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May 2 · 246
Dream Sequence
I was young again for five minutes yesterday
Like the ache of a long day of yard work
     my spirit aches for a hot bath 

Sometimes the measure of a man 
     is what he doesn't do yet could have done 
     His dreams and fantasies safe in his heart 

In a fast car, heart racing to the back seat 
It's what cemeteries after dark were made for 
I awaken with the dead
As appearing on Writer's Block Party
Apr 18 · 400
That Day
There were Canada geese
      Red-necked Grebe and Wood Duck
      as I flew into the river

I met my wife and children 
We swam in water
      filled with diamonds and fast fish

At sunset we huddled together
      in our nest 
      under the moving lights

In my dreams I was a man 
      who didn't catch any fast fish 
       that day
Mar 8 · 4.2k
As I Turned I Woke
I'd heard about problems with police
hard to hear harder to believe
personally I never had a problem
oh a few well deserved speeding tickets
probably cut a break no definitely
I drove very fast especially in the turns
roll-the-tires fast in the turns
that was me

and the more I heard the faster I turned

as a young kid I applied and was accepted
to six colleges six for six piece of cake
why the stress my SAT score equated
to an I.Q. of 1 above plant life
accepted open arms those WASPs loved me
graduate school one for one
      best in the country
bar none MBA with honors that was easy
they called it the golden passport yes

passports are even faster

I never had problems
   with band-aids
       the bank
the insurance company
      the healthcare system
never turned down
      for a credit card car loan
life insurance policy
      or request for a specialist
experience is the best teacher
      and the more I learned
the less I wanted to know
      and the faster I turned

then I learned
   about certain specifics
      certain policies

with regard to traffic stops
bank loans rental property
heath care voting rights marriage
read the color purple
and then that invaluable government  
       syphilis experiment
that would have been inconceivable
       even to doctor mengele
that the star spangled banner
       has more than one stanza?  
really there were four stanzas?

MY country ‘tis of ME
      and it was making me feel *****

learned that no one
      voluntarily held that flag up
that hellish night
      o’er the ramparts WE watched
as slave and freedmen
              were ordered
      to their near certain death
with the threat of absolute
      certain death

then I watched a cop
       shoot a kid in the back
              in cold blood
near a merry-go-round
on a playground
in baltimore maryland
I liked baltimore
fast very fast he emptied the 10 round clip
of a semi-automatic 9mm Glock 27
into THAT kid's back no hesitation ******

baltimore baltimore baltimore baltimore

I hit the brakes hard
      on those fast decades and decades
generations generations generations
      of turning
I slowed down way way way down
      stopped
took a deep deep deeper breath
then did what I always did and do best
I turned turned turned I turned around
and as I turned I woke
to kneel
be more than words

> As published in North/South Literary Canon
Feb 10 · 507
It is Written
Be the places you will become
Live the lost days
Don't bother melting the past
Live today thawn
Remember only tomorrows
Filled beyond full love
Read it Say it  Dream it Feel it
Believe
thawn
Jan 28 · 3.0k
Swan Song
Navigating the morning migratory commute
      Mother Luna, Venus Magus, Jupiter Rex
      and little cygnets of pink appear
            —just for her

She hums a few notes
      from her Hildegard repertoire
             in memoriam
      to a mostly recycled paper cup
      organic hand-roasted coffee, fair trade
      brewed by a kid, her favorite barista
      because he can quote Albert Camus

She soars on a plain of existence
      Alto Cirrus Allegro
      where gods kibitz in several languages
            —at once
      on topics that span the gamut
      of not-so-trivial pursuits

My Pen, at her desk, preens her brand
       though this is the season of her last days
       an executive where money
            is unapologetically—God
       where women are hens
       recognized holistically
             as the large fleshy area
             that surrounds the ******

It's difficult paddling upstream
      in that sewage
      when you are a swan

That's why, I, her Cob who surely,
      surely by true gods that fly
               do not deserve
      such a precious spirit feather as she
      calls to her, waddles my mating dance
            —just for her
      spreads my wings
      to flap scents of sky in display for her
      cranes my neck to honk
      across interstate traffic
            and elevator gropes
      to bring her back here—home
our pond of still water
for LoML
Jan 7 · 1.5k
Edging Eternity
There casts a lilt of light
      out past horizon's reach
Standing ankles wet against eternity
Feet transfixed in dusky shells
      the souls of this pearl beach

She calls the faintest whispers
      above skin and wave and gull
Beyond a length of swim or tangle of kelp
Beyond a barge a ship
      or barnacled tanker's hull

I cast her back this ribbon of line
      and skip to her a stone
That sinks beneath my depths of breath
The salty wind that moves my will
     my feet my skin and my bone
Jan 4 · 3.1k
Forest Spirit
The deer trail is more still than quiet
Scents becoming louder than vision
Eyes close in deep temple breath

