I remember that day on Mount Tamalpais.
We picnicked under the loving sky
On Bolinas ridge, atop Wicklow hill,
The maiden’s breast.  We found those apple trees,
Who’d gone wild and fell into their world.
A blossom on the way.

I took your picture and you developed into
A sea-horse, or was it a mermaid?  The ridge
Was foaming about you and birds were swimming
Like fish underneath.  We found a tree, an umbrella
Left at the beach.  The coral-grass became our bed
And wine turned into water.

A spiral dance in arms of anemone, it was
All embrace!  That reef was spawning heaven.
At the treasure chest under the sea maiden,
Like children on highland pap, we played
At the beach that day in a castle above the clouds,
Beneath the wave.

.
We were as downy birds,
Sky once had names for us,
Rain pooled into faery wells,
Supernatural was our blood.

We saw each with opened eyes,
And touch was permanent as sun,
Light swooned about our keeping
And the earth was without tomb.

But time soon railed its perishments
And a star turned with pointed wind,
We lost the sun raise of innocence
And the glass of truth broke in a jar.

Now, lovers roam in the still hollows
And reminisce only on stoney banks,
A great ocean of peace was drowned
And to childish walls, a castle of sands.

.
1

The charred rising.  Am I the praying bird?
In the gleaming sun my bones are negative,
My flesh a cypher walking through the plains
As ghost I move, my dark lord, above me
Flocks swirl and spike. I stand accused,
Your pointed face divining oblivion,
And no redemption in the rains of my
Cliff walk days.


2

I see my shroud pinning on the wires
His legs are razored forks spinning my
Compass from True North. Your dark brush-
Fire wings, the swept wind, wheels and strings
My fate. Such black rhetoric in a burn,
Your caws, loosed perches, on the stakes, picks
My crowning grave. Black dove, your feathers finger
As they slice.


3

Smoke, the cardinal blood caries my teething
Bone, spades my hand without a flight.
Taut, the pulled noose my hooded one
I see my scarecrow’s reflexion, the scar,
Let blood, the seeded droppings end trailed
To my door. Feathers, ferry to carry on
Dowsing downward, black knight of down, to sticks
On extended wings.

.
In mid airs, dimly,
The ****** birds cluck,
Only flutter useless wings
For they are grounded,
Nor are they beautiful,
O how they feign singing,
Gutteral cluckings only fit
For predators to stalk,
Lame ugly birds prefer
The company of other
Lame, ugly, groundy birds,
With no things, ever, to sing,
Only to preen and beak
For scraps under trees,
Where winged songbirds
Lit by the flighty sun
Do truly sing.

Flowers so rare and fine,
Missing from this dry world,
Lost, unwatered, unseen, yet
No ones and none despaired,
They then planted their garish
Seed in blot sun, most sodden,
Soppy soils sprayed which fell
On the plainest, most commoner
Grounds, such fertile dirt, wrought,
Then, all who came to view where
But gaggles of proud mediocrity
Who arrived to revel and preen,
Unjust, they remade this earth,
Once lively, to be lame, what
Celebrations they now need
What praises they do crave,
Sadly, they could not know,
A flower for the weeds.

Ryn has teary eye
His empathy is all pose
Hallmark cards to sell

Most popular hacks
Real awful so called writers
Are stars on HP

The weakly poet
In praise of Joshua Haines
Drivel and Drek shines

Massive egos shine
Mostly drivel on HP
Just Poetastery

.
Lear wanders in stormy open, bares warring elements,
The heavens blister, crackle, night is balmy shroud,
Wretched monarch babbles in sprinkles of wind cold,
Arguments lost by ones own pouring perturbations
And raining sky said 'nothing will come from nothing.'

Howl, howls into blackness treed in lightning splits,
His outcast soul, reels, fleshed, cut to smithereens,
Tang of salt burns on the bluffs and the sea rages,
So entire and ceremonious is Lear's fall meted out,
Air spoke, 'nothing from nothings ever yet was born.'

Sky proclaimed to man child King, here is a reckoning,                           
Each mad choice was self infliction, now wind flays
And sweet Cordelia lies in her innocent **** grave,
Sky, in thralls of thundering asks, 'what say thee now,
King of highborn follies, even purple heaths are rags,

Yet black and above you and night shades, whine,
Unworthy King, done in by compounded effects,
The might of maelstroms in low butterflies wings,
How now, bare trees, knifing reeds, skeletal flashes,
To rains of night are ever your lanyards my lord,'

Sad Lear so near oblivion fell mute, sky went on,
'Howl and cry mad King your reaper calls beyond,
The icy brisk heavens await to brusque you away,
Your slipshod kingdom was mere and fools' dream,
Howl, til howls abrupt abate, for nothing now comes.'

.
Lear wanders in stormy open, bares warring elements,
The heavens blister, crackle, night is balmy shroud,
Wretched monarch babbles in sprinkles of wind cold,
Arguments lost by ones own pouring perturbations
And raining sky said 'nothing will come from nothing.'

