Over the mountains
of the man’s  echoing story

i found the children
of the story huddled;
as commas blew like blizzards
on the crags of plot –
against  the  verbs of sky.

All i could do
was whisper.
“i do not understand you…”
but  still,  the words were beautiful
in the  reflection  of my  eyes
images i would carry like buckets
frozen in the vines of mind.

An angel
in the dark corners
of my imagination,
said unto me "childheart,
take these wings of schemes
which  i have fashion for you."

"i am sorry ancient one..." said i,
" ...but i am  foolish ."
But in truth i was allergic ,
to the parasitic letters,
hidden within the feathers,
of the offered wings.

“i shall  humbly spell
the letters
of my darkness”

not so much
to stain the world
with sameness.

For within
a luminous sparrow
hides and in the penmanship
of tomorrow
it shall fly
across the  dark
ink-stained clouds
on the corners of my eyes.
Trill in the merest  comma splice
or dangling modifier,
sing among the thrill of  ampersands .

i shall chant the long history
of diagramming  my  unimportance
then i  like a  monk shall scribe:
“i shall humbly  spell
the letters
of my darkness”

My cat
Though small
Is a
Mighty hunter.

Often trophies
She left
On my door
From her nightly stalking.

A robin that
Will never fly
Trilling couplets
In cloud stained skies.

A mouse that will
Never scurry
In the wood-grain walls.
Chanting lays
About the stacking of
Heroic cheese.

On a dark night
When i heard
My cat’s claws
Scratching entry upon
The rude squared door.

“Let me in…”
The claws implored
“To the stone
Hewn hearth
Where the wisp
Of a flame does crackle.
Where a bowl
Of warm milk
Waits for me
To pay for my cat chores…”

“Enough my cat”
i am simple
Imagine my surprise
As i open my door.
To find the moon
Shriveled on my
Porches threshold.

The moon
With two
Auspicious bite marks
on it corners.

The moon
Belongs to everyone
Luckily i had
Some bandages
And dandelion oil
To clean and wrap
The poor moon wounds.

The moon sang to me
In this blessed fortnight
Of times in deep history
Before the bards.
When she shinned
Above the lands of man.
Like ghostly jewel among the stars.

Before the woods
Had written elegies
in leaf of their limbs.  
Before fire deluge
Burned cracks in the walls
Leaving kiln marks
Upon the mountain castles
In the kingdoms of forgotten kings
And unknown peoples.

i nursed the moon
With tea of thousand wild flowers
And the dew that dripped
Upon the crimson skin
Of gleaming strawberries.
How the petals floated
On surface of my teacup.

Poetry is like sushi.
Sushi contains
Rice & goodies  
Wrapped in nori.
Both are combined rolled
Into cylinders
Then cut
Into rolls.

Poetry
Is sounds  &  tropes
Rolled into images
Each poem
A unique
Experience.

When you
Eat Sushi
With chopsticks
You are too  eat
the rolls
with just  one bite
Sampling the wholeness
of the taste
and presentation.


May you
Devour
This poem
On the chopsticks
Of your feelings
And sample
The flavor
In the ink.

Geese are
Not gifted
Spellers.

They write
Poems
In their eggs.

The letters
Cannot
Be separated
From their yokes.

In the court
Of the Blue King
Atrocious spelling
Is called “Goose-spelling.”

Turn of phrases
That cannot
Be separated
From its image.

Conversely Wicked spelling
Is known as Dragon-spelling.
Where quatrains
May spontaneously combust
Burning the finger
Of luckless scribes.

sometimes its hard
to know
where to push
your head through
the illusion of this world.

what is outside
the portals of one's own eyes
as you pass through
the curtain of pleasant shadows

for the head may lead
as your hair tingles on the edges
and the heart chooses to remain
in the nest
it has made
in this current world.

as words flow
through the boundaries
of space and time
past where
the stars and moon
dreams of a richer
geometry .

For the smallest world
May be folded
Safe inside
Imaginations notebook.