Upon the mighty raging sea, whirlpools of fiery sparks, Catherine wheels of light and mist mix with the foam of time. Tossed by unseen movements a tiny globe is floating on the tides and flotsam swirls around its contours, attracted by invisible smooth ripples. Dashed to smooth curves, rare and precious treasure pebbles dance in the flotsam, around the tiny globe, lost in that vast sea, tossed aside by finned entities. Together they ride the foam of endless ocean.

Upon his bed of green soft flotsam, in peaceful tranquillity, gazing out at other treasure pebbles, upon the most precious jewelled blue sapphire, swimming in the azure sea, the purple man soaks up the rays of green made by the yellow globe.

The purple man sees and understands.

The lines of his world are shining silver light, for him there is no darkness in the night. Beset by cares he glances at the fractal flotsam and sees himself reflected, unfolding, timeless. Cares melt in mellow green.

The purple man fades and expands, his nebula fills the ocean wide and everything folds, unfolds; breathes in and out. Allfather stands beside the gate.

Where the fish swim and water snakes, where rivers run and wash the mountains silt upon the shore, there one day the star man came descending from a ship that sails the ocean Sky. The purple man was dreaming as before. From far away where people live in light, from where there is no hunger, fear or pain, where none deceive because there is no gain, where power is within and all are free, Wayland came.

Sitting by the river in the mud his fingers sinking into rich red clay he saw this world so full of music and in love, he sought the matrix seeds that dormant lay. Weaving the matrix then this Wayland made a pair of people from the clay and calling to the green fire of life, he gave them this garden free, to care for and in which to learn and play.

The purple man, who on his misty pillow lay said to Wayland then,

“Will you not stay?” The star man answered,

“I have so far to go and there is so much I want to see, you stay here awhile and tell them this: they are the keepers now of flotsam Zu, and you can teach them all that they must know. Say to them and get it right, 'you are the children of the light, travel where you will; you are not bound here by the clay. In all who say, “I am“ there is the life, and all who live are one in truth, this moment does not pass away.' I will return to visit you one day.”

Purple light shines green around the gate and all pass to and fro. There were the flying elephants of old, bright butterfly wings and iridescent scales, and fire within they blew and rose to mate high in the careless foam of space.

“I see, I see,” the purple man exclaims, “And I will leave a legacy.” Then taking out his notebook draws a stone and then another, places both together high upon the hill.

“All shall know!” he cries and gives them eyes and crowns. Thrones they hold with firm rock fingers, king and queen in rock of jewels tiny crystal shimmers. Eyes gaze out along the silver lines of truth, eyes of stone, and he cuts a small notch in the place the eyes alight their vision.

“Now all will know.” He spreads his cloak and sleeps beneath the hill in quiet satisfaction but dreams he did the task and lost in thought forgets. Stones stand waiting in dreams of eyes that only dreamers see and ride the light that only globe green rays can ride in pale yellow day.

“Forget, forget.” The whispers of the shining huntress sing sweetly and the residents of the butterfly house are soothed and filled with wonder. Dancing light reflects from yellow sand. Lifting hot feet to cool in baking oven rays.

Skating on tension, walking on invisible support a fish jumps from the water of a lake, cascading diamond spray around golden wings, then plunges back into the familiar world. Together all are one and life renewed. Wisps of purple smoke rise from a burning pile of old splendid green boughs now brown and brittle and delicious waves cook as chatter rises in anticipation. Toes muddy and wet warm as much as they dare and faces shine as globe of green gives energy. Wisteria sweet twists its tendrils on the gatepost and spreads its fingers wide to reach the stars.

The white and shining orb that, with full sails, is dancing with the flotsam sapphire tells her story in the ripples of a darkened pool. As in each drop the orb is, so it is with all and in all flows the green.

A grey cat-wolf with silky coat, who sweetly purrs sinks her teeth into feathers and warm nourishment flows from vein to vein. Carrying proudly to the doorstep leaves the gift but pricked purple fingers drip blood as tears flow for the tiny, feathered form.

Misunderstanding of the gift and weary sleep claim the mourner. In the corner stands a child of dusty clothes, untidy and ragged feathers. Grey coloured and brown his hair, face, and hair all dusty and brown. In mind of purple song was singing sad songs of green trees and fields of flowers and seeds. The child turns and eyes as old as time look deep as hands are stretched to greet. The purple man takes outstretched hands and they dance to music of the ocean deep.

“It cannot end, the green can never end, it just returns.” and round they dance, as the child is filled with light and transparent power touches purple hands and spirit surges to pull the purple man to stand before the gate.

Purple man rides on steed of unicorn; who sheds his twisted horn of white and says,

“With this you may write and tell the keepers of Zu to teach their subjects true.” His purple fingers hold the shining torch as on the saddle of his steed he carves the key, the binary. “All is here!” he shouts, “it is enough for all to be and all who will to see! Freedom is my gift to humanity!” Walking to the golden shore, he breathes the green fire to his steed, “Fly now and take my pattern home for all to learn.” The unicorn, now dragon born and horse is manifest, with fiery nostrils and shining fins swims into the long and winding currents of the thread of gold.

From that island home is cast the stone and off it goes into the seas of time, the circle seas. Music wafts around the globe as jewelled pebbles sing. The purple man, his eyes upon the depths, his head on soft flotsam pillow looks horizontally and wanders paths of space between.

