My hair stands on end
and I tip over, spilling
into the sky and down
into the dirt.
The stage explodes inwards
in colorful bursts,
black and white bears
strumming and growling
in a cymbal crash
a thunder clap
a tap-dancing
madhouse jamboree.
The threatening noise
reverberateraterating
through the hills
and climbs up inside
until I fly out of my body
straight up into the heavens
with a sigh,
a soul release.

i have a little terrapin i keep him in a tank
he didnt have a name so i called him frank.
he is very cute and paddles round his home
in and out rocks he just loves to roam
he has a little ramp that takes him to the top
where he likes to bask and from the water frank can pop
he sits there for while that is his retreat
underneath the light giving off the heat
then he as feed to fill his appetite
then off he goes to sleep and thats him for the night.

i have a little terrapin i keep him in a tank
he didnt have a name so i called him frank.
he is very cute and paddles round his home
in and out rocks he just loves to roam
he has a little ramp that takes him to the top
where he likes to bask and from the water frank can hop
he sits there for while that is his retreat
underneath the light giving off the heat
then he as feed to fill his appetite
then off he goes to sleep and thats him for the night.

jerry's voice weaves a net
to catch my drunken skin,
sagging and dancing against
his cherry pie voice
warm and sweet in the dark of
the 7:17 dawn,
sun still sleeping behind a tall mountain range.

it makes me ache for open hearted
companions
barefeet wet from dew and black from distance
fearless,
unapologetic as they scream their throats out
raw splattering on the gasping earth from
the heaven high rooftops.

flowers poked through the pores
of ocean flavored skin,
peeling from laying too long
in the morning-faced
sun.

i wonder why people feel
so ancient, when their skin is still so young.
we've built this generation in the
imprisonment of fear,
the shrill avoidance of beauty,
we've forgotten what it feels to be living
free and loving
true,
and that's why you see so many young bones
crumble when their lives have just
begun.

i have a little terrapin i keep him in a tank
he didnt have a name so i called him frank.
he is very cute and paddles round his home
in and out rocks he just loves to roam.

he has a little ramp that takes him to the top
where he likes to bask and from the water frank can hop
he sits there for while that is his retreat
underneath the light giving off the heat.

then he as feed to fill his appetite
then off he goes to sleep and thats him for the night.

Once there was a man called Jim,
This tale is quite maudlin,
So, what was wrong with Jim?
He received some pets from his family,
Who decided to give Jim pet therapy,
So, what was wrong with that?
Lucky they didn't give Jim a cat,
So, why, indeed is that?
Well, he had a budgie and a terrapin,
New little friends for poor old Jim,
Which he forgot to hydrate,
He forgot until it was way too late,
His terrapin turned turtle,
A desiccated shade of purple,
But, what about Jim's budgie? You ask,
Daily feeding was supposed to be Jim's task,
Poor budgie mortuus, there he lay,
Jim's family came to visit one day
Eventually, his daughter's jaws did part,
"There's nothing colder than an ex-budgie's heart!"

would walk out of the city on Sunday afternoon after Sunday Mass
Dinner at noon was the custom. then the city would slip into  Sunday coma.
Mantovani, Acher Bilk, and the BBC wafted from the Television less homes we passed
on our way to the river.

Old chocolate men reclined on rickety old wooden porches smoking hand rolled
whatever as we strolled by giving us the lazy eye. All knowing , know nothings.
Sun beaten and calloused to lives of hard labor. every now and then one would just give a
jaundiced nod and look away/ Live to smoke another day.

Half paved tar and gravel roads simmered and writhed in the distance.
but our bare feet.
slapped in rhythm .cut off knee pants and skinny bare chest attested to sparse living but we
never knew it cause the mangrove jungle was minutes away and big
unwanted catfish to hook and throw away. Disdainful (Kiatto).

Off the simmering road now hopping toads. Johnny fiddler ***** for bait .
The canoe awaits us two small school boys in our natural state. One seven one eight.

Pelicans survey slowly above where the river meets the sea A small ripple and down he goes. He knows where school is in for mackerel and terrapin. Bone fish too.
We small boys with no fear . Innocence a pole and cork. One hook apiece is our gear.
Knee deep in mire as we push of and jump. A paddle apiece as we stroke against the tide to traverse the emerald river wide. The far bank. My Aunt Doris's shack.

Man over board to tie of the. Bow.

A snack of tortillas and beans then up the river no fear. Fun and the fish
Sun and the wish for an endless Sunday. We hate Monday. Back the priests and nuns.Slate writing board and times tables.
Let's fish.
Let us dream.
Tied off in the mangrove shade.
Swatting horse flies quietly. Quietly?

Like bird dogs we study the floating cork.
A wiggle, a bob. A bob. Set the hook and out comes the prize.
Then more. More flapping underfoot.we can hardly.walk. The glee
A bonanza.
All fried up and crisp.Catch and release. What madness. Catch and consume.

Day is done in the Carribean sun.
Home eastward. The pitch road is more forgiving on bare feet now
with the September sun at our backs. A leisurely stroll back to the
house. No worries,

A bath  and change for the Sunday evening show.
The Thief Of Baghdad or  maybe El Cid.
The Duke Audie Murphy in a double header.

The walk home along the moonlit seaside.
To start another Halcyon stream.
Another time and place rooted firmly in my memory.

Five hundred feet from Terrapin Point the Birdman stands with his bicycle.  His face as flat as the quarters he begs for, glares at foreign tourists.  Two boisterous parrots, Larry and Mabel.  They smell like tourists and change, and are footcuffed to three brass chains connected to his backpack.  A Muslim family approaches.  They want a picture.  Birdman places the birds on the hands of the smallest boy, and his mother takes a picture.  Mabel squirms.  Larry squawks.  Click.  A reward for their posturing, Birdman places birdseed on his tongue, and the parrots peck away, ignoring his birdbreathe for an evening snack.  The tourists clap and laugh at Birdman and toss him their spare change.  Birdman stands.  Waits.  For another family to pose with his birds.

Mabel licks her wings
and Larry says, "Picture pic."
Birdman stands alone.

Then a voice comes and says
It was a stranger, pays by the hour
You got jacked, hacked, attacked
Your mind was theirs when we got here

There was a time spent
pretending it wasn't possible.
Sad, sick strangers, ******* you!
But I dreamed of my beloved four.
They ****** my spirit, like a battery.

Then he came, the covenant,
time to turn and escape their nets.
Down into the pit, a crucible.
To treat with my paladin

We tend the metasphere in secret,
Honor bound in sacred duty
Terrapin are we.

brash thunder in the dark is low and deep
it bids us rest and dream of milky light
of other places where with fresher sight
the follies of the seasons slower creep
may well be judged by those who always keep
a weather eye for things to come out right
as safe from mortal horror that's the plight
of one who knows just what hides down in sleep
there's better clarity in the grey dawn
a different heat another sort of life
to be confronted choices to be met
one fearful terrapin seen on the lawn
draws in its head for fear of hurt or strife
but then goes on with no thought or regret

Repentant in the muddy waters
Circuitry of crystal exposure and
sandy bottom
Becoming one with Cotton Indian Creek
The olive cool link longing for an ocean
to call her own
River Birch mother what human frailty
thou hast borne witness of
Terrapin brothers what do you patiently
wait for
Collage of cirrus sky warning , Gibbous Moon
address
A Blue Heron to share my loneliness* ...