All I need
is to smoke a little ****
then climb out this window on my own

Cause when I fall far behind
the things in my mind
The length of my day day goes awry

As I bleed like a seed
from water thats freed
Can I call you to talk on the phone

So we can hunt like the lions
then dream with the bears
or I could hold you against me till dawn

I do blink when I think
bout how the river did shrink
And all the diamonds I've slipped through these hands

Though now I know that it's true
after stumbling near you
That the ice blue roses can grow

Let me find your lips
softly finding my way to your heart

Let me feel your pulse
still knowing tomorrow may not come

Let me internalize your scent
then drift inwards towards dream filled sleep

Let me go wanting more
more of you as you are in the light of day

Let me hope for more time here
to further understand who I am with you

I could love as the window sees the sun.
Open and Honest.
Simple and Pure.

Just open the door.

I could love as the hanging apple sees the moon.
Bright and Round.
Large and Swirling.

Just lift the curtain.

I could love as the angels sleep and dream.
Vast and Steady.
Hopeful and Engaged.

Just pour the wine.

I could love like the sail takes to wind.
Swift and Lean.
Powerful and Sharp.

Just share the time.

In hope
of skies blue,
vast and undeterred
are drying tears-
collected by unseen smiles

In threats of frigid
but burning ground below
is repentance-

A repentance found both sooner and later
One heavy with pastures of green- but none ever greener

In ancient words
from gilded pages,
bound in leather
hope and need

Are no ripe answers for the raging revolution,
only variant notions
shifting from here to there- and back again

The method of the three,
is mystery
beyond compare-

Black like the dark hours
that hide
the light of the day

Now and then-
all that can be done,
is to follow-
on bloodied foot,
over barren land

The aim of the carpenter
and his dinner guests
is and always was
direction

Purpose from an old- but new compass
in which one chooses to follow, deny
or silently go in search of other lovers-
all of a lesser degree

At the table of offering-
is space for bended knee
and an odd but abstract desire
for service

Not to self-
but to those who surround,
and swim in the very sea
in which the struggle
it is to cross

At the heart of creation
are mountains
and sandy crystalline beaches,
then city roads

All leading to country lanes,
fields, rivers, lakes
and vague dreams

Alas though,
no discernible
or translucent choice prevails-

All that's left
is the true and meaningful will-
of the weary traveler

She evaluated,
assessed and condemned
the mind,
and slights of tongue
but never attempted
to glimpse
inside my heart
which always swelled and heaved.

Those early weekend mornings
spent alone  
while they slept
and the sun climbed
broadly in the sky
were only safe because
of the proximity
of their souls,
her soul.

Maybe the outside
doesn't always reflect
what it can
or should
or doesn't show but feels
in vast measure
the way way a child feels
he's being carried.

Now idle winds blow
seething to be old
and free
of the minds own
burdensome choices
and rhetoric
about the ice
never again getting to melt.

Never being freed
to move from solid state
through flowability,
then wind its way
with out weight
down the road
toward yet another
chance at redemption.

That burn in the back of the throat isn't real.
It's an after effect. A side bar.
Psychosomatic. Problematic. Symptomatic.

Crippled in sentiment and misunderstanding.
Viscously bleeding from the mind in colors.
How lost to have gone and wandered there.

Clearly now in repose, there was no "them" to save at all.
Only him and his strangled mostly dying agreements with the sun.
That remain standing between the here and now in need of repair.

****!

To our mothers, sisters, fathers, brothers, cousins, friends and spouses that lost their lives that day, to those we didn't know at all who said goodbye to their people for the final time that day, to the hearts of those that mourned along side a grieving nation.

We have not forgotten you, we have not denied ourselves of you and your memory.

We love today because we once loved you, we live today because of the way we once lived with you, we sleep and dream at night hoping its of you.

After sleep, tomorrow, with the new but very old sun, we'll rise. We'll breathe and stretch and move forward- heads high and hearts full in your honor. May God watch over us all.

