child of the waves
where nighttime is day

i'm a child
of uncertain parents

all i hold is my head
all i hold is my head

four seasons
pass in one long month
salt aches cheeks

but i appreciate the service of
turning spiders into bears
i thought that was really kind

i don't want to burden anyone with my sorrows
yet i want them all to magically come to my aid

I hate my mouth
when it spits
each impulse
of the lazy brain,
but you I envy
so much, because
you take that dreaming
and make it pleasing
and pure. and worth.
and I can’t do that....
that’s the way I want to turn.
all my words make little sense,
even these are like the rest,
even these I want to burn.

in my dream,
fringed with sequoias,
she, love of my death, holds me.

in outer space, with no sun in sight,
i open my eyes. and yet more black
surrounds this craft alone, as if its
defiant lids were never unshut.

a glimpse: far-off needlepoints of light,
beyond the yawning gulf of pitch-black,
are born-dying drifts in sightless pits,
digesting in a bottomless gut.

When we are within the tavern,
we care not for earthly matters,
there, brows soaked in sweat,
we find ourselves among the gamblers.
What happens in the tavern,
where money is host,
you may well question,
and hear what I say.

Some gamble, some drink,
some behave without discretion.
But of the gamblers,
some are stripped bare,
some win clothing,
others dressed in ragged sacks.
Here, no one fears death,
instead they're throwing dice for Bacchus.

First comes the payment for the wine,
Then the drunkards drink in line:
They drink once for those in prison,
thrice for those a-living,
four times for all Christendom,
five for the faithful departed,
six for the sisters of loose virtue,
seven for the soldiers of the forest,
eight times for brothers in error,
nine times for the scattered monks,
ten times for the sailors,
eleven for the argumenting,
twelve times for those repenting,
thirteen times for those advent'ring.

For pope and king alike,
all drink without restraint.
Drinks the mistress, drinks the master,
drinks the soldier, and the pastor,
drinks the servant with the maid,
drinks the merchant for his trade,
drinks the black man, drinks the white man,
drink the wrong man and the right man,
drinks the settler, drinks the wanderer,
drink the fool, and the scholar,
Drink the poor, and the sick,
drink the slow one, and the quick,
drinks the stranger, drinks the exile,
drink the Jew and the Gentile,
drinks the boy, drinks the elder,
drink the brother and the sister,
father, mother, wife and husband,
by the hundred, by the thousand.

Six hundred coins have no duration,
when no one drinks in moderation,
although they drink with jubilation,
we receive vituperation,
And so we are in destitution.

Curse all those who slander us,
and may their names not be written the book of the just.

Tepid damp and lukewarm night,
Build your camp by rivers bright;
Sable black and and somber grey,
Silt the river's arms away.

Island tenements rent for cheap,
Bakèd bricks in plinths lie deep;
Stores of merchants and their wives,
Sheltered from the thund'rous tides.

Glance on that maternal shrine,
Softly angled toward the Rhine;
See the men with flowing beards,
Seldom entertaining fears.

Moon illumes a stony pose,
Sun sustains a garden rose;
Temple pillars bathed in or,
Leave mute shadows on the floor.

Olifant horns begin to sound,
Tribesmen fall upon the town;
Riding with the northern gust,
Trampling the homes to dust.

Yet, as gateside rocks abound,
From the ashes, rises now,
Where that city met disgrace,
A mighty fortress in its place.

I saw a fly
resting weakly on the wall.
I smiled, because I was
feeling the same way.
It made me think of you:
Would you smile at a fly,
and lend a small bit of
deeply sought attention?
Or would you remain aloof?
...If I can greet a fly,
why not others too?
How easily you spread joy
to all that you touch;
I will do the same....
Good morning, fly!

I should have smiled
when I entered,
dusted like a corner table
with flakes of Maine ash:
grandiose visions of what
I sought to be.
Passing long marble rows;
walking briskly to comfort;
ushered in by the chill.
Neighbors might see me,
but I am cold,
so I do not smile.

In the longhouse,
they celebrate man's
dominion over time.
They pluck paper crafts
by their roots,
and fashion a little gift for me.
Oh, I am merry inside,
singing of renewal,
but I'm tired,
so I do not smile.

In open theater,
upon the carbonite stage,
I find myself
balancing on a tightrope,
while the audience roars and jeers.
I could play their games,
and surely they'd accommodate,
but I am bare,
so I do not smile.

Then, I'm out in the quarry,
cutting stone into thirds;
sweating from the hot sun.
A family sits across the way --
see how they laugh with one another!
If I were born
under a different sign,
I might join them;
but as this is my duty,
I do not smile.

No, I'll walk in circles
like the rest.
I'll make certain
the boilers are filled,
without time
for green-speckled wishes,
or chatting with friends,
old and new:
It's up and down
the stairs with you!
...To see that crescent
creeping through
the winter sky
would do my heart well....
There it is,
alight on the trail!
Yet still I do not smile.

On the road to destiny,
stuck behind two sisters on horseback....
If I were free,
I would slow
to hear their pleasant conversation,
but as I'm in a hurry,
I spur my horse onward,
my eyes set straight ahead;
my cloak whips as I pass,
and I do not smile.

