Swoon to a tearful night, unknown to its grief
Dialogue of peace, and those of plight
Ringing of morphology, raindrops on the roof.
Such things heard from the peasants’ seat
In the many wet heads sopping
In the sonorous waves, upright in the city clime
Untending to their beds.
At the bottom of that something
All told are destined they will find
Be pliable to the ills they’ve dealt
To carry on, to work, admonishments
Said once to justify these red romances
That in every rain storm melt
As pity through the night, forever unclasped
From shackles of their blame
Since life and ideology somehow are the same.
‘Tis destiny for abating storms
As some will rose from their thickened thorns
These nights deliver their gentle morns
All the same as hemlock grows as poison
And is best to be avoided.
How—this, I fear only rain my know—
Can we still bathe in fraternal glow
When some still heal from Death himself
Each breath that enters is quickly prayed to leave
High on seated thrones
Those mean so quick to thieving, the poor
The lazy deserve no quarter
Those dusty pockets afford not one
So steal the heart upon his sleeve.
May we help man wrought our kin and kind
By common tongue, free, as we are ought?
Since another may make my world
He is mine to protect, not throw to bytes
So ludicrous and feeding back upon themselves
For destiny can be remade
If hatred weren’t so blind.

I’m slipping again.
I can hear them.
Whispered admonishments,
Echo in my head…
Louder and louder,
As I feel fuller and fuller,
All my spaces filled with shadows,
And the demons start to creep,
Clawing up my throat
And through the cuts in my skin.
I can’t control the chaos,
My hands are sliding on the reins,
I wish that I could ask for help,
But they won’t let me.

I don’t recognise the face I see,
Staring from the mirror,
It’s pale,
empty,
An ill-formed shell,
A weak and cracked container
For this maelstrom,
My hell.

They’re scratching at my skin again,
Make it stop, make it stop.
My bones are breaking through again,
Make it stop.

Roses and jasmines. All vowels extended until you barely make the words out,
approaching, then rushing and receding past, early mornings. The flower boy;
Wake up calls, admonishments, family fights and announcements, old stories,
dire oaths, colourful threats, affected love, who, this loud mouth? Lady next door;
Squirrels that shriek like birds, competing for turns to puncture the solemn silence;
Paperboys and milkmen, school vans and church bells, pressure cooker whistles,
whish of reed broom on jagged floors wet with cleaning water, motor noise, aircon:
Two years: that vanished like a dancing drop on a hot pan: beauty hiding the pain
Ending like the slowly turning reflection of the halting fan on my breakfast bowl:
Ja..asmi...ines and ro..oses, squirrel shrieks, now familiar story of the family next
door, wash whish, silence: who is that faint spectacled figure on the cabinet glass?

A wealth of meaning can be found
within two letters, barely sound.

A breeze through leaves.
A slithering snake.
Water on shingle that laps a lake.

A softly, soothing lullaby.
The end of a secret.
The start of a lie.

A Chinese whisper.
A smoking gun.
The turning page of a story begun.

Astonishments laughter.
Admonishments pain.
The Wit’s last resort
and the Fool’s refrain

The road I travel has called me again.
Yet, that's not true, as the voice was never quiet.
It was only hidden away like a pair of shameful eyes.
Closed to the admonishments of a sadistic lover.

Yet always there bubbling, percolating, cajoling in a soothing voice.
Beckoning me with memories of freedom and the comforting drone of the road.
Reminders of rest areas swarmed with hopeful travelers with red eyes and creaking joints.
The vending machine stand stoically in a row like good soldiers standing at attention.

Windows open, air buffeting, my face is that of a child catching the new rays of spring.
Music blaring, singing along, my soul rising like a barometer as high pressure moves in.
Right lane driving, eyes gleaming, each passing car tells a story of hope and and unveiled inspiration.
Small towns passing, unrealized lives, I ache to know you. Yet our paths must remain distantly apart.