Good Lord I loved those old days.
They way that life it glowed.
West Virgina misty mountains-
a girl I used to know.

All the people I done roamed with.
oh the songs that we all sung.
In that subtle little accent-
the sunrise always young.

Thank you for your time Sir.
Pleasure to meetcha Ma'am.
Here's a kettle full of memories-
and a vessel to be manned.

As we ride across the channels.
All our demons strong in tow.
Its every tiny morsel-
that gives us strength to row.

Downward way past furthur.
Always fresh right on the mind.
Is the way the forest parted-
when we left it all behind.

Ah but never to be forsaken.
Somewhere on a shelf.
Is a little piece of all of you-
and a shadow of myself.

Holding a candle tightly.
Keeping up the pace.
An empty highway driving-
simply searching for some grace.

To keep up with ocean.
Then ride up with the wind.
Just to get up in the morning
find another place to swim.

Swirling ledge
caught
Ebb and flow
must go

Wind waving
ride
here and there
true lie

Tune change
time
Live and die
unwind soft

Parody smile
luscious
Cut and paste
mortaly deep

Even style
portal
Laugh and cry
sleep wide

Long vail
absent
Push and pull
run left

Breezy notions set to mingle.
Blending country winds.
Regal elegant dance.
Burning brightly.
Luminescent.
Darling.
Soft.
This light sees the light in you.

The fact that I caused this- is the sun.
The fact that you let it happen- is the moon.
What lies in the space between is inconceivable.
There is no strength great enough to hang in the balance.

Unrequited it's a blessing to have truly loved. To have dangled precariously from the branch of another.

The actual limb at the fringe holds in its hand a magic. Leaking as a river flowing swift to the sea.

A tree of many roads not unlike the spine and nerves. The game comes along the telephone wire morphing like a child.

Hardening over time is the vine so thick and wide. Lost in its abbreviation an hour hand that never moves to slow.

So empty- the plant in the corner waits for light. Listening to the sound of water flowing through its veins.

Still gaining maybe even thriving, minus the aching break. Breathing and holding on to the wind pouring through his hair.

Of fair essence and hope
a radiant beauty
awaiting her prince

Of long desire and heart
a tired warrior
bereft of oar

Of souls bright and warm
a universe forged
together in time

like  love  heart  
time  oh  sun  
long  just  mind  
know  old  life  
way  night  need  
light  man  true  
eyes  place  day  
soul  water  rain

In desperate need of water or food
one would not need love.

In search of the sun the moon and the stars
one would not need love.

In the absence of shelter and warmth
one would not need love.

If blinded by the truth and stumbling down
one would not need love.

If cast away on a foriegn shore poor and broken
one would not need love.

If drowning in a sea of hardened tomorrows
one would not need love.

If sleeping and barely breathing in the dark
one would not need love.

Into fair maiden stone walls this tale is woven.
Just down past a landmark that together they'd passed a thousand times.
Here now, for the first time in twelve warm seasons he passed it alone.

Continuing and projecting forward he raced against his own fading star.
Seeking a style of justice that may not even exist.

While inwardly imploding large fractions at a time.

Dying the death
of a king
turned breathless pauper
thats recently watched
all the grains of sand
pass south
through orbs of glass
towards the grave.

Reaching to the heavens
from the floor
entwined in wails
and deep sunken moans
that labor in pangs
of anxious moments
which last for hours
and are only ever superseded
by short fits
of shaky sleep.

Hope and its former entitlements
simply derailed-
shattering each
of an un-numbered tomorrows
leaving them void
of how it was,
even though
that may have
been better
for sure.

However
when grand vistas
are moved by heavenly verse
or demonic desires
and the clouds are blown
east toward the sea,
its only done
so that the past-
has a chance
to dissipate.

