it there was not a shallow
mighty as the waters hang
payloads fell and footpaths gave
to mercy they will never ask
whom murmurs softly send sincere
this sinking fife and drum
of burden's restless hum
calling wishing for a storm

remember summer and
gin and vague brotherhood
rising from coma with effervescence
(now look what you've done)
killer of the noble herdsmen
making nightmares should
not be this effortless

calm brings dear ones in
light embraces you
remember summer and
see it forever
rest your lids on that image
before darkness supplants tears

but I won't cry
   because I'm a Gemini
and you won't say you're sorry
   because your sign is Taury!
I don't believe in signs
   but I've been grieving so…
look out brother Leo!

single digit self esteem

even if nothing arises
from the smog of a
million desperate minds'
hopes and beliefs

even if the world is
cold and without soul
and reality is
just what we see

enjoy those thoughts
those beautiful thoughts
if just for their sake
at the least

Sitting cross-legged on a salt pillar.
The threads of fate entangle
My last vision of a unified parade.
Red-powdered shame.
My hope is gone,
So, without Keening,
I pass this task to someone braver.

what goes up
must come down
like my mood
like my friendships

some ******* lie
takes me high
then i end it

what is the point
anyway
anymore
oh, oh

i'll leave my
water
by the door

i've got to SINK
into
SINK
into
SLEEP
gotto gotto
SLEEP
gotto gotto

THINK
help me
THINK
help me
SOME
body body
ANY
body body

it appears,
broadly blending consciousness
and the pitter-patter
of rhythmic rain,
and I don't feel it, but
eight hours later I pass
from its watchful gaze.

Crossing Smuggler’s Gap.
Echoes from the cavern walls
Remind me of once-breath'd kin:
How they lived,
Bound with iron chains,
And coal black whips at their feet!
The rollicking tide follows,
Infinitely pressing upon the land.
Winds the southern branch that way,
Sea’s roar so fresh in the air.
...I am glad to be leaving,
For, to stride the gap,
I do not dare.

Cutting out across the plain
A chill wind and a tear
Turning my back on El Paso
Nothing is left for me there

Somber lie the hills
o'er which my Sally flies.
Darkness clothes the mills,
and creeps by every corner.
Crimson fills the springs,
where once children drank --
like them, I choke
and struggle to speak,
and I sit in the company
of pleasant nature.
I watch bitterly
as the trees grow:
they know nothing of my sorrow,
nor how I have toiled.

Taunting, their gaze peers
down at me from above,
and the crest of every wave,
lit by the dawn.
Oh, if I could be with her:
my pride, my love!
Contently I would
spend my days abroad.
But since she is lost, I fear,
and the cruel wind
kisses me in her stead,
I wish at least to return
to my native land, so dear,
where among those quiet meadows
I would rest my head.

Spirit of Stillness,
i feel you in yon sunny room,
where life is all notebooks and slippers:
beauty isolates,
lagging alarms,
cute curled clutter.

Happy Prince Pillow,
i see you in the lava lamp,
you bubble like rabbits in hopping:
lo-fi fantasies,
twenty-first centuries,
worrygone purring.

let me have that future, just
once. i know you are in me,
and calmer and deeper than
some present identity.

Innersweet Comfort,
i know you want to save me yet,
together we'll wander naïvely:
ticket to air-japan,
youthbright aurora, and
peace never ending.

the snow is still here
trouble is the weather
we are all in pain

Honored companion:
When you return,
let us go down to yon forest,
as our hearts have yearned.
I know a girl of the green
bright balms and flowering hair;
when spring comes to the valley,
she will wait for you there.

As hunter shoots the stag,
so huntress strikes the lad's heart;
leaves crunch beneath their boots,
in crisp handhold they won't part.
Grass drinks the gold dew flood,
orange sun never wants to wane;
but far beyond the verdant wood,
a martial voice calls out your name.

So grasp your sword by hardened hilt,
and with pike upon your shoulder,
live not for the joys of life;
live but to grow older.
Then mount the hills with me,
cast aside your roving bow;
for ours is a life of misery,
and in summer we must go.

