O' Jerusalem tree,
were we as perfect
we would have no voice,
nor raise a phantom limb
to strike at the desolate heart
of  such
wild beauty.

No, we must
cairn usage words,
like yellow gold combs
to hold your wanton hair.

So we might mark our place
among this desolate face,
to weep with grace
in this land of stone,
should there be no thirst
for veracious words
nor the sound
of human
timber.

Haze

"I invited shrimp if that's ok.?";
That's what he calls his little brother,
"sure , if you want too"


He's teaching her how to drive today,
The car windows are down and it's
really warm for May.

She is wearing blue jean frayed shorts,
white cotton pull over, peasant style ,
the kind that straps won't stay up on
sandals reveal new manicure in hot pink.

Her hair is pulled up off her neck with a
claw, tendrils a drift.

She's never met her boyfriend's brother,
she expects young, gangling, annoying.

She starts the engine and honks the horn,
the car smells of octane and dust motes
and heavy aftershave. She likes the smell.
The door opens and poetic attitude plops
into the front seat.
Shrimp is smooth, buff and not at all what she
expected.
He slams the door and she starts to drive.

The young men exchange words,
brother barbs
she is driving as if she had always known how.

Onto the highway, the breeze feels good,
it's lazy and hazy in the car, she leans
forward too short in the seat to see well,
she adjusts the wheel.
A strap falls from her shoulder,
with a matching manicured hand
she slides it back up, no tan line.


Shrimp is feeling the heat,
blowing hard through his teeth,
feels the energy drip in the air,
looking at the girl,
his brother's girl.
She's got great shoulder blades,
long neck, he leans back arms thrown over the
seat, chest puffed out like he owns the world,
watching, watching his brother's girl.

He sees the strap drop, the retrieve , her leaning
up, a little more of her back exposed,
she's hot and glistening in the heat,
lovely shoulders,
great angles.


He pulls out his pen, leans over to her, pulls her
strap down again, the breeze wafts of her perfume
around him, the front seat, she, smells like baby powder
and jasmine.


Hand on the wheel , hand to hold up the front of her blouse
she's helpless and he pulls the elastic down in the back.
stretches it to her waist.
Brother sits in the back watching,
doesn't say a word.
Turns his head to the right and stares
at the landscape through the dusty window.

Time has disappeared in the front seat,
the atmosphere has changed and it's
thick and hard to breathe
he
starts writing on her back with his pen,
and in his mind he reads aloud as he writes
across her baby smooth brown skin.

I heard his voice read as he writes
and in his head it said;


*"Haze, rain on my art, pick a color, pull it apart"

Oh, Be A Be why
last night we were trying
to keep it...
do it together,
getting tea lights
stuck in the dishwasher.
I will be right back,
with ink... U bate her
old Cronie could barely
keep her eyes
open!
oh, be A be why?

Birth in Rainbows

Birthing rings, these things
The things in eclipse behind
heavens doors, we never
spoke of rainbows...

not mine, not my tears
and bent light, not of
refraction or bouncing
planes.


Gypsy clover my lover's bed
is unmade by sorrow,
we'll sleep on it, and dream
of 'morrow beyond the shards
of prism and rain.

In this house is a trousseau of deception
walking into Clarksdale
where we are perpendicular lines
of perception
at a crossroad of 61 & 49.


She pretends to be a guitar
played by his aching tooth
where she dressed all in scarlet
put candies in her cooch.

She is a ledge of peeks and coos
Pigeons of Pharmacia
scroll peoples lives from Venice beach
come to be souls just out of reach.

..and a voice shouts out from heaven
it's not to late to turn back
just a little faith my girl
is all that you really lack.

she wanted someone to save him
well, that's just not my job
those are words for redeemers
where I simply refuse to mob.

But I hope to see you there my friend
should you find yourself able
feast on the words of lambs
Eucharists at his table.

Come, we'll hold
his hand together
no longer singing
words of one,
run, scatter
hide
as innocent
babes
of Babylon.

Coup Stick
A Poem by Corset


When I was a small child
I would often try to walk
silently like the warriors
it never failed that a twig
would snap beneath my feet
but I am a grown woman now.