Then appearing
far to blessedly late
is the painting
under the painting
of that holiday
when things seemed stronger
When sadly
it now clearly seems
we were silently
slipping away from one another:
one sliver of space at a time.

These hollow eyes tell a different tale
of a darker more nefariously slanted reality
that nobody understands but you.

How it was this- then that
and then that and that
then finally what its become.

A charade orchestrated by synapse and fear
as well as a lack of experiential experience
that I  followed earnestly with my heart.

The unbearable weight of truth weakens resolve
bending intentions like magic bends the mind
until all energy flows away from the source.

The bridge now rests in water
with eddy's creating and dissipating
where the metal meets the cool cool water.

No longer can the other side be reached
looks like we'll camp here for the night
they'll be no crossing the divide today.

So Happy That Your so **** Happy
That now I'm lost and kind of sappy
Then again its all so flimsy
That I can't begin to fathom whimsy
Or sense the point of all the scuttle
And the dark spice of that laced rebuttal
Heard like a shot popped across the middle
Go down to the river and sing hey ****** ******
While you wish you were quick and svelte and nimble
And could dance like a black cat on the green thimble
At a lounge by the sea down deep in the night
Where I'm never wrong and you're never right.

We all enjoy a new flavor
But he can never remember you at twenty five
Full of hope and wonder, seeing the world as possible.

He can never hold you knowing what its like to watch you give birth
He can never wake up next to you knowing for sure that you make him whole
He can never feel your hand upon his leg the way that I did and smiled in silence.

In the dark perhaps you'll remember my name
remember the way I sought you in the early hours of morn.

In the light he'll never have what it takes to hold you when hair grays, bones brittle and teeth rot.
In the light he'll never see you as the link that makes all whole and holy.

I wish to swallow you whole. Holding you safe and warm in my belly.
We'd then be largely as one.

You'd travel with me always, but sadly- your hand could never rest on my knee.  Oh how I loved that.

What a conundrum of years.

Amidst the not so silent- jeers: As my bubbles become tears.

Oh folly of the mind

why do you sweep the pieces up from the floor

when they were safely in your hands

now they've crashed into earth and life

clearly sailing to the bottom of the well

no longer able to breathe in our hearts.

The vase

was bought for a fair value


The price

love, hate, joy and tears

years


trials and tributaries

veins filled to the brim


Now the vase

has been knocked

from its base


It’s still ours

as long as it does not reach the floor

If it reaches the floor

A million pieces it will become


There’s a time and a place

to catch that vase

to stop the fall

but the heart is weak

the mind is wicked and belligerent and confused


If the vase can not be caught

all will be alone until it is reborn

the wheel will roll hard and fast

from its foundation

no longer producing

what it produced

for a decade of holiday seasons


Oh folly of the mind

why do you sweep the pieces up from the floor

when they were safely in your hands

now they've crashed into earth and life

clearly sailing to the bottom of the well

no longer able to breathe in our hearts.

Like metal to the magnet.

Drawn like butter for lobster.

Like sand to the shore

As sap to the tree.

But why.

But How.

But when?

Like hops and barley to an ale.

The peak to the mountain.

Sediment to the stream.

Scent to the nose.

Oh My.

Oh wow.

Oh how poignant.

Rocks don't like to be kicked and moved from one place to the other.
Also it is not their favorite to be under ground.
Feel free to skip them on soft water, skipping is enjoyed.

But alas when the rock screams.
Even the loudest screams fall so very far from the target.
And through beating pulse felt throughout its being-
The rock breathes, bleeds, sleeps and cries.

For it must be heard: although there are none to hear.
So in silence and at the flimsy whim of the elements.
The rock just perseveres -
It knows not: what else to do.

I want to watch you write.
Sense the natural and unnatural light in the room.


Browse the books on your shelf.
Feel your mind and body gently rocking back and forth.


Smell the potpourri and candles and the faint hold of cinnamon in the velvet curtains.
Extend my hand to the softness that is the back of your neck.