Spring has come, and with it rain,
But yester-season's gifts remain.
Still healing sun outlasts it all,
Till fast again comes fatal fall.

...My heart is like the buds of May,
Which yearn for comfort, tucked away:
No wanting soul can know their worth,
Until, from snow, their flowers burst
With vibrant hues and youth unsealed --
That hated winter once concealed,
That hardened bark had sought to hide
-- Now springtime's stem has swift revealed:
Sweet love's abundance multiplied.

Weakly resisting
Your perfect beauty
Your lips of silk
And eyes of silver

My paltry attempts to please
Effaced by your effortless expression
At your lowest
You are still greater

Knowing my helpless position
I am grateful that you
Decided to care
Even for a moment

I bow my head
My struggles in vain
I surrender to one who is
Better maintained

fire and smoke cascading down the green mountainside
the mist-covered forests topple to ash
a solitary ship departs the sinking islands
and the world turns cold in response.

the sun is orange
it blazes hot
but doesn't warm me

i am cold
i am blue
for you, for you

I know a land of salt
and pepper stalks and moss,
whose jagged, hazy coast
a thousand flowers bears —
of Ireland I boast.

Even now my heart is sick
for a home I never had.
If I were there,
what I would do,
I'll tell to you....

I'd show my love the mountain's nooks,
I'd pounce the foeman's daring rooks,
and plunder every dusty book,
and sleep in emerald vales.
We'd clamber up to a secret cave
and there we'd dwell,
away from the pell-mell,
and fast away in purple robes,
pretending we were noble-born
(for Ireland, we ought to be),
we'd in defiance hunger stave.

See now, her cloud legions marching in step
like flares emerging from the wood.
While horses roam her sunlit plains
and flowers shudder in her breeze;
while puddles form in shallow pools,
my watered mind accustoms trees
of bleak and twisted nature,
on the wild icicle river,
coldly biting my knees.

But here afar away,
there's treasure under every
glistening leaf,
'twixt frond and fern,
bristle and bramble,
and bounding stream.
By daylight,
Eire counts every rock;
at starlight,
assesses her stock.

I know a land
whose greenery bursts
in the morning dew,
and gives hopeful cause
to a hundred generations
of stoic sword-brethren
flashing down the coast,
singing their jolly tune,
as the oak decks are mounted
with freedom's guns
emboldening battle new.

Her amber-gilded name spears through
clouded sea and Cambrian cliff:
if every isle were touched as this!
by saintly light from Atlas' air.
She is the jewel of the isles,
the song of countless souls.
As men march down her
summer roads to meet their
tender-hearted lovers at home in
comfort from callous kings, the
breeze will bring news of another
christening or crossing... for then
each girl will spy him coming, and
make haste to alert the town,
and they will all turn out with joy
to welcome home their darling boy;
to herald the ending of famine and war,
and so they will shout for centuries more!

take me
        to fountains,
filled with
        your health,
        and I'll
take me
        a sip
        and be
filled with
        your wealth!

I want to write frankly and without pretense,
I'm young and sort of inexperienced,
But I'll tell you since you've asked:
I have thirty-nine hidden poems about rivers.
Crying poetry distracts me from tinnitus,
Frissonic song evokes inner wants in me;
Ants in my shoe, bites on my knee,
Bends in my spine, quavers in my soul
Remind me of how imperfect I am.
        I've seen a glimpse of stoic vision
        And I'm appalled, to tell the truth.
        I want to give you words of wisdom,
        But all I can muster is my own dumb youth.