At the great meeting of chieftains,
we are all
seated in the hall.
I feel the weight
of approaching weeks,
and the cold desert river
that awaits.
My face rises and falls
like the tide on the Aral Sea.
In soft surprise,
I feel a presence behind me.
Surrounded by circling vultures....
No wonder I hesitate
to expose my flesh.
Sands penetrate my eyelids.
I take a quick glimpse,
but I am watched,
so I do not smile.

Soon, I come upon an oasis.
The water soothes
my parched throat,
and I,
a forager,
dismount.
A hunting party makes camp
on the opposite bank.
I peer out through the shrubs....
Only a simple request
would rescue me,
but I am principled,
so I do not smile.

Watching fish jump by the water,
I long for that fading mornglow,
in tattered pots
and cairns,
by shuttered blinds,
where my emotions were kept.
All my love
is cradled in the shade.
Time moves on with haste,
and I do not smile.

At day's end,
I gather my belongings.
I rush to climb the peaks,
that I might meet her on the path.
Again, my heart lifts!
Her face appears in the distance.
With joy, I walk close to her.
I smile a little,
but does she notice?
How can one day's expression
erase those months of melancholy?
Now, my whole body forces a sigh;
I listen quietly to Otemoyan,
and I do not smile.

islands wide the ocean comes to close
mouthing off to nature's maid in wait
deep violet horizons overflow
strike the stars and spill the walls of fate
out in Canterbury, crests of red
cocking o'er the faithful clapping crowd
meat one tired soggy seaborne head
drolly shaking hands and laughing loud
life goes on, one stupid span of time
life persists without reason or rhyme

i want, said
a man
satisfaction got he immediate
day got he quick
without going through
dawn, got the lift up
skyward, never had
to work for a piece
so all men know
he's standing pat.

please,
another man said
was halted
found himself crumpled
broken-ribbed on her
fleshy bottomglass
stretched out
squished insectly
half of him went
with her, she reveled
in his missing half
slow pining gusts
they shook
and trembled
they whimpered beneath
a disgrace that was enough
to call himself counseled
but not enough
to call himself
a man.

i worship you from afar
you ravenhaired evening star
i can tell, i can tell
that you know very well
just how pretty and perfect you are

your shoes are my altar of white
your head rests in heavens so bright
i am so far beneath you
my sighs do not reach you
my being is out of your sight

daws cry on my roof,
viewing musty lights
builded high on rocks.

seven towers sing
your old song, now gone:
it is not my fault.

When ancients in our eyes waged war in green Gaul,
He fought for new wealth and nobleman's glory,
He rose from mud where slave-spears lay shattered,
And raised the good name of his house from disgrace.
Binding giants in a favorable pact,
The consulship could well be attained,
But men of the day could not perceive greatness,
And barred him from beloved Rome.
So he rode out and vanquished the untamed Gauls,
Who once had brought Rome to its fearful knees,
Winning victory after victory in forests of the north,
Splitting oaks in the east, where his sword marred its sheen.
When fleets by Britain's cliffs hemmed the horizon,
When the seat of the Sphinx was polished marble-gold,
There were ten thousand Greeks could tell of his exploits,
And ten hundred Egyptians who claimed to know him.
With rude steel, he mastered the Mediterranean,
And over the Earth he brandished civilization.
In later years, his heirs spread like a stain upon the land;
The seas too were dyed with Roman sails,
And every coin minted bore the face of Caesar.
Even now, though the empire is hardened like iron,
And purple luxury replaces the crimson of war,
There are still a few among us who remember
Our young and mighty red-feathered conqueror.

We are the forlorn wing
The flyers on the foam
We did not volunteer
To leave our sacred home

As takeoff day draws near
We bid our bitter byes
And swallow down our fear
With thoughts of mother's eyes

The rain won't change a thing
But still we pray it pours
As if that pattering
Upon our hangar doors

Would be a good excuse
To ground a dozen planes
We know it is no use
But still we hope it rains

they ride along
the mountain road:
kashgar and
the heron girl
crane their necks
to the shaman's haze,
ploughing out
the humpback’s trail.

with a slow hup-hup, up
down powder trot,
a boombox laugh
and a slapstrum knot;
walking the lake,
talking of the bay,
savor the night:
hear what they say!

bronze battalions
beat the prince,
hide the sambas
inside of their hats;
a summer tent,
a sterling pearl:
kashgar and
the heron girl.

they rode along
the mountain road,
past water cranes
and lily haze;
roaming slow
the worldshell snail,
ploughing out
the humpback trail.

warm palm
backhand tattoo
cold cheek

daws cry on my roof,
viewing musty lights,
builded high on rocks.
seven towers sing
your old song, now gone:
this is not my fault.

asking opus surf-khan:
why no waves, no proof?
vanish, vanish, man:
daws cry on my roof.

tragic eastern pittance,
gas-wronged breath aloof.
banish, banish, man:
daws cry on my roof.

pigeon paper truths,
accusing hoodlack lights,
still nigh in vox.
earthly powers belt
some old hymn, now dim:
this is not my fault.

gardener
I am not ready
don't pluck me