Hear you sigh and relax.
While you let tiny things safely explode inside your universe.

Theres an old man downstairs dying

Fading like the sun


Outside there’s babies crying

Songs that must be sung


Old clock it keeps on ticking

Until time it-selfs undone


When the angel rests its weary head

There’s no more bullets in the gun



Like a headline on your face

We know the time has come


All burdens must be lifted

All battles can’t be won


By any mortal man

Thats basked under the sun


Or any creature flown on air

Or any fish thats ever swum



Sorry there’s no answers

For anyone to seek


The world they say it goes

From the mighty to the meek


So believe in shiny diamonds

That can be sifted from the creek


Then polished and made substantial

Simply strong instead of weak.



Somewhere the rain must go- the way a river finds the sea

Heartbeats are like seasons- may they forever rest in peace.

Dare me to leap- From ledges high and wild
I dare you right now-  to leap from the curb
Find out what exists - when the China Doll is broken

Longing for you to hear - the words that have been written
For a clue's clue - to your own wondrous mystery
A key to your very own grandfather clock

Time when passing in brief clips - can be so, so cruel
Letting on that we know with the way our bodies move
That all that's left is tired and ready for bed

SeaChance                                               Twitter May 4th, 2010 8:40 AM
  
A Shipwrecked Voyage - 1 - 9     20 minutes ago via web
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           A shipwrecked Voyage: Verses 1 – 9 can be found at http://chrischance.tumblr.com

beholden green
the hot road
rusting groundless leaves
icicle landscape

St. Four leaf Clover
Skewers on the grill
Candy on a trail
5th avenue in snow

Busting sprouts
Dandelion Wine
Harvest yellow
Yuletide fire flame

Rain filled creeks
Dried up clay
The last hurricane
Rains turns to ice

Heaving seas of uneven times
Misty misting mist in all the air that you see
Decades gone and come, how Dylan had it pegged
From here, where is it that we go

To the mountains, no thats been done before
Swim the canals from which we were born
Burrow in the ground to sleep the winter long
Trickle in space or fade brightly like the diamond star

After here, it aint all that you see
Cast aside your dreams for sleep
Begin to end or bend to win the prize
Stand on the shore feel the rising tides.

Be strong like a sun floating in her womb
Thick screaming vines hang from a crack in the moon
Thirsty leaves grow on stones before they crumble into earth
While lean green moments fall like rain on grains of sand

Old grey skies tell tales of the once living dead
Then breathe like bleeding wounds on hard red wood
Go cry like the boulder, having no valley in which to roll
Or stumble home like the warrior that has no place to go

Christian0 and Juanita

A Single Act: Three scene script by Chris Chance- April/May 2010

Prologue:

There love took place over a decades  time on the island east of Manhattan and in the valleys between the northern tip of the Blue Ridge Mountains and the Tuscarora Ridge of the Southern Pennsylvania Appalachians.

He- no saint at all, felt in his heart a hero but ultimately hid behind svelte armor that protected him from a fickle and judgmental world.

She- a creature worthy of the lead lady in a classy novel- pure and once so very innocent. Statuesque and of absolute sense- commanding her world but building high walls around her red heart as she went.

The fields spoken of in this tale were accurately planted and lovingly nourished long ago and they still grow, multiplying their essence year to year. What great hope the author holds in his blue heart for their harvest. What great hopes he has for us all.

It is understood that the sins of the original garden have heft upon us, as a civilization a life of confusion, doubt and pain. It is with faith that one carries on believing in the goodness of a divine creator and master of all that you know.

Said in this story, it’s believed that he or she, the divine that is lives in two places simultaneously.

First; among the stars painted in the style of Rembrandt meeting Picasso, laughing the way Chaplin must daily at the absurd nonsesilogicalness of it all, crying like the poor ******* who’s let his whole future slip through his foolish little fingers.

And the Divine, the great source of energy in the universe also lives in a certain part- or nook - or cranny- of all things that breathe and/or return with the spring.