You were Temüjin.
You were Tamerlane.
You would not live to see
your works made into fruit—
—at least you lived to see
Castilians and Franks
accost the flanks
of the Ayyubid ranks,
while across the banks
you gave a salute.

ago in a forgotten land
there was a boy that dug the sand
who hoped to split earth like a knife
to reach the eastern sea of life

he toiled away for mindly things
and never wanted priceful rings
the grand bands grew, as he did too
while shade fell on the canned brook stew

at mattress bugs the teachers squinted
of rose and lime, their glasses glinted
they recognized by nose and ear
astute a student passèd here

but, tongue and teeth, head topped with heath
the singing sword had smith'd its sheath
and decked itself in a fanciful wreath

and down he went beneath the sand
and nevermore to surface land

The calm September wind
Hugs seashell clacking beach,
Leaps over shaking pines,
The inland world to breach.
From blue horizons south,
Surmounts the hilly west,
So mountain-walker, water-deaf
Can hear the ocean in its breath.

The limpid river surprised the cat,
He buried his head in stiff bamboo shoots.
The sun was streaming in bright rises from west,
And the river swelled on him so.
But the wind blew and the breeze fell,
The current swept him off the ledge of cliffs.
He died under the leaves beside his tomb.
He died in the dark, under the mist that shivered,
     A lonely, lonely death.

south of a skyward stretch of mounts
lies England, green and white land
her towers felled by ducklings

her geese have joined the wild
the frayed cacophany
of a godless post-empire

now we stare at coffee pots
and think ourselves profound
while Ur's voice grinds a whisper

despairing through weary pixels
each stitch of the telegraph cable
buried in fallen time

and down through the maps
terrifying mutations ravage earth
hurling us far from apotheosis

till the last sod of root
dangles from a broken tree
our rage grows with it, each day
exposed

the dark is a hardfind ember murmur
trapped and wrapped in cages with
pages of longing and wronging brought
to silence, to nothing by the deep, in
which we can see so far, and yet, no
thing we see is reachable.

The icy sea to the north
And the frigid Pale to the south
At this god-forsaken outpost
We alone stand guard

On that bleak frontier, thousands suffered
For the Emperor's cruel project;
Men with hollow stomachs making endless mounds
To fashion his recreation hall.
The monster was alike to its creation:
Heartless in the handling of generals.
When Li Guang, an expert strategist,
Fell into the hands of barbarians,
He played possum and seized a horse,
Riding for nine miles to rejoin his men,
Spitting arrows at his pursuers.
After bringing his troop safely home,
He was recommended for execution.
...Woe befalls he who settles there,
Where exhausted horses go to pace,
Where the crows are the only ones eating.
Should the rice harvest fail, a soldier will go
To the red northern gate and die unmourned.
The fruits of the south are sweet in all seasons,
But the fruit of the Long Wall is ruin and death.

from the pleasant balcony, well
you can see the glistening
of the moon above
maracaibo

all the fair far corners
of the earth are witnessing
the moon above
maracaibo

and all it takes is a spoonful
to get yourself a moonful
don't dilly-dally mister
take your love to maracaibo and kiss her

walking down the avenue
putting your whole life in review
how do they do it, every day?
i wanna dance
and sing the maracaibo way
dance and sing the maracaibo way
dance and sing the maracaibo way
that's how they do it, every day

that's what happens when
you spend your whole life listening
to the moon above
maracaibo

through a record vinyl
you can feel the whispering
of the moon above
maracaibo

and all it takes is a spoonful
to get yourself a moonful
don't dilly-dally mister
take your love to maracaibo and kiss her

The moon above Maracaibo
Deigns to lower its great arm,
Sending broad white streaks
Across the mighty dark.

Around the lakeside chanting
Songs of the evening hum,
Couples dwell beneath her,
Drinking their watery ***.

The moon above Maracaibo
Likes to glint in your glass,
Tasting a bit of that mixture,
Dabbling in perfect romance.

But when the day arrives
To turn the blue grass green,
It waits for pitch-black night
To make Maracaibo sheen.

Then disappear,
fly far away,
bound over cloud,
hide in blue solace.

But never forever,
dear dove, I pray,
for light and love
are with you always.

The hours are drawn and we afar will go
To cap the wanton willows by and by,
To eat and drink, and all that comes about,
That with a man there bays no evil eye.

That one in turn, with others for themselves,
Can hardly crest the stars as they may glow,
Can barely catch the rays of any beam,
Can scarcely fetch the moondust from the snow.

