To usher in
the wind of change,
you have to make room--

you must rearrange.

To slumber in fields
way down by the sea,
to be haunted by the scent
of sweet ambergris.

Where the tolling
bells of time will mend
those long, lost hours
when you needed a friend--

they will resonate with
reason until the end.

Go ahead and reach
for every star in the sky,
don't ever get hooked
on Who? How? or Why?

When you open your sails--

your dreams are in reach.
Ships are made for the ocean,
not for the beach.






.

So sadistic comes the night
in red stiletto heels.
Many fallen angels
knows just how this feels.

Vampire slayer's
record player
spins without a bite.

I am falling through
the stratosphere
at the speed of night.

Let me go,
rock & roll,
I hear the night time sing.

Smokey bars
and steel guitars
rock Saturn's neon ring.

So sadistic comes the night
in red stiletto heels.
Many fallen angels
knows just how this feels.

I am falling through
the stratosphere
at the speed of night.








.

.




Count the stars in a moonless sky
as Borealis dances alone.
Reminds me of a cold, distant fire--
or childhood memories churning.
                  *
Making their bed on the cooling sand,
a new lovers' fire consumes.
Embers crackle and the night rages on
while the rest of the world's slowly burning.
                  *
Borealis, twists and turns and
sings,"How sweet the sound,"
as a sleepy ocean lullaby
comes crashing to the ground.
                 *
You've got comets and Cupid's
arrows falling all about
as dolphins race through
an electric atmosphere.
                 *
Where time and man
co-exist as thought,
when you choose the right door
you're outta here.
                 *
Count the stars in a moonless sky
as Borealis dances alone.
Reminds me of a cold, distant fire--
or childhood memories churning.
                  *
Making their bed on the cooling sand,
a new lovers' fire consumes.
Embers crackle and the night rages on
while the rest of the world's slowly burning.
                  *
Borealis, twists and turns and
sings,"How sweet the sound,"
as a sleepy ocean lullaby
comes crashing to the ground.






.

.
~To touch
one more piece of heaven,
to taste your golden gate bridge open--

as wild as a two tongue fury
in a peppermint
breeze.

Mongrels, at best-
having their way
beneath a mid-summer sky.

Groping to unfold each petal
before their season.
Where "loves-me-not"
is never an option.

Touch me hard so I can feel it.~

.




Even in your eyes,
the malignancy took a bite.
It's eaten all your dreams,
and has you walking toward the light.

Now your pretty painted smile is
the only thing deceivin'.
Your pain has burrowed to the bone,
still there's nobody you'll believe in.

So when they slam the lid
at your tolling knell,
it is as simple
as ringing a bell.

To the novice unbeliever
I am the reaper of souls,
and you are the one
for whom the knell tolls.

Forever I have waited for you to turn blue,
now I have your permanent seal.
Just for the record, which lie did you buy
to make you believe that He wasn't real?






.

.
Her mind is such a mystery,
her thoughts, they slip away so free.
What did. she. think. of me?

Summer blues, summer blues-
you just do what-ever you choose;
Whenever you leave me -
You say you win, and I lose.

My skin still craves your tender touch.
Your lovelight just hides from me so much.
Will there be another us?

Summer blues, summer blues-
you just do what-ever you choose;
Every time you leave me -
You say you win, and I lose.






.

.




raynebows are rayne's kite
raynebows are not too heavy-

they are pretty lyght






.

~Like Doorways to Your Mind
by redbarchettadrive

There's a black hole, an entrance to your soul--
like doorways to your mind.
Cyclonic jets rise from the depths
of your universe. Starlight will not be contained--

It bursts and bubbles, it breaks the chains.
It spins the galaxies inside our brains.
Train your wings
on the freedom of space.
Keep the dream right in your face.

Revolution rings--
an eye for an eye.

Dream your dream, let your stars fly!

.Any remaining embers of summer havetaken to the wind.Fall stones, lovers pinned-The whole world is apprehensiveof winters' chrysalis to crack.Summer returns a grown womanwith a monkey on her back..

.


My father bought a granite slab,
he'd chip all day at stone.
Though his fingers bled so much,
he chipped until they were bone.

Night and day he'd chip away,
fragments filled the room.
What was his motivation?
What was in this granite womb?

Shards of light fell on the room,
dust clung to every beam.
His sculpture seemed to have a beating heart,
the sculptor fell back with a scream.

From within this lonely tomb,
the blind were made to see.
Forever, I'll have my fist to my brow,
forever my elbow to knee.

I think I am alive,
I think that I can think.
I think that I have eyes,
I just can't make them blink.

I think I'll stay in this position,
permanently ******.
You may never hear my voice,
from the stone, I've only groaned.