It is the voice you hear right now in your boney skull. It's the feeling you get when you forgive. It is the obligation you have to reach up and hold steady your fellow man.

As the author of this tale drops to his knees seeking guidance from that hidden, divine and breathy spiritualness he silently cries out in his pain.

A pain he never knew existed. He’ll silently ask to be prayed for now
and at the hour of his death.


Act I Scene I:

She could snare me in a trap by my ***** and hang me to the cherry tree. Yet my love for her wild flower remains – growing stronger- gathering and harboring the strength of welded tycoon steel.

This love you see- is no ordinary love.

It’s a love of passion and flame but one that culminates with no possible conclusion.

This love does not merely flow - but in actuality rages deep and wide- flowing so deep and so wide that the queen herself could traverse it in comfort.

And now alas, her love.

The love of ours- alone, no longer vast enough in its capacity: to carry on.

And it shall be furthermore, that I now- and I alone: will carry the weight of our time spent as one.

Our time spent as one such as the sand and the sea- Spent as one just as the mountain and valley.

Spent as one the way the very soul itself: on its own palate- feels and tastes true, sweet-sweet love.

This love I feel built around me like a velvet dream, a love now burning footsteps in my ears and setting fire to the nether regions of my soul has been banished and broken. But against better judgment still beats in my senseless and tortured eyes.

And in my anguish, I berate myself with guilt and deeply scour avenues of the past- for better directions we might have chosen.

Alas and in the end- amidst tears of fallen dreams: all roads lead to you and where your heart began and where- your heart ended.

So I ask you, all of you that bear witness before me. Whose heart is it- that still beats true and free? And whose heart is it that beats dark as the stormy cloud.

Whose heart I ask?

Or better yet- a different conundrum of a similar variety.

Can any heart be free?

Free to consume its desire- whether the sun shines or not? Free to love and never to be forgotten. Free to breathe without the threat of mortality?

I challenge you my friends to define this- and to thoroughly answer my questions.

To see into my future: regardless of what must be seen and help me- please make me believe again. Make me in all my shattered and tired bones and aging skin truly, truly believe again.

To teach my sons that it is safe to love in this hard and ruthless world.
To see my love as better,  more pure- unscathed by the devilish nature of the standard human ego.  

To once and for all see love and all life- as hopeful and not bereft of commonality and truth. To see her again- my fair love.  Smiling the notion of a better tomorrow.

Act I: Scene II

Our sins derail us its true. Over time and a plethora of vanishing precepts we wash along the rocks liked laundry.

Shall we neatly and quietly burro underground in the neighbor’s green space, with fleeting air- void of light and color?

Should we swing by our necks from the orange groves it would be in vain as life is so precious and out there lays undeniable hope that there is more of life’s holiness to drink in with each passing storm?

Impossible. That is not who I am. This is not who I was. That is not who I will be.

So vanquished cries muffle in the night against vicious and angry winds and the low weeping moan is constant as I look ahead while looking backwards.

Wondering how from my grasp it ever slipped so far?

It all, each and every golden ounce slipped from my tongue in sorrow in truth I must say.  Unfiltered neurosis and faltering fear are guides that  will fail to bring you home safely.

Nefarious tides of anxiety and reflection blinded me- blinded me from the sun.

But yet still she knows or understands that the bird song of redemption is an actual place where hearts once emptied , now gather to refill that same heart with love again and again.

It is the wound of her life open, crying out and bleeding through her lonely eyes and ears. It is with shame that I admit my long standing ignorance and tardiness to the cause of her heart.

Now with the backing of angels I see the landscape and all its divine nature but yet I am unable to enter. Unable to rejoin the garden and fight a snake who speaks my unholy name off split tongue and evil notions.

Where, where my love is it that I should go from here after having come from there? Where shall I drink my clean water, where shall I rest my weary head?