Here, where the earth and blade
are dry, the wind spirit
can hear my footsteps,
this is not a good place
to hunt the wind and I
am not afraid to die.

Privacy fences block my view
of the white tipped mountain,
tumbleweeds whisper the names
of the fallen
and there are no buffalo
to fall beside the iron horse,
and the only tracks to follow
belong to the old railroad.

The brave will ride the red path
his pouch tied to the mane
of his pony, his whistle plays
the shrill of the great hunt
a vengeance to collect in scalp,
spirit claws sewn onto
his chest, blessed,
he is dressed for death.

It is a good day to die.

Paint us like the white
spotted leopard so that
the arrows fly in reverse.

Fierce in verse
like Crazy Horse;
who took the evil man's
thirst and with it,
Cut Custer in two,
I will not be halved.

Listen now, as I sing the
song of drums
no longer a twin of mine
as to the number whispered
into the dream.

I'll not be controlled.

On the green grass,
one can move silently
and be as mighty as
a pack of wolves,
I am as unconcerned
as a November cub,
yowling at the moon.

Sticks and stones,
words can not harm us.

I will not be silenced.


Choose the path wisely,
walk softly, carry a
big feathered coup,
for a war of dishonor.

The darkness can not effect
a sacred blaze, but daylight
can most certainly invade
the greedy, hungry night.

Infrared light
black light secrets
blue battered sun
yellow
outrage,
tricksters in paradise
loading up
the gun
wild fire
caged in Ice
made it twice
as fun
beer bellied
acrobats
bouncing off the wall
blaring on
the run
caught the bus
to
Cambridge,
Eyebrows filling
the space
of another persons
world,
underlining
their names,
curious
questions
bright with colors,
the honey fist
of Isis biting a coin
for authenticity
pull me from the abyss,
endless sleep
these Maritime martyrs
at the expense of a soul
does she really know,
to what depths
we dive to save
time in squares,
trenches,
backwater streets
in tired boxes,
men throw shoes
at singing alley cats,
tears and thoughts
litter the sheets.

Last Eve was full of dreams
visions of butterfly's
in green and white
fluttering as a leaf
and I was mesmerized
by it's ability to camouflage
as it danced before my eyes
and even as it frolicked,
a larger blue and black
Monarch settled upon it's back
and the leaf was consumed.

As the Monarch,
equal in it's beauty
took it's place to dance
and hover,
before my eyes came
a great and mighty
snake it's mouth open
pink and red was it's
throat, as it consumed
the dancing Monarch.

I was frightened by it's
size and so I closed my eyes
became very still, I could feel
it's warm breath upon my hands;
but it found me of no threat
and so slid away;

I opened my eyes and peered
out of the open window
and there upon the dirt road
leading to the place where I stood
were many wild animals
of many kinds as if marching
to Noah's Ark.

I raised my camera to document
this incredible event
then went to warn the others
I showed them  the documentation
but they seemed unconcerned,
so I glanced at the picture
and there upon the road,
not animals but joggers,
a marathon on the move
running for a cause.

That is when I realized
we are all just wild
animals in the cycle of life
just running , mating, consuming
endlessly,
without a cause to believe in.

A quiet light
slips across the stage
pencil drawings
flipped formed into
anorexic glass
stick figure thin
stacked mimes
only the barking
dogs and whales
could hear it explode
into sonar boom.

My life,
has become a debut
of silent animation
I'm the first of Emile Cohl's
funny faces,
my heart,
a voice whispered
death threat
a French caricaturist
largely forgotten
incoherent
love contortionist
pulsations
of the retina
rapid eye movement
fantasmagorie,
complex shifting sand dollars
and rabid flower images,
they never forget a pretty face.
Sword-fighting fish mouths
gaped like cannons
dancing petals wind borne
missing
milk carton illusions
memories drum
tight like elephants
stuffed into houses
avant-garde
artistic movement
curdling my eyes by hydropathy
baths of incoherent apathy
falling between my brows
like Chinese water torture.

Pictures that are missing you,
that were always missing me
and me, missing the music
of laughter, that love
that turned numb
the earth thumbed green.