.

.
She walked naked into the woods,
where the moonlight danced with fog.
Where an owl competes with a coyote,
the rush of the creek drowns out a dog.

Fascinations overwhelmed her,
she just wanted to know.
Then a future reading of an ultrasound
appeared from within the glow.

She looked beyond the stars above,
as Saturn's colors began to swirl.
She thanked God and she walked back home,
she now knows that it's a girl.









.

.Ah! Beautiful Selene-Bathe your naked body inThe waters of the ocean,Set your long hair against The wind,So lustrous in the moonlight.Your shepherd prince Endymion,You prayed his soul to keep.A cold cave for his sanctuary,You make love in his sleep.Against the archingBlack canopy of sky,Your tears fall andWe call it rain-As your fiery chariotPrepares to touch downOn a planet so full-Of the clinically insane.The sea of Tranquility calls outyour name.

.




Another cigarette?
Nah, that won't do the trick.
Morphine tab? Percoset?

One? Two? All?
I don't know. I just
know I hurt. Bad!

Why would she do that?

I have a razor that could
take these memories far, far away.

That woman knew I'd be back
from the war
as soon as I could.

He was my best friend.


I asked him to take care of her
while I was gone. Not exactly
what I had in mind.

I tried to move forward,
to evolve. There must
be a trick to metamorphosis.

I just wanted to dry
my wings in the sun
with her.

Now I just want
to fly away.

My tears that are falling
only make me lighter.

I am going to fly.
I'm just tired of waiting for my wings.

I must be really big,
because I am falling hard.





.












.

.
Oh! Fragile martyr man--
your word play is so electric.

Therapy pulses magnetic
power
to your malignant
deformities.

Death becomes
your golden ticket
to enchantment.

The freedom revolution
evolves
from a badly broken,
bleeding humanity.

Certain
faces simply
whisper power
which question the spilled--
blood of thousands
on a daily
basis-

Another cliche war is
refilling the inkwells
of the blank page,
starving artist.  


Delicate tragic fairy tales remembered--

Layers of rust
encrust the tick and the tock
all throughout the grinding
gears of the clock.

Paintings of the Thinker
sit thinking in the
keenest calculable clarity.

The dreamers of darkness
bathe in the cold,
blinding sparks
of falling starlight.





.

.

~sweet cherry blossom

losing their power to cling

paints an old man's sky-


a pink path softly
lays at the foot of Mt. Fugi,
as a young girl collects withering flowers-

in a brown wicker basket.

                            ~

Soft clouds slide up one side of Fugi,
and then they slide down the other.

Koi leap through a thin veil of petals-

and water.

Cool rivers winding like time...~













.

.Soft confusion doth a great poem make.Poetry was born in the circus of the mind.Chaotic modern subconscious expression shaped our world.Surreal boulevards peopled with poets.Critics act as stop lights,although I don't stop untilthe thought's been driven home.Reality stones the muse, sadness levitates the quill.Welcome to the strange streets.

The sound of rain rises
and rolls up my window.

A herd of wild
sea horses gallop
through bubbles
of an overcrowded tank.

The gods of steel
have rusted to the belly.
Their monolithic structures
are falling-
falling.

Detroit is no place for children,
unless you keep their gun loaded.

So waves of poets
crash on the sand
of wondrous places
with a pen in their hand.

With songs on their tongue,
and dreams in their eyes.
There is still inspiration
in the friendly skies.

So do yourself a favor
and buy American,
because the old Detroit
is now the new Japan.























.

.It was mid-winter, 1927. Cold isn't even one of the wordsI would have used to describethat winter.It was more bone chillingthan I really care to remember. We were both young,Davie and I. November,before momma and daddydied was the last time we had heard from the man at the bank.Foreclosure was the wordthat formed icicles in my heart. We were downto our last can of beans.We were frightened, to say the least. We had no way to heat them,the wood was all burned.I swept away the old ashin hopes there would besome kindling there.There was not. Then I got an idea.When granddad was a boy,he collected chunks of coalthat fell from the trainsrunning from the mountain minesto the cities far away. The unused stall in the barnhad six large burlap bags full.I told Davie to stay put.The snow was so deepthat it took me over an hour to reach the barn.I filled up an old Diamond's potatoes sack plumb to the top.I retraced my stepsback through the snow,almost tasting the warm beanssliding down my throat. Davie's eyes danced upon my return, his tears dried the instant I opened the half frozen door. I quickly assembled a small pyramid of coalin the stove and set themablaze. They glowed like molten steel,as we warmed our hands. Iwarmed our last can of beansand exchanged worried glanceswith Davie.I told Davie to say the prayer,then we ate. The beans were good. Oh,Lord were they good!We chewed each one as if theywere made of gold.I woke with a yawn the next morningand the sun was shining. Davie had risenearlier than Iand he had even done his choreswithout being asked. I told him that I was proud of himand patted him on the backlike daddy used to. Suddenly Davie looked at me funny andhe handed me backthat same Diamond's Potatoes sackI had just emptied the coal from last night. He told me he was cleaning the ashfrom the stove and he found this pileof glass stones.I looked closer...

