Sacred airs on the morn, averse to fumes and din
Reach for what helps bring all of sane; it came.

Only one voice calling, far from tossing crumbs
Mercy in tiny increments in the lap of assiduous babes.

Lovely millimeters made the *** a replenished act
If a staid soul needs break the pattern, surely that waltz's not lost.....

Facile was of man's habit, a constant battle to evade
The one looking such of sweetness, rather reeks a tainted rag.

Read hp every second day or so
and see a few poems never move off the trend page.

Maybe my imagination, but seems they are stuck there.
Some poems stay put, like glue that won't come off,
Eyes get tired of same old.

Is the page stuck or frozen....?
Would like to see the page refreshed.

Revving through streets to prove a shine nobody can take to grave.
Wilde said something bright once in an irretrievably lost spot:
No good trying to be another, when all's taken.

Well, depends on what the currency is
if you're a giver or a getter.
If it is a gift for the getter, what gift?
Something forgiving in the bargain
and later forgetting to return favors.

My mother kept a singing bird, just for herself
In the kitchen
By the door
In a cage.

She fed it herself
and talked to it
at 68.
What woman speaks to a bird,
perhaps one who knows
and understands.

All the peaks and trills,
the notes of song
she heard.
She knew its moods
and tunes, she sang along.
Their ritual of conversing
while washing up
and dry with dishcloth
or cooking
or baking her special recipe
apple pie.

Every night, she covered the cage
with a blanket
to keep warm the singing bird and
so the kitchen light would
not disturb
and in the morning,
she took it off again.

Then with silence broken
by welcome twitter,
she would tell
her grey and black wonder
of her plans whilst at chores.
When at elevenses,
she sat near the door
with hot tea and cookie,
she'd offer crumbs
stare ahead, a dreamy smile.

One day the bird died
and into her dishcloth,
she cried.

on the ghost of a blood moon
returning the bones --
to the sea.

all over this globe, we crush the worlds
of so many people --
us, our family.

I may be dead next time it comes
beating an old drum --
I sing again.

Brooding over impossible things
lifetimes away, hungering.
Warmth in a cold chapel, metal handles.
Angels too far away. Father, help.

Walking home in the rain.
Subway plastered by dim memories
of other people: getting love from a stranger
or handled preciously
on a train.

Not crying for effort in a touch.
Ban this all you want, it's not controlled
not altered.
Never deleted.
Turn the keyboard round.

A clue sticks there. Bright sign
on the your wall. Don't scream now.
It's been there a while, behind your eyes.
In the shower, hot liquid falls over you
mental ladders into your head.

I believe in the ocean
no tripping over ego
my eyes are sheltered.

There,
inside the turbines of God's foaming carriages
the octopus turns in your dream
and the sea turns
a rolling blue.

Dream forever drawing in
and holding hostage
on that plain between coroner's sleep
and fretful awakeness
a nervy brain-current
twitching REM
violent combat
forcing awake
to escape that relentless
scratching

Swollen eye
like a bee-sting kiss

Awaken to
birds' song
whose messages
translate
into
something else surpasses sleep...

Morning song enters
fears subside
life's dream

with all the religious fighting
it's easy to lose one's head
so much sectarian discord

people bring armageddon onto themselves
attracting negative energies
pulling meteors to earth

dip in your toes in the sand
and read magnitude in the sky
let the lapping sea be your preacher