Caretaker
of my soul
love is our body
as one,
would you
be my God,
and my words,
blameless not
blasphemous,
God
would live
within us.
worship,
would find my knees
bent
into all the beautiful
places
found in you,
the only way
I wish to
hold you.

Lockets
A Poem by Corset

...with half the heart locket
hanging empty
'round and 'round we go
we said maybe its a lesson
in futility
or maybe it helps us grow.


He says it's hard to be a hero
if it smacks of manipulation,
and all the stacks against it
was a back up in prostration
just convenience counting gears
*** smothered in validation,
well, the years might just prove
to have only been denied pride
but we all have to wonder why
we can't just fly to the other side.

Maybe we can't buy our wings
or strip them of the smell
maybe it hurts too much
like sacrifice or hell,
with half heart locket
hanging
'round and 'round we go
we said maybe its a lesson
in futility
or maybe it helps us grow.

well whatever makes you happy
or helps you to make escape,
these arms only reach so far
wrapped 'round all  those mistakes.

I stare into the shadows
and remember
the Panhandle dust
that made them,
fuzzy now,
around the edges.

The mural that somehow
felt sacred on fire
the tumbleweeds in your
eyes as they rolled to
look into the distance.

How the lightening
struck your hair and
left it white overnight,
and the way you clawed
to find the door to
anywhere
else...

I remember the trip home,
how the early spring wind
howled through the empty
windows, the necklace
around my neck
the cherry red
ball of vines
awaiting my return,
as if to say
yes, he was here,
but now he is gone...
and gone is what he is,
will always be,
but here,
here is a bite of me
to always remember
those tears that echoed
in silence.

There is a soft meadow golden
where there now stands oblivion
wild mustangs comb the hard
dry grasses after a long arid winter.


In the distance, wood smoke
from a silent fire that crackles
'neath a hungry touch.


An aubade's warm hand reaches
from the silky horizon to touch love
gently upon her shoulders and roam
the hills, and dusky valleys of the
paradisiac dawn, as it stretches each stone.


...and soothed; by palpebral stream;
each bend a lover's nape
endlessly explored by endless wait
to greet the welcome rise again.

I am as young as the hillside
old as a neonate
I am the miles and trials
between our distant smiles,
We will celebrate forever
we were made to believe
the gift of today is not
tomorrow; it is now.
This treasured  gift
is not a destination;
it is a journey
in seconds,
between this one and next.
We are the breathing
monument
of one life's span
in secondhand
experiences
lived within
a blink
of the
eye.

Chameleon,
You are the master
of disguise with
all the colors sent
to save our grey world.

You with your
empty hands and
knowing smile,
fighting this battle
for individuality,
with your coat
of many colors.

O' Chameleon
how you do change,
too
~but none like you,
to weather beaten blue
when the rain comes,
only to disappear
as suddenly
and as quietly
as it came,
there but unseen,
stealthily,
as a jungle net
on the screen
of camo brown
and lizard green.

I want to see you
shocking in neon
lights pressed
against the
Northern stars.

You can not be a window
sealed,
Eden dreamt Bara bara
eleven years of December

Spirit wedded bliss
soul promised
pushing
a name
love light divine
non-negotiable,
the elephants never cry

(not like they used to)

not into king sized kisses
not into water buildings
and I am past
my grid

show her the pain
of a dead whistle

pure veined pride

Where does your soul
go when you are sleeping
why be afraid to
close your eyes?

I wanted to be your hero
raised arms outstretched
dashing across fields of daisies

I wanted you to bed
the person I imagined
you to be,
a heartsease river
of soliloquy.

She's a mystery
our little vase.
just sitting out there
in the cosmos
all alone
with her hour glass
figure. It's time
to wake up and don
the 'morrow...
oh, such a powerful


p
r
  e
   t
    t
     y
       new dress!

Einstein visits my bathroom
walls spouting bright ideas
about (ILL)uminati nation,
and it's coffee drinking
friends.

I'm sorry sir, but I don't subscribe,
I sleep very well, thank you.

I've lost half a front tooth to winter
already,  tripped over laundry
baskets and almost broke my neck doing
the limbo...and the makers of Beano can't
keep enough stocked on the shelf,
oh no,
not I.