Night falls and the excitement only builds.  The bulbs of light above are my guide.  No map has their magnetic draw.
The scene changes as the road becomes deserted. My fellow journeyers are swimming or ordering room service.
My metal friend shall be my bed.  This jug of water my frigid shower in the morning.  Late night talk radio my lullaby song.
My thoughts are pure and calm as I curl up in the backseat.  No fear or remorse that I've spurned all lovers. My needs are few and my heart is full.

sit back be forceful but don't allude
scheme and ******... you may get fooled
castigation comes in many shades
embracing and loving forms a delicate braid

spirit is everywhere even when unseen
like past reflections can be very keen
take things firmly by the arm
the rest will seem to follow like a charm

I glanced down a street long lost in time
reflections danced freely in pantomime
agreed and settled through turgid word
at times so flagrant... spiritually absurd

grasping at passing... flirting gain
arrived with admonishments down the drain
search for solace in scripture and voice
without a purpose and little choice

twist of a ***** and flip of a coin
we enroll in our fantasy... standing ready to join
a howl of delight and a feathered cap
steady our stroll clear over the gap

When first you hold that new babe in your arms,
You vow to protect him from all evil or harm.
No love like this have ever you known,
Until you hold this new life, this babe, your own.

The years pass by and with every scrape and tear,
You pull your small one close and hold them near,
Wishing deep in your heart you could take every pain,
Make it yours to withstand, but alas, this wish is in vain.

Our babes must hurt, must suffer and grow,
All the while, we watch, our hearts aching so.
We do what we can to protect them and yet,
In spite of us, somehow, they grow and we fret.

We worry when they are late from a date,
We imagine them lost to the worst kind of fate.
Eyes rolling and with huge sighs at our concerns,
They ignore our admonishments and skip up to their rooms.

Even after you have both lived through those teenage years,
Filled with drama, angst, heartbreak and tears.
When they have become adults on their own,
That protective feeling is there where’re’ they may roam.

And when you hold their young babe to your breast,
The protectiveness renews itself with the little one’s breathe,
The circle of life goes on and the love is revived,
When your babe becomes a young parent. This is good.  This is life.

In darkness of early morning
I write
I cannot think of the inspiration I had before
I have no muse today
Neither in man nor daughter as I usually do
Nor mother father sisters or brothers
And wretched is the thought of writing
A prophetic surging poem based upon
The crazed and lazy cat
So I turn to the morning coffee
And the sleeping world  
About to wake
I do not want to fight today
I do not want to hear complaints
Or admonishments
I want to scream
******* IT SHUT UP!
Today is the day before Christmas Eve you fools
Could you for once and for all stop bickering
Could we have peace?
If not on earth in this house
Could we just be excellent to each other
Without having to party on
Dude!
I think I see snow or frost on the roof tops
No such luck on the ground
And the weather guy didn’t sound too hopeful
Dawn is breaking
Soon both brother and lover will emerge
Resulting in a new day
Of grim territorial battle
I tire of this
So glad today I will be with my mother
And the hoi polloi at the swarming mall
Or some such unbearable place
Defined by the teaming masses of morons
Some daft young girl sizing me up
As head of the fashion police
And former captain of the cheerleaders
She and my mother will decide for me
What I would like for Christmas
And so I write
Hoping for the best
Longing for Christmas to be over
Yet still anticipating and anxiously awaiting
With an unwavering hope
That Christmas will bring peace
And joy
And all that Christmas promises Year upon year
I hope , Merry Christmas

my mother handed out
love in admonishments
about clean shoes and brushed teeth
to try our best and not to bleat about a life hard and oft incomplete....it is only now after years of growing
in understand it is not because she was hard, uncaring  but that she was as fragile as spun glass
so much already taken stolen by this world...her mother while in her teens
first love taken by vietnam
war machine, first child, daughter a few days old...and then three live children, later husband taken by gambling and a woman she considered a friend.
those simple words became
hard to say....to admit love
was to have it ripped away.
so she taught herself, this terse morse of words imbued with love..take a jumper... have you got your books all double entendre
just in care not risque
with love bespoke....
as children we learnt to find the deeper meaning
to parse conversations
for love...sifted by despair...

we learnt well, the art of doublespeak....