Howl, howls into blackness treed in lightning splits,
His outcast soul, reels, fleshed, cut to smithereens,
Tang of salt burns on the bluffs and the sea rages,
So entire and ceremonious is Lear's fall meted out,
Air spoke, 'nothing from nothings ever yet was born.'

Sky proclaimed to man child King, here is a reckoning,
Each mad choice was self infliction, now wind flays
And sweet Cordelia lies in her innocent **** grave,
Sky, in thralls of thundering asks, 'what say thee now,
King of highborn follies, even purple heaths are rags,

Yet black and above you and night shades, whine,
Unworthy King, done in by compounded effects,
The might of maelstroms in low butterflies wings,
How now, bare trees, knifing reeds, skeletal flashes,
To rains of night are ever your lanyards my lord,'

Sad Lear so near oblivion fell mute, sky went on,
'Howl and cry mad King your reaper calls beyond,
The icy brisk heavens await to brusque you away,
Your slipshod kingdom was mere and fools' dream,
Howl, til howls abrupt abate, for nothing now comes.'

.
Saint sees the sun—
In every leaf and river,
Grow in bloom of sparkle,
That flows to earth
And sea, changing
The globe with rounded
Eyes and simple cloths.

But there are those—
Who label themselves
Sinner, by indifferent
Tongue of words they fork,
Vision that opens in dark,
By base industry and guile
Know their own worths.

Saint is old beginner,
Each day are missives
Of tears and joyful acts
To beauty and simple light
Becomings, pilgrims unleashed
By chains of hand and whirl
Of sun golden daisies.

.
Light as air, windy, freshly,
As music, wafting with sun,
Through an open window,
In sleepy choir that beams
Are birds, wistful, warmly
In faraway song, arriving
With new day and gardens
Quake, little wings, starting
Things in flowers, colourings,
Which are strummed by touch
Of airs and light and new day,
She wakes and earth sings.

.
In the long nothings of blackest night
Owl whispers.  Hair of mouse stands,
As only an under sieged without spear
Can and grave vole, simply wide open
On his mat of dead leaves, drying time
And even the hare, without hope, hops
Maddeningly caught in dark labyrinths
Without sight, dear is the silent scream
Of all that was mere, so slim after light,
Night scurry, dash, curled fingers, prey.

.
Wet welling from earth  .  .  .
Deep valleys, hills, sweating *******,
  .  .  .  I plung into her.


We are lost at sea  .  .  .
In moonless night our soft cries,                                                           ­            
Curled waves drowning us.


Above her in bed  .  .  .
Little breaths lifting our bodies,
Eyes, fingers, dreaming.


Her green eyes are set,
Jewels from sargasso seas,
My ghost ship is wrecked.


Her long hair tangles  .  .  .
No struggle in rising— then,
  .  .  .  We are rapt in bed.


Her eyes blinding me,
Milky way of her body,
  .  .  .  There is a heaven.


In forest we taste  .  .  .
Each other in evergreens,
Hot dews on the moss.


Blissful time kissing  .  .  .
My bare thighs sink into hers,
  .  .  .  Running sands so quick.


As olive or grape  .  .  .
So shed, paired souls are threshed,
  .  .  .  Out of their bodies.


Hummingbirds share truths .  .  .
Nature sounds with all sweetness,
  .  .  .  Bee in the flower.


Always in a field  .  .  .
Wild flowers— a bunch to pick,
  .  .  .  Herself a bouquet.


In the park we walk  .  .  .
Flocks of white birds taking flight,
  .  .  .  Two hearts light as air.


We kissed under moon  .  .  .
Pox of stars grew flowering,
  .  .  .  Nightshade of her lips.


She took me to bed  .  .  .
Skinned in bliss— was reborn, lost,
  .  .  .  In her satin folds.

.
The moon undresses you, little bird,
Your eyes are indigo skies without stars,
Your breath is summer grass after shower.
How you hold your arms before the night,
A lance of milky sheen and flailing bliss,
Your arms arrest as they softly surrender
And your ******* overflow in moist shores
Of white sand and shells, little ears to kiss,
I am drowning in your curves on the waves
From the sea, delirious with eye of moon,
Drunk with wild ocean as it consumes me,
Your hair is new grassland to run through,
Windy as a child breaking for the beach,
I latch my fingers to yours like driftwood
Tangled in kelp, the salt we share, steeps,
Is **** and deep and our lips are shucked
Oysters, blind, iridescent, sliding with eyes
Into the famished throat of ***** heavens.

.
Lumpy fields of fox hole heaved by a harrow,
Boulders drawn, lifted on break weather stall,
Bundles of crops strewn, wall stone shrapnel,
Within lines so drawn, only a few have fallen.

In temple HP
Lame thoughts are plainly revered
Poetasters preying

Over a thousand  .  .  .
Followers gathered from muck,
  .  .  .  HP star suckers.

The Weekly Poet
Misspelled his own site should be:
'The Weakly Poet!

Angry Poetasters
Rather than write anything real
Pretend to have thoughts