It's crazy how clumsy
i'm becoming of late.
tumbling into shell,
little green pistachios
tender meat
fledgling tuition's
not this sweet thing,
I'm not buying what you
ladies and gents want to sell,
I'll keep my wings,
my hearts and flowers,
no disrespect,
Thank you just the same.
I was never into Halloween
or the things that bump
into the night, or cackle
like mad hens in my half wake.

I prefer love, not the half light,
not the lime stand where Mr. Todd and I
have had quite the conversation yesterday,
who does he think he's fooling?

Ill advised, I might say, to play with
such things, such as the sweetness of
the naive flock, let's just say I've
been properly introduced
and my eyes are open,
and leave it there
on the ***** step
with the musical instruments
and the rainbows, I prefer
to be colorless like the page.

No trade darlings, nice try,
but I love you...
and anytime you'd like
to take a ride into the outfield
and watch the ballgame,
from the sidelines of a
couple of overheated stars,
remember, beautiful rays am I,
in which you may trust,
an accidental supernova,
see how the star's tracks
are blinking, winking, and
tapping out love letters
in Morris code...all for you
baby, all for you,
I intend to blow this pop stand
walk off  into the fog, whole,
in love, with or without you.

The desert of Rimbaud:
Billet-doux seared skin,
sand strewn dry- eyed
stuck in sister dis-ease
blind birth absent mirth
a third eye sung
strung long song
riddle whittled clean
shame and accused
deep purple hued
****** bruised blessed be
love bid farewell
hell's shining veil
white balloons soon
like mirrored beryl sky
merry birth,
so no goodbye.

Jets whistling overhead
Cats caterwauling
such a lonely sound
wheels cornering
like life tucked
behind a delicate ear.

Trent Shelton self help
videos slowly
crawl up the wall

Christmas coming in a dark
alley
somewhere...
heavy laden with second sight
with seasonal child,
Oatmeal and toast
many meals under a dollar.

Her father,
a journey song
"Faithfully"
in mellow gold morning
storm gray eyes
flecked with flaws.

There would have
been more but,
wishing wells and cupped palms
fill faster with rain.

Once upon a time
he accused me
of finding him marketable,
but I swear,
if I had twelve of him
I'd still keep a dozen.

One for each month of
the year, so when one
wore out
I'd cycle that clout
every other moon.

Wistaria
A Poem by Corset

...and if you could see
how those blooms
hang their heads
after making the move
into empty open spaces

Their bright faces pungently
stretching 'or Mesas
yearning for one
not so tight in after life.

If we could touch the soil
to keep it moist
fears would feed like rain,
crying edible
and they would never die.

Limbs would not crumble
but climb ever high
their backs of bark
carved into
hearts and letters.

Resplendent and warm
the night would know
her poetry.

Feast Of Summer Moons
A Poem by Eve aka Corset


Tonight and all over the earth,
there is merriment.
Cocky birds will dance
at  maske and vest.,
and many times at best
I have dreamt of this
in sadness
still to awake with laughter
within my breast.
and yet
beyond these lids
and lashes,
the world is
still our oyster,
whether it be hailed
by sighing violins
or paired by
charmed footsteps.

Madame Butterfly;
my cupid kills in arrows
and so grieves her;
her Puccini,
should love speak
beyond a reasonable
torment of expectation.

Let her feast then
beneath the moons
soft with light and
with souls as bright
as sunlight, brilliant
upon the water
bound not
by counterfeits of passion,
having railed
so long at love,
that it does seem to
have become a habit.

Whisper again
to a ****** night,
that dreams with
eyes wide open,
sailing to a song within.

Love is ancient and ageless and
hearts will remain young
forever,
for which men and women
will hunger,
because,
amour sweet amour
is a  feast
and fit
for summer moons.

Dream Catcher

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Did I imagine you?
where dreams of you
flood the eyes
of a winter incarnate,

only the figment of bliss
borne of buffalo magic,

lead me to this
song of the feathers.

I did not seek it out

instead it lay me beside
a steady stream
fed by the ****** howl
of ancestors.