And oh, the head of a sleepless and love sick man. Heavy with burden brought on by his own lack of mastery regarding the most important issue and god given task of them all, but as once ailed Mercutio in his quest for and of allegiance to Romeo. Time is of the essence.

When I lay my head it is in sorrow and the pain of real passion. Passion for remaining one as a quarter  that makes up a whole- such as the corners of the cross and the earth, air, water and fire itself in a single beating heart.

For  one hundred and eighty ****** and arrogant days and their resident risings of the sun I've been reborn- sworn to never let evil destroy good in my heart.

As you must do- you will do.  

But the tides that flow in my veins do not flow from you they flow from the divine, a divine that will protect me and forgive my trespasses as he’s surely forgiven me of mine on others.

It’s only the growing fields of our past love that concern me now. How will we harvest the wheat which together we’ve sewn? How will we slaughter and eat the meat of the heard. When will any of us drink the wine from the grapes we have grown?

The entities I’ve stated are my future and will remain  my future until arc angels guide me from this earthly tomb. The blood of our fields will reign supreme.

The harvest of our youth will produce.  Standing together or behind our backs- as we run from it. The bloom of our responsibilities as care taker of these lands will be upon us in time.

So as your heart sails to foreign shores I awake from my rage and see the sun, feel the air, breathe and seek guidance for my purpose. To continue to plow the field and fish the harbor while I settle for meager tastes.

May the work I’ve done. May the work we’ve done be a strong enough foundation for both fields to nurture, endure and produce.

And as you for my fleeting love: may the beans of your coffee be rich and plentiful, may your heart find its way back to where it once was- where ever that may be.

Between here and now, let the days shine upon you like spring light. Bathing you until your soul feels safe and fresh. Keeping you where you need to be to feel free.

But alas leave knowing that the flame I still hold- as I have from day one. For the mystic and mysterious love brought upon us by the three so many, many years ago.

How long that can burn, I know not: but as the skies bolster the heaven- my heart once black, has returned to life. To love you is all that there is. I will share my heart and tormented soul and every last breath I breathe until graying and dying days. For you and only you exist.

Act I Scene III:

The sun came out after a snowy and emotional winter but the air never seemed to warm through the long days of April.

And so in the absence of all that is left , we set off.  You, in the direction that I lived in for years and me in the direction that you lived for years.

Two lovers, one point, two stories. Proverbial ships in the night is what we are- and the passing simply destiny.

Oh but for how I will remember thee. The raven hair and olive skin, deep eyes batting only in such a way as to swell my heart, that equisite eyebrow raised in point, the witty acronyms of our secret family language.

The warmth of your parent’s hearth and the surrounding family. A safe and wonderful place to even a man such as I, who took it sorely for granted along with the other neighboring fields planted and stamped with our communication, our love, our example.

Time is a tempting and vicious confidant, one that will surely lead you astray and bring mischief and havoc to your very door step.

Tread lightly if you dare to tread at all in love. Hear the heart you rest against, listen to the subtle tick tock of its rhythm. Hold a stone as it were a diamond, train the mutt as a pure bred champion, shape your mud as if it were the finest of all clays from the earth.

The whistling train only passes through the station once. Get on get off, make up your mind – change your mind – ignore your mind. Look into your heart and soul then move forth.

To where it is you should be.

Where it is you’ll be forgiven and nurtured even more revered than ever before. A place so familiar you might even call it home.  A bed so all knowing that it could only be ours. A life so new it could never be as it was.

Know this before you part my love, know that I am true: as I say- is as I pray. But your choice is your choice and yours alone: to rise or recede.

My heart pines like the losing persona in an old film. For I see the sun rising. Shining and setting in your eyes.

I see the fields as they grow under watchful eyes, I hear the wind begging us to move but I stand grounded upon all that is pure and sanctimoniously holy. Definitively tattered- but braced firmly at the center of the storm.