If left to me, I would not come there more,
When moon is red and shining on earth's green,
Unless at last the other suns must rout,
And fade away like me and not be seen.

Then both of us could touch the brink of fate,
And shout without a care the hour is late.

slick sentences afford me frisson
yet i'm not sure i like this chill

feels pretentious esoteric
not vital nor sinful nor ill

one seasoned word of calm
captains fifty voices shrill

Concentration proves unattainable
Without care
For weather or worse
Tirelessly, I prepare my argument.

wrested from the reeds was a man aged twenty,
a poor and dying man with skin as black as coal;
the height of a birch stump, the worth of a penny:
a hefty blanket allergen with tatters for a soul.

There was none universally adored by men;
Though some are loved by all the world,
Even so there are things abhorred of them.

Pick you a jolly good chappie, but dig
To his depths, and you shall find a rotten den,
And all the ugly things abhorred of him.

Good souls live, but never exceed their ken,
Nor let another grasp their heart again,
Though they be loved by all the world.

Still today they abhor Him;
Though He is love and all the world,
He could not be adored by every man.

if the products of your despair
are relatable enough
they can make art

More belongs to he who holds the stone,
Of fortune's birth, the pharaoh of our time.
When words proceed, he directs them;
When foes recede, he compels them.
Hear the labor-stricken bones of men
Wail out from death and sooted soil:
Hail the River King, our stoneworks praise him!
Hail the River King, the rushes raise him!

the sapping dusk denies my dreams frenetic,
it ebbs in icy cattail streams uncouth;
in rural woodland glades, I’d wax poetic,
but shoddy snowbank streets are all my youth.

Four enchanted rainbows
From earth's fair far corners
Surge west at red canyons,
Cris-crossing my heartstone.

One by one, each sect fades—
Blue, yellow, every shade—
Becoming one pure white.
The Sky Jeweler fuses
The flowing lava streams
(Decanted airs, sunbeams)
With cloudless glints of light.

O jovial Jeweler,
Take this magic mission:
Cast a precious diamond
From carbon flakes and coal;
Meld my multicolored heart
And make me truly whole.

Wide awake in shadows of the night,
I spy a moonlit spectre on the right.
The left, a brazen horse of fiery rage,
Styled in ebon ink upon the page;
Trampling prudence down where it may trod,
Spiriting the righteous unto God.
Mane as black as hills beneath the mount,
Where ashen sands and lava wash about,
To gently take the will of those who've come
Afar to find withdrawal from the sun.
Bristling, glistening, shrieking 'neath the moon,
Whistling as it sprints to usher doom.
Afeared my soul appear a facile theft,
I meekly pull my conscience from the left.

What would a soldier sacrifice
To lay himself on cobbled dirt,
That honestmen might vow by oath
To hold together the union?

His purse, his purpose, e'en his life,
Our knight would place on hallowed earth;
The silker, though, would rather beg
To hold together the union.

In victory's arms I sleep at night,
Beneath the fierce pharoanic sun
That built and broke the Umayyads
To hold together the union.

I traveled all the ancient lands,
I found no joy where'er I trod;
Ferns are green where rivers spring,
But lauded hills bear blackened soil,
And joy resides where dwelleth God.

The dawn of man is close at hand,
The fall of man is past its due;
The sword lies shattered in the sand
To hold together the union.

Cross-battles waged on crisping ice,
I won't for martial fame partake,
In fear that I would be obliged
To hold together the union.

Of mortal faith I haven't cared
But, lying now on cobbled dirt,
By faith, I solemnly declare
To hold together the union.

Take off your shoulder
Your rifle and mortar
The war is over!
The war is over!
Take off your shoulder
The banners and
Rockets and targes

We're stirring the best
Of a fine hurrah,
We fought till the last
And we won the war,
We're spirited now
To home on bonny barges!

The lanes of home
Will be all aglow
When we get home,
When we get home,
The lanes of home
Will be lined
With many people

The mothers and fathers,
The lasses and lads
Will shout for joy,
And dance and be glad,
While church bells ring
Returning in the steeple!