We are the calling of ghosts
embraced in the pouring
of seasons.


Heart of the mighty bear,
kisses of white doves
where the wild mustangs
run to greet the horizon,
pine knot,
whine not,
braid inside my hair
your lair is a
dream catcher;
catch me...

i'm falling,
wind blown

in the silence
of drums

am I to walk alone?

Layers of steamy pick ups,
rejoined a staggering crowd
behind the bar,
(who put that thought there?)
I partitioned that wall
for me to bump into,
as if it weren't there
just moments ago.

A shifting maze,
my mind,
it's labyrinth
ever changing,
rearranging,
scratching the interior
of my scull,
fingernails on chalk board
grind stone
against stone,
making my teeth
ache
until I,
I pull them one by one,
like red angry children
lined up for you.

I offer them to you,
without their fleshly clothes,
roots showing as a forest
of ivory trees,
wearing true colors
on bare bleached sleeve.

Never Play With Your Food

Warning
This Poem is rated Mature and may contain material unsuitable for readers under 18.



Fire hoops are for circus dogs
and astral planes are fueled by
groovy Astro-knots

come here

I have an unreachable itch
and I need you to scratch it


tenderly,


until it stops bleeding.


Nine and 1/2 weeks
looks like Hans Christian Anderson


in drag


where a heart still calls 911
off a bathroom wall


for a good time,


where death

wears tassels
and paisley,


and I scream your name
in quinolyl fairy tales.

Gift of eternal feather
sun seared into light
inside my veins
born to soar,
climbs so high
My butter milk sky,
jump, fold, dive
the amazing try,
fold of origami,
sunday best pressed,
white washed walls
The sea cliff of god.
the ripe fruition
oh sweet fig,  
salt of promised land,
peace wept branch,
an armistice stands,
the sightless sings,
for the broken wings,
moon filled mellow songs.
dizzying peak,
scrambled scaled
for fear of heights,
fantastic belief.

oh surely,
when one
is  falling,
the only way
to splash
gracefully,
is to plummet.

Your eyes are waterwheels
like high seas in the wind
Dante umbrella
love's happy suicide
kiss me at noon tide,
feast on lips of starving waif
face turned up to greet the sun
your breast -a brave moor
of breeze sworn content
each salty sweet spray
a crag at dawn
whispering o'er forlorn waves,
breathe in this- still of morn
cheek pressed to blue ribbon sky
dream of me and wonder why.

God can be so cruel sometimes
when morrows reach so far away
and your sail - a dot of horizon
and the space between
a watery grave,
these eyes are water wheels
splashing...

Soap Box "B"
A Poem by Corset



Be
an
American.
Be brave or stupid
Be hetrosexual, or not
Be Married.
Be a woman, Be a Man
Be what you want.
Be any beautiful shade you are
Be of sound temperament
Be loved by the same faces
that loved you yesterday
Be together.
Be brave, Be young and
Be passionate about politics
Be your country
Be democracy
Be on T.V.
Be a selfie
Be destructive
Be rebellious
Be arrested.
Be on the pill or iud
Be responsible or
Be pregnant
Be proud of your choices.

Be Haiti reconstructed
Be the billions with
nothing to show for it.
Be the tin house you live in.
Be the private bank
Be the education it builds
Be the proof of education.
Be corrupt, Be rich
Be a woman bent for president
Be his wife
Be hacked
Be downloaded
Be incredulous
Be hopeful
Be ridiculous
Be Crass
Be honest
Be charismatic
Be belligerent sober
Be incumbent.
Be remembered
Be relieved
Be backed up with Pence
Be pleasantly suprised
Be concilitory
Be loyal
Be humbled by enormity
Be a drama queen
Be insulted
Be a star
Be a model
Be a first lady
Be the love that tr(i)ump(hs)
over hate
Be a good loser
Be all the American
you can be...
be politically correct
Be legalized
Be ******
Be familiar with the first admendment
Be a reporter
Be citizen Kane

Be an American
Be diverse
Be accepting
Be welcome
Be of any ethniticity,
race, creed, religion or
of ****** orient

But first you have to be
a citizen,
so,
Be
One.
Indivisable.



