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'Perspective betrays with its dichotomy:
train tracks always meet, not here, but only
    in the impossible mind's eye;
horizons beat a retreat as we embark
on sophist seas to overtake that mark
    where wave pretends to drench real sky.'

'Well then, if we agree, it is not odd
that one man's devil is another's god
    or that the solar spectrum is
a multitude of shaded grays; suspense
on the quicksands of ambivalence
    is our life's whole nemesis.

So we could rave on, darling, you and I,
until the stars tick out a lullaby
    about each cosmic pro and con;
nothing changes, for all the blazing of
our drastic jargon, but clock hands that move
    implacably from twelve to one.

We raise our arguments like sitting ducks
to knock them down with logic or with luck
    and contradict ourselves for fun;
the waitress holds our coats and we put on
the raw wind like a scarf; love is a faun
    who insists his playmates run.

Now you, my intellectual leprechaun,
would have me swallow the entire sun
    like an enormous oyster, down
the ocean in one gulp: you say a mark
of comet hara-kiri through the dark
    should inflame the sleeping town.

So kiss: the drunks upon the curb and dames
in dubious doorways forget their monday names,
    caper with candles in their heads;
the leaves applaud, and santa claus flies in
scattering candy from a zeppelin,
    playing his prodigal charades.

The moon leans down to took; the tilting fish
in the rare river wink and laugh; we lavish
    blessings right and left and cry
hello, and then hello again in deaf
churchyard ears until the starlit stiff
    graves all carol in reply.

Now kiss again: till our strict father leans
to call for curtain on our thousand scenes;
    brazen actors mock at him,
multiply pink harlequins and sing
in *** ventriloquy from wing to wing
    while footlights flare and houselights dim.

Tell now, we taunq where black or white begins
and separate the flutes from violins:
    the algebra of absolutes
explodes in a kaleidoscope of shapes
that jar, while each polemic jackanapes
    joins his enemies' recruits.

The paradox is that 'the play's the thing':
though prima donna pouts and critic stings,
    there burns throughout the line of words,
the cultivated act, a fierce brief fusion
which dreamers call real, and realists, illusion:
    an insight like the flight of birds:

Arrows that lacerate the sky, while knowing
the secret of their ecstasy's in going;
    some day, moving, one will drop,
and, dropping, die, to trace a wound that heals
only to reopen as flesh congeals:
    cycling phoenix never stops.

So we shall walk barefoot on walnut shells
of withered worlds, and stamp out puny hells
    and heavens till the spirits squeak
surrender: to build our bed as high as jack's
bold beanstalk; lie and love till sharp scythe hacks
    away our rationed days and weeks.

Then jet the blue tent topple, stars rain down,
and god or void appall us till we drown
    in our own tears: today we start
to pay the piper with each breath, yet love
knows not of death nor calculus above
    the simple sum of heart plus heart.
 Jun 4 jayebird
The more it hurts
The more I smile
because the smile has the power
To make it useless
To fully fly would be a joy
leave this earth where I’m stuck
elevation by any means
becomes the greatest of all needs
this fondest wish is distressed
by the pull of nervousness
that pain is all that I’ll receive
firmly tied to sad dreams

the many snares of the self
taunts of worth that demean
one or another is enough
to reduce the strong as consequence
now multiplying in delight
a thousand cackles I’ll deny
finding strength to overcome
chains evoked from cold resolve

compounded by winds of time
a tempest asking far too much
if only life did not conspire
as the breeze becomes a storm
denying youth even as
pain is gifted to body’s span
as the memories are tossed about
in the cyclone of inner doubt

to those ends the sky awaits
by helpful drugs or risque ways
put aside the judging looks
when sanity finds a relief
both deliver for a time
supplying wings to lift clay feet
before the earth reclaims the one
that escapes to fly above.

© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190529.
The poem “To Fully Fly” was based on the beginning thought of writing a piece about escaping life.   The result is about self-sabotage, aging, pain, and some temporary avenues of relief.
A month exists to celebrate
those outside the normative
that blanket state of the mob
ill informed of the rest of us

ignorance spun to hate
the reptile speaking for the heart
it’s no wonder that the oppressed
have decided to rebel

too long put aside as broke
now stepping up to shake their fists
this multitude of like minds
asking more than hostile shrift

look to the rainbow to realize
diversity of the crowd
joined by needs to exist
against a storm of centuries

each as real as the next
beneath the tent of lettered names
asking all to stand alone
while supporting the sum of all

it’s no wonder some conflict
with the breadth of difference
there’s still more love than most admit
in this month we’ll celebrate.

© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190531.
The poem “In This Month” is about Pride Month celebrated in June.  The intent is to celebrate the legacy of individuals who fought for the rights that many enjoy today.  Those impacted are reminded there is more work to be done in order to hold onto the rights gained, and to further the protections too long denied by a largely normative society.
Solace waits in solitude
seclusion spawning quiet balm
without loneliness that most confuse
with the absence of chatter’s tongue

perhaps the babble has a place
in the span of life’s charade
still a peace is clearly sought
to find safe harbor from the lot

if only pundits did not implore
filling space with their discord
embracing conflict without regard
for the victims of their careless harm

strident statements across the gap
separating friends from foe
this sad illusion of the need
to win by yelling with deceit

an escape will lead to realms
where the mute are resident
each in their own calm abode
without input from the crowd

a humble salve without effort
this silent measure at last found
now a hush fills the void
forever voiceless in its joy.

© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190603.
The poem “A Humble Salve” was inspired by a quote by @emilyloisrose,  “I found solace in silence, but I also found solitude.”
Rolling down St. John's Heritage Highway
after Sean, my grandson's birthday party
I belt out my pioneer song with vigor
echoing across the vast beauty,
wide open, sacred spaces
pristine vistas

Norman Rockwell cows grazing
in bygone pastures happily
moo along

Driving past the yellow deer crossing sign
Florida woodlands giddyap near the edge of the road
long brown antlers prancing to
a timeless rhythm

I hope and pray that I can somehow
kindle a spark of appreciation
in my niece and grandsons
so that they may behold
the baffling greatness
and mystery that is our universe

These young'uns are mighty attached to the
virtual reality, world and landscape
of computer technology

A sprinkling of cowboy stars flash
an omnipresent wink
Sunset bonfire explodes across
the frontier horizon

Turning the corner onto Emerson Drive
smoldering scarlet orange embers
reflecting lights
shoot fireworks, launch rockets
through an ever expanding field of vision
 Jun 4 jayebird
a couple


pools of


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