So this is what they call anomie?
A grayness,
A blank,
All things devoid of beauty?
When the eternal arms,
Have left me to my own devices,
To toil in deaden land
To paint futile pictures?
I’m wading through waves, through fires
Surely to send a man to delirium,
And as though it never came to pass
I sip unsweetened tea.
What rips men apart,
What fetters pull him in twain,
Simply move me with sway
And don’t move me at all.
Tears rush like the flume
Admonishments thrown
And I can only sigh in frustration
At all this petty emotion.
For man fills his stage with characters,
And bleeds ink all within his works
Aspiring to his own audience, the god he is,
I simply abuse this alchemy
To bide my time till death.
Call meaning what you will,
Fill your life with love,
Fill your life with gold,
with God,
with spite,
with studies,
with yourself.
I cannot,
I do not,
I know not these simple pleasures
Perpetually I am not full,
For there exists where faith should be
A deep impartial hole
If I could be normal,
If I could be normal,
If I could love,
If I could believe,
I’d turn away from it,
And choose to stare uselessly into my faithless hole,
All things beat on, as they be,
And this conviction, be it ever so keen,
That existence and living are useless things,
I’d still see what believers still see
That being the world as beauty,
I’d only see it with a more grayish hue
(Without the pretension to know what is true!)
And see the sense it lacks to see
And commit myself to this anomie.

I am waiting for the moment where I pivot and all that I can envision now is a blacktop and white dotted lines, maybe lanes of rolling white whipped green churning pinwheels going long down the road with a stalk of cud in my mouth can I ever go and unthink like the caramel burnt stained car chair that I rest in as a finger comprised of ash that will collapse in any second and Im telling you its beautiful to let go and see the small blue insects mixed up in a whirlwind of gray flecking flickers that you may capture with a white plastic bag it reads “shoprite” you remember times at the a&p; that was ay-em-*** to toddlers who were smarter to not distinguish between what seems and what is according to the strangers who walk the street, seem foreboding, and yet retreat indoors to steak dinners and why weren’t the tater’s in the oven at half passed six? Maryellen. I told you. I told you patriarchal. I sing from my molehill. My mother always fixed me a cherry pie told me I had the nose of a rodent and so I found my fathers gun, JOhny, white America, puh, would you think I’m on drugs because twenty-one and throw up when looking like chalk smeared on top of cheeks, these bones are feeling a bit decayed wont you examine what you’ve done to…who are you? And nowhere it goes. Nowhere it goes. I sit here im ****** you think it’s a joke but this blurb is worth
Less
Bag of blue sanddollars
Dipped in wax
With a wick
And a pick
A guitar string
And a tick-
Tock
Tick
Tock
Tick


Give it a lick
Peanut butter off a stick
I dunno whats to do or did
But theres a whole lot of mess out there
And we all are using it to smear messages in the listless purple filaments that cloud the sky

I’ve heard admonishments and thin mints in girl scout boxes ive eaten around glass patio tables with blue waters squarely pooled im sure your hair gel is swelling the heart of some hungry shewolf who will nibble or bite or swallow you, I do not know which one is which. But ive heard laments about nations and ignorance and I’m not sure who is more to blame or what could be a solution but to speak largely and loudly id need a microphone and a lot of ears or no a telescope and a broadcaster or better yet digital tools and the internet. Communication is the sopping soggy wet piece of bread that floats in my milk bowl and by the time my orange kitty paws move at it, the loose and expanded bits disintegrate and sink. A sink has a drain that gets clogged and we all must stare at it until it is cleaned and if I’m not the one cleaning my drain then who is the one cleaning my waste?

The day I lost my voice
I did not cry
I rejoiced.

The day I lost my voice
I gained an ear
I listened.

I listened to flowers’ whispers
To bees’ chatters
To bamboos’ laughter
To children’s banters and giggles
To moon’s  cries
To sun’s admonishments

If now, you plead me: speak
Please,
Don’t cry for me
Rejoice
Gain an ear
Listen

If now, you plead me: speak
Please,
Allow my heart to do it.

I am more than you know...
but a little less than perceived...
i've shadowed a soul
and feigned what's seen
the manifestation of blessings
is a pain in me...
but my heart's prayer
is truly believed...

As i enter this day...
i've got my mind set...
the death of my soul....
will be the growth of what's left...
reality...hmph...
i deny those thoughts...
as my tongue rolls
my battle's pre foguht....

The day progresses on
my feet grow cold...
as fear sets in
the cold takes hold
dragging this frost onward
i approach my world...
admonishments abound
as she breaks me heart...

shocked by her speech....
in my heart i decide...
suicide of myself
it what must be done....
as i surrender to darkness
flame burns within...
and just like that...
i'm reborn again

standing tall and strong...
looking out at his world....
i approach and reach for her...
a prayer to christ
for all he's done....
he killed me off as a child
a made a man from a son....

with my world at hand...
forward we will press
battle onward for love
not a deceptive glory....