© 2016 Corset

Crow-bars as big
as an Oak,
or the head
of Egyptian alien
architects build desert
triads,
ten thousand buff
onyx oxen men
to remove the kite
height splinter
from a kitten's foot.

Somehow I'll hold
my tongue-
tied like cherry stems
cross-like
the national anthem
spools of yarn
big enough
to fill a football stadium
in colors of senescent
knit sweats
alternates with purrs
and claws.

How can one apologize
by way of ESP?
Or plead with ghost
dripped vows  
stay up all night to write
while you were up
scratching the post.

I am remiss for not
admitting in all
the languages
of the world

I clearly
do not speak
in Morris code
or maybe cats
just can't read.
I thought I had,
let me try again.

I was wrong.

friends never say
goodbye
but lovers
so often do.

We love too ambitious
we love incumbents
night sweat elections
heart ache selections
maybe we think too highly
of ourselves
or maybe not highly
enough,
maybe
too highly of others.
I watched you sleeping
tender gaze,
your eyes a shadow
on my soul.

Cast off the vote
cast off the light.

Gypsy Rose Lee

Strip tease
shedding leaves
shivering,
quivering
vagabond
knees,
cold
January
sun
tossed
off her
clouds.

Somewhere
behind the poses
lie the real dreams
of the Roses,
they're drinking wine
but thinking gin
and how they
torched that place
with sin.
A taste of pure
before the cut
left her feeling
anything but...
Somewhere
behind the poses
lie the real dreams
of the Roses,
they're thinking wine
but drinking gin
and how they
torch that place
with sin.

An erudite belief is
that one soul can be
tortured quite more
effectively;
whether one of
virtue or demerit;
with eminent hope
than threat of
imminent pain
or death.

Tumescent Red
A Poem by Eve
Aka Corset


I waited for you...
longing for you to say
what you wanted
was too empty
and beneath me.

Your silk of summer
madness drowned
in my liquid smile.

I knelt in your malady,
fractured thought...
Slept in your shade
with pride,
cool stability
unwinding
swallowed
by your parched finesse.

******* reformist tongue.

On conquered hips
my vanquished lips
tumescent red,
pulsing ...
your crush of mastery
bitten
till they bled
with my own desire.

© 2007 Somerista, Eve, Corset

Mama said
A Poem by Corset



Mama always said...
"You  (understood)
must always allow a man
his small victories
else
he will prey
on your weakness
love ( understood)
for him
like a black piranha."
the moment your soft
warm toes
touch the still water.

I will not assume,
will not assimilate,
will not conquer
nor be sad or desolate,
instead,
I will bloom unto myself
a bud of awakening,
for only myself,
I will play soft music
with tinkling bells
in the midst of fields
jazz filled flowers
if you would come,
come gently...
like the light
of a dawning rose,
if you should stay
sit here beside me,
call me friend
and visit often.

I close my eyes and you are all that I see

even when open
on occasion  the outline
of U
is a holographic letter
a word imprint hallucination  of you
present and on my peripheral
at the corners of my eyes in 3 -D
and on my lips,
you linger
where you never were before
my world fell down and I found you
fetal by my side.

The phone rings
     In yesterday's conversations
teeth words, gritting back
it's patience
busting up thick
          all over the center
A stone hinge
   rock and roll butterfly
how thickly it pours my veins
        when his eyes are closed
fade out
   the third eye is crying,
            Divine soul,
don't follow.
.
.
.
.
Fall.

I've never proclaimed be an Angel
wearing the weighted wings
of the innocent sacrifice.

I've never claimed to be Diablo,
though pitch forks and red
are certainly my best colors.

I don't remember exclaiming truths
or swallowing serums, or vows of full
disclosure, especially the ones
I don't want to hear.

I proclaim love with a beggars sign
in the middle of the April desert
but someone chopped it down.

now, I proclaim noise,
turbulent, breathless
surrender to the voice
of the quiet night.

I remember promises of April.

Of Bedlam and Prayers


The heart Is love in Bedlam
soft soled like a man singing
a word of  yahaak-ku
standing so close  that his
shoulders almost touch me
in prayer,
claims to be my love's clone.