Waiting for the love we loved, Once. The love that we may squander if we have yet to do so already.  A love that can be repaired and grow larger and more consuming then ever imagined.

A love never to slip from my grasp again.

Narrative Ending:

So the fella in this case is condemned to be a shepherd without his flock. Sending signals by smoke along the telephone wire to complete the rendering of the fields. With mercy on his side- may he succeed in the light of the world relentlessly embittered in the dark?

Or will all in life just as after a close death, quietly move on?

Completing revolutions of the sun: that fiery ball of light, wider than the distance from here to Mars and back, with us random like ebbing and flowing on the tides lengthy pull of the moon?

Or is the strength to muster what one wants, really possible?

Can he climb the highest mountain? Could his faith be tested in lava like pits of hell? Can his heart be branded clean after so much life?

And what of her beating heart?

What of her search to dissolve the fears of her own making? How has her beauty helped or failed her. How will she look herself in the eye?
How long must I day dream of meandering through a sweet and enjoyable song with her one last time.

Unknown answers-

More unknown then I, as the player in this drama, would care or dare to admit, but hopeful ever more like the humming bird buzzing summer honeysuckle in rainy times- I shall remain.

I shall see the sparkle of her soul rent the eyes- if only for a time.
Taking both yonder to another space and time, where she’d admit she lied in vain fear and exasperation when she said:  surely she could find no love true and could simply offer no more.

When my flesh gives way to bone cover me in roses. Walk me out in the morning of your mind as a man who loved without knowing how to love.

A male clearly guilty to the highest degree, in any court, of any land: of being careless with a precious gift.

And sadly for the ones who have loved and lost- in the end  life offers only so many windows into the soul of a lover.

satchel worn and faded

old leather- shaped with grime

carrying dark bottles

of fine Italian wine

unopened for the moment

maybe soon in time

though not for what your thinking

regardless of the crime

in honor of fading essence

that most will never see

an ocean maiden voyage

that sets the moment free

leading on into the kitchen

where one may sit alone

to dream of dreaming lightly

of when love once lay at home

I wanted to be witty and sly
or dare I say without trepidation
trailer park brilliant and loose
as they stood forlorned and tired
soaking in the rain before me
but I had little or close to nothing at all.

The look on those grey faces
heavily stunned, vacant and lost
almost as if the very eye itself
were pacing down the hallway alone
as if things were registering
without having registered at all.

Reaching down deep and wide
farther, broader and well beyond
the sea of black in my heart at the time
I gathered and mustered at a very low decibel
the only few words or thoughts
electable on such a grave night.

“Ladies and Gentlemen of the Low Lands.
I… Cornelius Appleton, bid you good night!”

Just fifteen words spoken out loud
on the pier that night above the water
heard by those in and of the crowd
each and every word offered insincerely
against little or no resistance at all
from the natives, their neighbors and kin.

Then turning I left- no faster then normal
going, never to return in time or space
or to be heard from again in truth
hence forth just a shadow of a thought
of a man once there and in the know...
now gone without explanation or conclusion.

However, during the shifting doldrums of many nights
awakening- from the eternal springs of sleep
I see those faces and I hear their thoughts
and I recollect the dreams they had- of tomorrow
because it was I who lit them into fire
then smiled as they rose away in smoke.

In the bitter end when the day closed
neither I nor they in any way, fashion or shape
were any more grandiose, evolved or pleased
for having run the race  that we all ran together
but that race was run, it’s true and it’s in the books
perhaps in the future- we can run it again.

Paul sang of the winding road
that Papa said aint got no rules.
But there’s a million miles out there of highway
always begging my soul to move.

Sitting still at the speed of light
counting seconds and I’m watching minutes.
It seems as you move down along the bank
it’s all in how you spin it.

Fluid motion like a raging stream
got a heart like a rolling stone.
That never passes on that next big bend
and just rests them bones at home.