There is no more beautiful rain
     than forest mist
Sprigs of fog that are at once
     barely seen barely felt
Bundled moss like hyssop soaked
     in holy
     flicked with urgent intent
     soft wet sprays make clothes
     my nakedness
A baptism that fills my lungs
     with the spirit I belong
> May The Forest be with You.
> As published in Dark Horse Appalachia
> As published in The Indiana Gazette
> Listen to me recite Forest Spirit at
             DarkHorse7 on Bandcamp
Dec 2018 · 5.7k
Joanne @ BINGO
Girard Tournesol Dec 2018
Her platinum blonde hair was a firm
     spunky Irish when she was a kid
And compelled me to wish for time travel
     as I have loved her since she's existed

She says she'll table dance if she wins
All for a package of crackers I'd have
    never kicked her out of bed for eating
Says if I'm lucky she'll pick Mardi Gras beads

I told her that from her wedding picture
     Veronica Lake had nothing on her
She said straight into my transparent heart:
     "I've had a good life"

. . .and I was lucky
> As published in The Pennsylvania Poet's Society magazine, PENNESSENCE
> As published in Dark Horse Appalachia
> Listen to me recite Joanne @ Bingo on DarkHorse7 BandCamp.
Dec 2018 · 631
Purposeful Breath
Girard Tournesol Dec 2018
The heart beats slower laying down
Weight of grave dirt heavy underneath
Sleep of the dead being a rapid rest
Fills the now with purposeful breath
Dec 2018 · 1.4k
December 25th
Girard Tournesol Dec 2018
Sun and Moon posture a battle stance  
Charge of darkness parry of light          
Pagans celebrate the Sun's advance      
Four days from the longest night
Dec 2018 · 386
Persistence Personified
Girard Tournesol Dec 2018
She comes the blankness between stars
Nothingness strawn through enlightenment
Death has always been a when for Now
Yet like the universe, we persist
Dec 2018 · 2.1k
Dead Elves
Girard Tournesol Dec 2018
Dead Elves lay red-green vinyl metaphors
A lawn-full once happy helpful industrious
Now lifeless realities of common folk
Blown away by puffs of truth
Nov 2018 · 4.8k
Owl Song
Girard Tournesol Nov 2018
. . . there's a path that could not have been
can't be but shall be seen by wise eyes 
all seeing all knowing belonging to you 
yet not you in some form sideways 360
nonexistence up safe in a tree perched 
on the brink a vast ethereal forest 
nocturnal wide-eyed visionary
A tribute to  poet Byron Hoot.
Nov 2018 · 989
Loneliest Hour
Girard Tournesol Nov 2018
Pale the drown of tears before the light
That loneliest hour of the day or night
From breathless slumber to death's door
Seeks the soul the haunts of peace
Nov 2018 · 1.5k
Note of Common Things
Girard Tournesol Nov 2018
The chime of common things
Keeps time with chords of wind
Calls me a soft note
In the music of the spheres
Nov 2018 · 784
Grooming
Girard Tournesol Nov 2018
Eternity combs my hair with stars
For those I've loved this long life
Oh starry, starry, starry night
Part me on that painted dawn
Nov 2018 · 3.8k
Epiphany Squared
Girard Tournesol Nov 2018
Did Pythagoras create
      or discover his famous theorem?
A squared plus B squared equals C squared
       — For a perfectly right triangle —
If created, well done.  
        If discovered . . . say your prayers.
Nov 2018 · 4.9k
Bamboo Forest
Girard Tournesol Nov 2018
The bamboo forest favors impermanence
Flower petals, thunder, snow flakes
So let the time traveling tourist tell us
We will have something to say about this, later
National Sucide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255. May you walk each step in the garden of resurrection.
Nov 2018 · 5.3k
Breast Behind Lace
Girard Tournesol Nov 2018
She is filled with smooth promises
Suggesting what might have beens yet to come
Languid and persuasive above the clouds
Sweet nothings whisper, "love is out there."
Nov 2018 · 817
Now
Girard Tournesol Nov 2018
Now
Morning greets me with surprise
A silent knowing of gratitude
That now is all we ever have
Delivered as patient birth
Nov 2018 · 8.2k
Children's Story
Girard Tournesol Nov 2018
Some will always be children 
And for them stories always simple
Little and Big, White and Black, Good and Evil 
Them and Us . . . plain and simple
Nov 2018 · 1.3k
Roots
Girard Tournesol Nov 2018
The wind is full of shallow nothings
Drought, fire, vermin, climate, poverty
Rustling the leaves with a gossip
Deep roots will never hear
Offered in the age of "alternative facts."  Peace.
Nov 2018 · 14.9k
All That We Love
Girard Tournesol Nov 2018
These are interesting times
Blessing cursing each moment
Smelling like the '80s
Rhyming with the '60s
Cringing like the '40s
Gasping at '17