But my love lies inside a hill
in the song of the Whip-poor-will
where my blood *** is running
in streams of ***** desire, and
never tires of singing.


River banks and fevered coffers
liquid gold and frozen sun
pumping in soft blue veins,
my blood is red as love it came
shining on spills of disarray.


A kiss away, only a kiss away
all those dark corners
of yours and mine gone.


In the long drawn space of his tomb,
in time, he asked for my death
pink in fragrant flox to cover
a good wide earth.


On my flowered knees I wept
cheek to the straining blade
pressed an ear to hear,
holding my breath,
glistening...listening
for his faint breath to cycle
into a heartbeat of spring.

Pray that love
will be a kind master
blue green and
light of corners,
chastised child
inwardly declaring
independence,
wailing
like lost banshees,
wanton wills,
product of environment,
be one with
apprehension
comprehension
well worth being
God will punish
indiscriminately.

...and as of all
seasons past
must make of us,
no longer a child
but revised,
no longer abandoned
in the grip
and slip of survival.

Prepare
for the play;
come what may,
of tomorrow;
be it sweet with love
or sad in sorrow.

Blue Snow

Can I help it
if I gather the down
of white feathers
into my arms,
catching the ones
still floating in the air
with a wrinkle in my nose
when the pillow fights
rain  them
over my head
like blue snow
on a grey
January day.

Friends are works of art
lovers are masterpieces
Hope is the paint brush.

I've traveled to Manhattan
walked the steps of
the Metropolitan,
Perused the desecrated
ruins of Mastaba
Tomb of Perneb
walked like the egyptian
stared into the face
of Van Gogh and wept
with the desire to
touch his strokes
as it were his hair.

Faces of a cherished
lovers are like that,
a landscape of wonder,
Hair swaying in
evergreen.

Mountains contour
in shapes of his face
the sun and moon
turn in eyes that
wake in dreams.

His mouth,
soft supple water
of a serene lake.
His mouth,
sweetly wet and deep,
sky that pulsates
and overflows into
murmurs succumbing
to the miracle
of wind song
in surrender.

Once green
Once green
A Poem by Corset

Maybe I should write from here
from the last,
Once green of life,
autumn colors fading...

Maybe,
from the drift of dandelion;
the first successful
pucker of a whistle;
how those two images
where embedded together
from beginnings...

in black Patent leather
how my feet looked white frilled
endings blade trimmed green,
how Rainbows look in March dew.

How the baby beds in Sunshine Lodge
in 1968 resemble cages
locked down in the dark.

How beautiful my mothers
mahogany locks look against
silky coffin beige.

Maybe I should write from here
from the last,
Once green of life.

Riddled filled
holes and
rusty dust
remains green
along the sand.

Sing, but only
for the song,
what it once meant
to have a strong voice
gone,
how it was larger
than life itself
stronger than death.

Opinions
meant everything once...
lost among the waves
of  littered rooftops.

proud to call
you friends,
shroud,
to write you
psalms.

It blew to soothe
the savage wind.
So I grew tall
withstood
the watery grave
splashed upon
the break of
cliff sides,
landslide,
tsunami,
I was...
the piercing wail
in summer sheen,
what you felt
meant everything.

I had
destroyed
with love.

Wake tide!
become lost,
be afraid,
speak thy  name
unto the breeze
let it come to ease
your burdened brow.
For I,
will always ,
know
you.

Look deep
within yourself
remember
all times,
open your eyes,
hear angels calling
remember all the times,
you heard
"I love you"
take a moment to feel ,
the embrace warm
in memory.
Do not love
in increments,
love wide,
love tall,
honor the right
to be loved.
smile.
build dreams
around that smile.

be
alone,
confused
afraid
legs like water
heart beating so fast
breathe shallow
breathe deep,
whatever form of love
you have
at any given time
there is one thing
that will get you through
always
explore  the path,
whether the path
is friendship,
or love,
once alive
it is eternal
in you

He was so busy painting the sun,
all in yellows and blues
that he forgot that the green
dripped from his brush
and fell upon the round
and blades where fashioned
swaying upon a ground...
and saw
that it was good.