So as the moments well they fly right by
you never see what the gardner grows.
Long before the leaves they turn to brown
and the sky begins to snow…

Don’t know where I’m going,
I only know where I been.
I can’t find the end of the rainbow
and it’s starting to rain again.

With eyes closed,

Bright is the source of power

Alive power, untouched

beyond it’s warmth-

only felt by the skin




Drooping through the right corner of the glass

Faded in seconds now aloof,

Claimed by the mountain

Gone with-

is the familiar comfort of your face in my heart




With eyes open-

darkness begets time without patience

Creating surreal moments,

making all obscure and mostly hidden amongst stars



Stars that sift through dying constellations

That for now- we’ll never get to know

and so it is-

what it wasn't

or as it may have been


if things were not as they are

but more as they were

or as they never were at all


perhaps more so-

as they could have been

in time... or not...


Perhaps.

In the softness of the voice one never hears calling
is the song of birds and scent of blooming flowers
In the simplicity of truth,
untouchable by hand or limb
is the path,
as it is-
as it was meant to be

Unrising are the veiled and cimmerian tempos of old

Unfound this day the nonsensical dogma which bore no fruit

Depleted is the offering of your beating and benevolent inclination

Squandered by the imprudent man as it were dust- ashes to ashes

Left now at the tip of the tongue are no more words

Only the actions of the heart

the visions of the mind

the longing of the soul

The sound of gears grinding-

all comes halting

never again as before


Sunlight fills wee hours-

sleep escapes with broken tail

shuddering memories filter through


Eyes bold and wide register-

hands of glass carry moments

the swift gate slows and stops


Beyond here lies something-

unclear tangents mask truth

the next new moon will speak


Clear or unclear through prism-

recreating whats already been told

beginning anew fresh and undeterred

In keeping with tradition he did the opposite of what he always wanted to do.

Quietly he went along the road with no name, no ego and much remorse.

Deftly he examined the highs and lows in the corners of his middle aged mind.

Examining his heart with the heavy hand of God he paced and thought.


Reeling in the ghosts of another time and place- he knows so well.

Reeling out anxieties and fears that the coming tomorrows will surely bring.

Reeling in those closest to him for support and distracting interludes of wine.

Reeling out sediment from deeply sunken and scarred wrecks left unattended for years.


In keeping with tradition he forged further onward like cowboy Neil at the wheel.

Quietly he went on alone, armed only with the memories of love he had- but lost.

Deftly he examined the tides and the levels of the seas in which he sailed upon.

Examining his heart with the heavy burden of those he failed while chasing his hidden *** of gold.


Reeling in the ghost actions of a moment or scene long gone- but not so far away.

Reeling out the sighs of praying angels who root for the goodness he deserves.

Reeling in the energy he needs from others who do not wish to share there hearts.

Reeling out the heavy weight of uncertain tomorrows lingering in limbo in our minds.

brittle January
narrow colorful rising of the sun
from the tree comes the squirrel
for his buried

tires levitate  
rain falls before snow
heavy hearts burst
on roads to nowhere

dark cinder sky
low and in control
tunes out the signal
then blinds the light

short is the union
long is the day
long is the night
long is the life

In Truth,

Because the sun rose,
the sun must set-
because the rain fell,
it now must dry-
because the grass grew,
it shall one day die-

Upon Waking,

Death with beating heart

denoting end of days

in which we’ve had not one-

but two risings

of the same sun.

White fence surrounds

green grass beneath feet

piny forest near by

blank walls tell tales

grey and peach colors

tearful the batch glides

to a salty halt

Beautiful butterfly flying

vibrating clocks shimmer

silent a call

deaf the ear

true be the thumping

overgrown the garden is

Shakespearian Quatrain breathes

angelical choirs rise

steam from melting cold

anchors weigh down dreams

twin like orbits

shift and decay in wind

Screeching ghosts declare

past present future

tolling bell malignant

earths crust dances

only the self can survive

itself tomorrow