.
~His eyes are in the palm of his hand,
the sky is in his mind.
He wants to find new colors--

Who knows what he will find?

The wind is on the front porch,
the dog's mouth is quick to foam.
A tornado suddenly blows you away--

a long, long way from home.

Kansas is gone-
the Tinman said,
as the poppy fields
donned a million head.

A crimson explosion-
a juicy, ripe plum;
and a peace pipe full
of *****.

John, George, and Paul
were comfortably numb.
Poor Ringo got a blister
on his drumming thumb.

This day could not
have been any more fun,
when Paul proved,
"Happiness WAS a warm gun."~








.

.

Set aside time for celestial night-
A million years to name every star,
Time in your eyes make them seem very far-
Preparing your soul for astral flight.
Tantalize your skies with your tailless kite;
While Orion is preparing for war-
And nobody knows just what war is for.
Discovery has been my life's delight!


To gaze into sky that's as black as tar-
Pinpoints -of- light... everywhere that I turn;
And the cage of my chest feels very tight.

You turn the key and you have the power-
Everyone wants to see Jupiter burn.
Ah! It's going to be one hell of a night!












.

.They extricated colors from my dreamsand splattered them onto canvas.Natural starlight rapped softlyon my chamber door,illuminating my life.Hopping to and fro, the ravenblew out each candle,one by one...as  starlight flooded the night.Suddenly brilliance met the brush.

.
Underwater illusions
rocked the
oceanic cities.

Jagged shark teeth
gnash  
at the darkness.

Gale force winds
hurl sporadic starlight
like anchors
through crashing waves.

A rocky undersea tempest
pitches a bluish-green spray
stinging the dying
pirates' skin.

Rabid waves foam
at the mouth
as lightning illuminates
every creatures eyes and teeth.

A vicious pitch-black
war waged
from the mouth of
judgment.

Then
an earthquake
swallowed
the ocean.










.

.





We stand fast
against the tyranny.
They will never see
the livin' fear in me.

They've noted all our motives,
and took down all our names.
They stripped away our freedom
as Washington was going up in flames.

They took away our pistols,
every thing we could afford.
Then they bankrupted Chevy,
from schools, they banned the Lord.

Guitar Hero,
revolution;
out of gas, now
what's the solution?

The raising of taxes gets
preached to the choir.
The pews will smolder
with martyrs on fire.

AT&T; towers loom on the horizon.
Start a revolution on your Verizon.
We'll succumb to flame, never the plow.
I've one question, "Can you hear me now?"






.

.Ancient forest-
wood and stone.
A doorway open,
a boy alone.
Summer's slumber,
a feathered choir.
Comparing her
to stars on fire.
Cracked clay horses,
a dried lagoon.
A place to sit
and talk to the moon.
Sweet Spanish moss,
roots in the sky.
Not suitable to climb-
I'll never fly.


"You cannot save shadows for a rainy day."-redbarchettadrive ♥.

.
The
puppet awakened to...

martyrs-

selling raffle tickets
to the resurrection of
heaven-


as
the dawn
came crashing through
the trees...


and the moon hung lifeless
like a wet rag,
clipped to a frayed clothes line.

To
superstitious souls-

wearing antique flesh
like over sized overcoats;

and eternity mixing
with dew
and flow i n g
s l o w

                l

                      y


into the holy river.

Who cut the puppet's strings?











.

.Womb paintings-merging delicate layers--of love and darkness.The water's warmthnourishesthe arousal of creativity.Restlessness mirrorsexhilaration--proving any phase ofmoonstill tugsat the new seed..

.
A million glassy-eyed morning dewdrops falling easy--

We raise our empty glasses of daylight and salvation.

Disguised minds tell crazy stories through their blind eyes,
diamonds refract a symphony of dancing mother of pearl angels.

Love left the western heroes mothers dying in the sunset-

Questions waiting on your father, so old and ailing,
falling blinded, wind swollen eyes streaming tears.

The daylight blues swing as low as a wet December.

Where bee stings ache like exploding stars--

A hundred madman songs sang a thousand years ago.

Miracles always crystallize and slowly drip from Heaven,
prodigal points of view which had really never left my mind.

Children seem to look in the direction of greener worlds,
a lost lady sings soulful blues on the east side side streets.