It's The War of The Worlds II
Man versus man versus nature and self
A free-for-all melee, just name it
Where bacteria and viruses
     and gas and atoms
Will be our doom in the end
But not before we've wreaked havoc

on all that we love.
and so it was. .  .
Nov 2018 · 3.1k
The Promised Land
Girard Tournesol Nov 2018
Vinnie had the confidence of a roman statue.  His emerald-isle-fiery-red-hair belied a family heritage that had emigrated to The Promised Land from Northern Italy, not Northern Ireland.  What few friends he had called him “Little Red Ferrari” or LRF for his fiery red temper and uber-ancestral pride.  

Tonight’s rain in Freedomville meant wintrymix.  Vinnie had just been 86’d from the German Brauhaus and now LRF was driving his Pontiac Aztec home at wintrymix+.08 speed,  Statue of Liberty proudly gorilla-glued to his dashboard.  

His mind couldn’t quite process the dark wretched masses to be a family out walking the road at this hour in these tempest-tossed conditions.  He pulled over, flashers blinking, lamps high.  The golden door of his Aztec opened, LRF-adrenaline pumping. What were they thinking?

“Sir, we are hungry,” (señor, we are hong-ree), the man said as wintrymix pelted them. The children—smiled?

What are they thinking/doing, in some human way, suddenly felt like nonsense.  These poor huddled people in freezing-wet clothing were here, hong-ree.

Vinnie’s mind saw his own pride in them.  What courage! This man’s people built pyramids!

“Vieni qui,” Vinnie said in Italian pointing to the Aztec hoping it was close enough.  It was close enough.
Flash fiction entry to Plazm Magazine contest, "Opposite of Hate."  Winning the contest is not the point.  As writers, contribution to the higher purpose is our reward.  Participation our Victory.
Oct 2018 · 190
Street Poem #2: For Trinh
Girard Tournesol Oct 2018
The door to my room
is the door of my solitude
that opens my soul to those moments
of thoughts and feelings

like the fresh scents of Fall
and the memories of leaves
blowing in the yard
when my father’s car pulls in
As created on the street, a local Art in The Park event
Oct 2018 · 4.8k
Our Last Virginity
Girard Tournesol Oct 2018
Oh, how I delight in the taste
     of my lover’s scent
     as she cries out my name!
In my arms, a slender orchid
     worshiped to soft placidity,
     she murmurs
     do I still yearn for my virginity?  
And I whisper, my love,
     ten thousand times
     ten thousand times, no.

For what we tender feel in lost virginity
     is not for lost virginity alone
Not for a shred of skin or a drop of blood;
     what human being mourns this?
That small ***** we feel
     is the eternal mortality
     of all lost first experiences.
Then let us thank the Gods they spare us,
     for now,    
     our last virginity.

Think now upon the family and friends
     we have lost
     to disease or hunger, to time
     or accident, to addiction or war.  
How shall we remember them
     if not their names?
How shall we speak of them?
Will you remember me?
     Or shall I become as dust in this temple?

Loudly, all my loves, hear me,
      come now with me!
Let us leave this temple for a time,
     walk with me to my secret garden
     where we shall remove these robes
     and look upon one another
     with the gift of acceptance
     and where
     we shall place flowers in our hair.  

Where we shall hold hands
     and walk a bit farther
     to the river and bathe one another
     in the moonlight.
Then let us return here to celebrate
     the memory of the fallen
     as the Gods intended.
Let us remember the names,
     let us speak the names and lest we forget,
cry out their names.
A tribute to Sappho
Oct 2018 · 4.3k
Winter Stew
Girard Tournesol Oct 2018
It begins with the proper heat of summer          
Simmered slow with the joy of expectation  
Perhaps a dash of color to keep it real                                     
Then we turn the heat off and let it set up          
Add a splash of wine or two from the cupboard  
A dash of pumpkin spice just to feel crazy            

Save this big batch of winter stew in the fridge  
Because, like life,
. . .it’s always better next day          

Congratulations.  
You’re now prepared for winter.                       
Eat, Drink, Love Yourself,
     Love Others, Love Life, Live,
And may you always be merry.
Oct 2018 · 6.0k
A Sea of White
Girard Tournesol Oct 2018
A sea of white
Favors hallowed ground
Where dotted lines track snow angels
And souls are lost to release
A druid spell conjures delirious bliss
Tasting the snowflakes
Kissing the cold air
Hugging the entire sky
A great and simple magick stirs
Holding mitten hands
Warming nuzzle noses
And the smell of her hair in winter
As published in my book, Time Travelers, psalms of fern, v.2.
Girard Tournesol Oct 2018
The fall came suddenly, almost by surprise
With just a slight twist of an old unforgiving hip
Against The Wind