Tomorrow the sun will rise
as usual, the moon will also sleep
in a harmonic star-cradle;
the voice of longing will emanate
Tomorrow, from our lips;
bright morning and two-days,
waking safely somehow in our
terrace of the dawn. I hope
the chance will come for you
to view the river city
in all its sunrise glory
Tomorrow,
before the latesummer ends.

coming from over the hillock
the pathway to solitude
the cabrestero singing, ahh…
his couplet in the morning dew

the moon searches for the shadow
the shadow the moon eludes
because that shade is hiding, ahh…
behind the early morning dew

cry no more, watercloud
silence, bitterness
as all milk gives cheese
so all grief is cured
butterfly, watercloud

the morning is making its bedding
over the palms and shoots
the cabrestero continues, ahh…
moaning out his mournful tune

… oh …

tomorrow
when I leave
who will remember me?
only the jar
for the water I drank
bright star, watercloud

to think i were at leisure
to wear plaid cylinders and
pineapple socks
my home a sanatorium
gilded with emotions
insurmountable

i languish under
their whip on my back
a weak will
my god and my psychology
murmuring tsk-tsk at me
my father wowing at
Mumbai's torrential rain

oh wey ey ey

to think it was so easy
to not be half surprised
you took me down a level
and shook me up inside

you took me down

i miss the kind of moments
that make
me
stop and think
and wonder how it was
that i'm so close to you
i feel this way because
you're insurmountable

and i languish under
your whip on my back
a weak will
my god and my psychology
murmuring tsk-tsk at me
my father wowing at
Bombay's torrential rain

oh wey ey ey

Calais was a small disappointment,
And Ams-too-**** good to be true,
So while the red orb is yet to set,
I'll clear out my debt,
And try to forget,
And gather fresh hope on the morrow new.

Vesoul, that was my destination:
I gave up Quebec and Madrid!
Gladly forsaking old
Constantinople, for
Paris awaited my trip.

But I can't make a living in Bangkok,
With poncy jazzmen such as these.
The coffers of kings are busted and broke,
And my heart craves more
Than ashes and smoke,
So tour Guatemal', if you please.

Goodbye to pretty Latakia,
I turn from your shore with such sorrow.
Your flowery air I long to breathe,
Instead of standing alone in the street;
I want to return in a golden-fringed dream...
And gather fresh hope on the morrow.

Paper bags running down the avenue
Cars swerving to avoid them
Companies scrambling for their revenue
Crocodiles in the mists of Tiananmen

Life is not a heaven or a hell
Life is but a finite chain reaction
Dares to be a selfish organelle
Won't evoke the fearsome ire of faction

Swelter of summer in the veld.
An old buggy hums along,
Playing a German tune.
The bushbucks scatter from cover.
Roland dismounts; his partner too
Stares out across the thicket sea,
With quavering jaw, puffs his pipe
And slings a hunting gun.
Says he to Roland:
“Here, we are masters of the plain!
In the company of beasts,
We should not be lonely,
Yet my heart cries out
For land and love that I left.”

Roland stamps a dusty rock.
Arms hang freely, eyes sunken low.
His bronzed face,
Marked with the age of a soldier,
Nurtures a sad smile....
“In the land of Amazons,
We roved like bandits
And lived like kings;
We could take whatever we wished,
Amidst the cries of desperate men….
Don't you see, brother?
Men like us are destined
Never to find happiness.”

...Evening birdsong ushers
Cool night over the veld.

To mention is to men
A thing forbid by woe,
Though beauty seems to flirt
Like first November snow.

In golden coffins then,
They dye the draggled corse;
Their hearts so often hurt,
For silence they endorse.

The truth about her beam,
A daughter should not know:
That sedentary gleam
Sets hearts and eyes aglow.

More wondrous is the dream
Of special moments shared,
When under every seam
Lies beauty undeclared.

Be hush and still again,
And never let words course;
Keep failing tongues inert,
Lest meanings well turn worse.

And though she stands overt
With grace upon the low,
To mention is to men
A thing forbid by woe.