Suffolk Evening-A Prose Poem

Brown, parched, burnt;
Fire kissed by sun,
Ochre meadows of strewn stubble
Drift away from damp, decaying barns
As the last orange gleam of day
Steals into another warm night.

Crows weave in high taut circles,
Spilling their croaked admonishments
Over empty fields left to sleep in the glow
Of a resplendent transparent moon.

Broad ridged expanses
Lie naked underfoot,
Imbued with the toil of the forgotten.

Ancient flint spires pierce the horizon
Stacked on land veined by silting slits of stony wetness.
All is still ; silent in remembrance.

The evening breath stirs,  
as I struggle to cast off
the sins of today.

I cringe when recalling past Vespers.
Your voice – joy to me once,
resounds a heinous incantation.  
Chanting, “The hand of God is reaching out” –
You groped, slowly stroking me up and down.
I give in, my body fully physically responding….

Always afterward, I determined I was to blame.
You offered tears, absolution, and admonishments.
All I must do was keep this secret – you warned.

Now as I seek redemption
for my tortured soul,
I fear these torments continue for other boys.

I will dig cow manure as I am so mature & ****** blistered for sure
like Eva Gabor on tour, sleeping with the Rolling Stones who snore
all night till they are dead, prostrate on the chunky, puke-slick floor

Crapped-out **** Christ' Hitchens enjoyed 2 things immensely, (1) ******* *******, (2) ******* more *******. Paddy Upchucker was an Irish hurler who distinguished himself fighting children in the Iraqi war on behalf of The Fish Valley & Tuna Bay Gynecological Research Hospital. Death releases us for a moment from torment. See, we think alike because our brains are big, bigger than monkey brains, mucho bigger...Some folks never learn. That's why we have drive-through liquor stores. My chihuahua bites me because he respects me. I missed the point, purpose, target & mark. Zero, I've tallied, for trying. Nothing could Richard Burton do to soften Liz Taylor's hard ***.

the mystical mythologies and cantankerous denizens
who color our worlds of chance and charm and breed the sinewy
allure of destinies and courses filled with adroit
memories and admonishments and forgiveness
replete with repentance and giving away of
fortune, fame, youth, and all endeavors of heart and mind
wherein we dwell as toilers of charity with humanities
highest escalations of power, meaning and forthright
values that permeate the ever present alacrity or miasma
that all existences are mere proclivities of the stars long
passed and the hallowed secrets of scrolls and spirit
that weaves the corset strapping all of humanity to
the lustrous, industrious penchant of a secretive smile
from the muse or satyr that has encased, enchanted and
left you no escape from your destiny... thankfully

A dab of rhythm
and a splash of rhyme
over a stretched canvas
of childhood
bring to mind
daffodils on clouds
and tygers burning their way
through forests
while the dying jaberwocky smiles
through fearsome jaws
bemused by the man waving
too far from shore.

And to one side a walrus
unconsolably weeps
having consumed
one too many oysters
unwittingly adding
to the commercial value
of the sea shells on the sea shore.

In the corner
a patient spider
chats to a passing fly,
oblivious of the forecast
of torrential rain,
which proves resistant
to any admonishments
to go away until another day.

Down comes the rain
and a hoard of children
pile into an old shoe
ignorant
of the empty food cupboard
thanks to their gluttonous dog.

And surveying the whole scene
is a benevolent coal stained king
smoking through a managerie of a beard,
wondering where his second shoe has gone to...

I sigh, put the kettle on
and whitewash the whole canvas
to start afresh.

English is good if that's all you got. Urinating is tough when your prostate is gigantical, titanical & other words meaning huge.

soon my children will fly from my firm embrace
to that worldly gaggle of spit, and fire and chance and
unleased all... opportunity, happiness, love, and desire

but for now, I'm holding tight to their smiles and stylings...
and petulance and arguments and laments... pitched battles
that end up soon in smiles and hugs goodnight

and dressing up.. posing and posturing for a tik tok
dance or feisty Instagram... silly but so now...
flippancy and admonishments roll out like a lucky seven

going out, coming in, that's up and then down
here's the doorbell being rung one, two, three times
fast, so fast... "open up Dad keys are in our backpacks"

a blink from diapers to destinations... on their own
with friends and futures in tow... be home soon
maybe midnight, maybe three... really not sure

time waits ready to treat the destiny for each one's
sonnet, symphony... jazz riff or rap synapse...
solely and uniquely fitted like a fine dovetail joint