Unceremoniously, He lay prostrate in it
Face down in a pyre of leaves
A pile of autumn, and since the fall
A heap of _ _ _ _
Against The Wind

How easily he was raked in
By Jack Frost, the apparition of breath
A cool and colorful caller
Always calling with and never ever
Against The Wind

Stillness lay within the leaves
Each one a day in His life
A harvest of days
Blessed or cursed, but fully lived
Against The Wind

His nose spoke first and led The Way
Tickled into sneezing he inhaled
The mossy joy of his youth
When falling into leaves was sport
Ah, to fall
Against The Wind

Then his mind wandered to
The fried green tomatoes of summer
That yellow zoot-suit from his prom
The sweet kiss of ruby red lips
The amber of those moments
All golden sunsets birthed by the night

He rolls over to look at the sky and trees
There are yet a few leaves on This tree
He stands to face the rake
He knows will turn into
The ache of the snow shovel
Yet again, another season
Against The Wind

He leans on the rake
He looks head on
Into The Wind, and says:

Should this winter bring
The Ides of March
So be it, they will come, as always
And should the angels come for me
So be it, I will sing with the angels
Should the demons come for me,
So be it, I will drink with the demons
And should the light come for me
So be it, I will bow to the light
And should the darkness come for me
So be it, I will burn like leaves
To warm the darkness
Eternally
Against The Wind
As appearing in my book Time Travelers, psalms of fern, v2
Also as re-published in The Watershed Journal
Oct 2018 · 9.0k
The Blue Bottle
Girard Tournesol Oct 2018
The bright blue bottle hit me like a hint of death
      on the breath of Spring.
I imagined it being tossed out a truck window
by underage teens fancying themselves clever
      and mature and immortal

as if the earth had willed upon them
      that her stolen treasure, Aluminum,
be returned or she’d cause their truck keys
      disappear for all eternity.
      I picked up the blue bottle

tried to feel resurrection
      in a recycling sort of way
felt instead only the hollow emptiness
      of mindless eternal reincarnation.
Winter had been long this year and lately
I fantasized resurrection more than usual

at a field where I stopped to listen to meadowlark and field sparrow calling for mates or alerting everyone to the sin of the blue bottle.
Several deer grazed the unseen first greens of Spring near skunk cabbage and coltsfoot.

At a small stream, I cupped my hand into the icy fast water and raised it to my lips, then splashed my face, then splashed some more, more,
then knelt, both knees at the streambed and submersed my face and head,

in self-inflicted baptism
      for my own blue bottle sins,
opened my eyes, exhaled all my blue bubbles, for the longest of repentant moments,
      pulled out of the water
      gasping the holy Spring air
      for dear life

and thereafter walked each step
      in the garden of resurrection.
> As published in The Watershed Journal.
> As published in Dark Horse Appalachia
> Winner Editor's Choice Award, North/South Literary Canon
Oct 2018 · 1.3k
Dance of Tomorrow's Song
Girard Tournesol Oct 2018
Dancing with Her
     Shimmering ballroom light
Holding Her hand
     Hoping She thinks She might
Frankenstein’s Bride
     Hauntingly lilting sway
Eyes loving eyes
     Dancing the night away

Quick cold Her lips
     Pressing upon my own
Somewhere my love
     Years of my life have flown
Tomorrow’s song
     Echoing from the past
Dear life so long
     Living it to the last

Tomorrow’s song
     Resting in peace my love
Dancing no more
     Dreaming the undreamed of
Somewhere my love
     Into that long good night
Tomorrow’s song        
      . . .
Oct 2018 · 2.9k
A Bad King
Girard Tournesol Oct 2018
A bad King may spoil even the best of times  
We fable a good King’s aid in the dark ages

In our royal age of infinite information
We have royally forgotten the meaning of knowledge

In a sapphire dungeon of instant gratification
We have misplaced the majesty of pleasure

In this kingdom of self-indulgent ignorance
We have lost the nobility of wisdom

Can any subject ever again decree:
‘Tis better, The World, without a King.
Oct 2018 · 1.6k
Alone, You are Not Alone
Girard Tournesol Oct 2018
Alone, you are not alone,
     for I am there with you on that walk
     through fields of melancholy
and Queen Ann's lace.

In your garden of tears,
     hands soiled with loam,
     I am at your side gardening
the mint and the lemongrass.

In the rain, that walk in the rain,  
     you are not alone.
I am there with you on that walk.
Though ten thousand see a terrible fear,
    
you will feel me and my love in that rain,
in the flashing clouds
      and the thunder and the rain.
I am the mud
      between your toes and your fingers.
And in the end when you wash your hands,
  
in that silence of finality,
there I will be helping you   wash. those. hands.
> As published in The Mirror

— The End —