Tonight the city will walk a mile in the devil's shoes...

Someone heard the cry of pilots at J.F.K. International,
where the street sounds wind through the streets like melting snow.

God knows your way is the alleyway to the Harlem House of Blues,
tell me my son, can you read my mind?

Listen to the simple sounds of
growing, gleaming, learning, laughing because-

New York's feet never touch the ground.








.

.
Building castles out of stardust--
and sprawling cities lit by starlight.

The arranger stands on
geometric borders--

unobtrusive to the rebel's dream.






.

.


Can you feel the rhythm rise,
but never, ever leaving the ground?
The bridges sway with every song that  they play,
I can barely wait for the sound.

A sonic exhilaration
crosses dreamstates of predecision.
While wild wizards are haranguing the warlocks,
the devil makes a quick incision.

In the hearts that are subdivided,
to those full of James Brown soul-
there's an evil wind that's suddenly pinned
your face to the totem pole.

Echoes from dragons seducing a sigh,
there's an ache to leave in their blood.
Some-
when they run, run far, far away,
while others are still stuck in the mud.

Can you feel the rhythm rise,
but never, ever  leaving the ground?
The bridges sway with every song that  they play,
I can barely wait for the sound.





.

.
How deep will he go
inside his self?
Will he apprehend the poet--

or set him high on the shelf?

When given the chance
he tries and he tries
to release his words
like wild butterflies.

A prisoner in chains,
yet parchment bound.
He's a book full of sonnets--

He's a book come unbound.

He's an unspoken treasure
inside of a book.
He'll come up to play
if you drop him the hook.

When given the key,
my eyes never show it--

because you are the door,
and I am the poet.






.

.
My passion
              my words--


Form arrows in my veins,
              and aims for my heart--

like origami stones
              tumbling in a river,
honing and moaning.

Suddenly,
their crunchy chrysalis cracks
             to produce
                             the written butterfly.




.

.
Spiral City-

mocks far away eyes, where
rains' vibrant voice cries

out for pity.

Like an echo to a visionary,
darkness seeps in with a sigh.

Where small planets dart
in and out like honey bees.

Someday we'll all understand,
the day we hold cold wind in our hand.
When the downcast boys are fully grown,
when the magic candles are finally blown.

Unforgotten lullabies cascading on their own,
brings back to life each king and queen
that's fallen from their throne.

Someday we'll all understand...




.

.
Sequestered points of balance,
metal quick to melt down.
Rhythmic explorations
martyr
it's steely style
for melody.

Scraped,
no friction-
sans no science fiction,
because
the whiteness of reality
always winds up
in the light.

Withering apocalyptic
grape clusters
still clinging
fast to the vine as
Bacchus belches
and staggers
away.

Dissimilar similarities
changing continuous like
wild flowers
in the desert.
(One dies, one will rise...)

Life's dependent on
the rain,
allow fluctuation
in your flow of frustration
on your
yellow brick road
of life.









.

.It's 4 a.m.A hotelbibleisspreading thegood newsto a local wino,as ***** childrenof intimatestrangers areplaying X Boxwith addicts.A young girlis learning toinhaleup on thegravel rooftop,scribing poetryon her armin the sparsemoonlight.Razor writingis sucha wasteof type O..

.
Origami rhythm
folds within his soul.
Thundering horses
came before the rain,
as merry-go-round melodies
skip across the sea.
His concept of desolation
changed with the wind,
with the eclipse of the eagle.






.

.I felt a little strangewith binoculars in handon a warmWednesday morning,a mild breezetussling your curtains.I watched you with aschoolboy fascinationas you tookyour clothes offof the clothesline.Oh! the basketful of storiesyou draggedin through your door.Were yougoing out dancing?To the store?Your prettiestdress sparkledin the sun's lightand it made me think.Yeah.That's what Ilike about you--You make methink..

.
His breathing fell silent as the unborn child...

***** by reality as his jaw fell toward his feet--
His eyes, ***** windows in a ***** world.

Magazines with wet rings from
sweaty brown Bud Light bottles as
pride slithered down dry throats,
and dead eyes were ceasing to see.

Olympus tossed my good
intentions
tied to an anchor
to the bottom
of the sea,
and Poseidon just blows bubbles.

How can he see me with his eyes closed?






.

. The pulse of least resistancelies hidden within the seed.Music makes each moment rise,fulfilling wavelengths' deed.The mighty beasts of ancient dayscast down a noble's heart.Unobtrusive in the end,yet, to end is but to start.Fused with atomic energy,and hopeful honest light;the prophets sought the living cave,the skies prepared to fight.Open-hearted ancient wayshave slain the kingly foe.New life burst forth from simple seed...the seed that we let grow..