A king of Zu in earnest thought upon the shore, a hornless unicorn has caught. A dragon horse who will not bear but shakes his saddle, burden gone he flies into the air. This trinket fine will grace the royal belt and a medallion the king does wear; magic token lost in time as those who knew could not stay and to the music danced away. Beyond the gate, into the ocean deep they to while away, until the wafting air lifts up the drops to bear.

Within the turbulence of that wild sea of calmness where regular tides disguise, mountains are ground, their pieces smashed and broken into shimmering beads of light. Each piece the matrix seed does hold within its crystal frame and life its energy. They shoot forth in forces, travel star to star, globe upon globe they circumnavigate and chaos brings movement to the stagnant ponds of flotsam, pools stirring, breathing life.

In Zu, the wanderers, who had no houses yet, who lived among the stars and trees, gathered round fires to eat their fruit and seeds at Mothers knee and told their oral histories.

Memories of mine and theirs and time distorts the tales so pictures made they to endure but meanings lost as careless child is watching dripping fat of meat and mouth is watering at the food to eat. Within the ring of warmth and fire the wild beast fears, the stories fall distorted on deaf ears.

“Remember well the lessons here: Once our world was full of fear. The seas rose up and swallowed whole the land of Zu, the air was cold. The globe its shining rays of green was hid beneath a reddish sheen of fire as worlds collided higher. The cold it came, the ice giants walked upon the land, so I was taught. Now eat this meat the hunter men have brought.” Within the shamans cave the purple man sleeps and walks on paths of many feet.

On bellies laid upon a hill of hot dry golden sand, the purple man looks down with his band of friends upon the tall city gate below. Beyond he sees the golden domes and tall white towers of so fair a place. A white wall stretches far as he can see and by the gate two fierce lions guard with swords of shining steel.

“I know not how to enter there.” he says, but then finds he is inside, alone and the white city walls are high around him. Trepidation grips his thought and on tiptoes he intrudes in wonder, clinging to the walls. The giant who stoops to lift him smiles, gold flashes from ornaments, turquoise beads on olive skin, and strong muscular arms pick up the purple man who looks around and down to see the white towers are but square pools of proportion huge. The strong hands plunge him down into clear water cool, so fresh it cleans, from showers of silver droplets a babe is raised up to the shining pale blue sky.

Seeing a tortoise then beside the waters edge, the purple man, still having horn of unicorn, inscribed the pattern of the nine with movement of the all, so that he would remember all that Wayland said. Then silence and dreams were once more inside his head.

Purple man sat at the foot of a great tree. A red furred squirrel ran up and down the bark, collecting food and going deep to keep its secret safe. Above the tree the globe was shining bright and yellow light was all around. The good folk who dwell in light transparent crystal vessels sang their song for all to hear and as the squirrel gathered food she heard their voices clear. Then, scampering along the ground quietly in case the purple man should wake, she buried down to the deep pools where three watch the water that feeds the sap. She hummed the song but had not listened to the words and got it wrong before those there to guide the destiny.

“Oh, careless child who listens not when at the fire, who now will tell the history?” The purple man saw the green sap of the tree within and understood.

“Make a machine!” the keepers say, “for you are bound by clay. Rip out the sapphires heart and give us power so that in darkness is the light of day. We have the words and wisdom here,” the keepers fight and hide the secret words, “the nine is ours not yours to know, we only have the power, is it not so? We are your keepers, guardians true; we would not lie to you.

“We took the power from Mother of the tribes to keep you safe from beasts who roam. They would not stay outside the ring of warmth and fire but come inside, devour you in your home.

“The seas rose up before and swallowed Zu, the people perished all except a few. Those few were chosen by the unicorn and here to us a tortoise bore its horn. We stole the fire that came on flotsam Zu, we have the lightening here entombed, the stars that fell in dire punishment, we kept them to remind you of your doom.

“We took the prophets all and kept their words, we wrote them down and only we can give those words to you. He who was here is gone for now but will return, to judge all those who will not heed our rule.

“We must make war to punish those who hate, we must sacrifice to please the beast. Then within our boundaries you will be safe in service to our cause for we are wise.”

The slaves of Zu who toil and sweat all day, all fearful of whatever comes their way; the slaves who have no water and no food and not because they have not loved the good, the slaves who weep for flotsam Zu, the ones who try to do what they believe is true, all listened to the keepers and were quiet, they had no heart to war and die in riot. They had no heart to disobey the rules well taught from their first day. Some turned and struck their fellows in dismay.

The feet upon the pavement hard in hardness crunch and shocks run up the legs and bounce the brains of those who cannot see. Purple streaks the sunrise comes and petals yawn to greet the sailing globe of yellow breathing green. Herded and obedient, the subjects of the kingdom of Zu wake and queue politely as keepers set the tasty morsels. Wheels and tides, time and ocean turn as globe spins in eddies and careless diamonds sprinkled in the flakes of cornfields tell the story unfolding.

Shadows play. The sickle shines its ****** sweetness horned and lovely; sparks of stars surround the misty blue. Knees and cries on time forget the sly insertions and nourish soon forgotten virtues.

A bell is ringing on the shore. Sound bounces wave to wave and lost in purple wandering a passing bee remembers that it cannot fly and hurriedly taking scissors cuts a fine raft of leaf, pointed as a ships bow and hops aboard to surf and glide on currents of the sky.

From the deep oceans light, Wayland sees and sends a whisper from his mind, the purple man is dreaming still among the many others of his kind.

“Its time to wake now, of slumber is enough. Zu needs to have its gardeners intact, its time to plant the Iris bulbs to grow in pasture and in desert before the ice comes back. Seeds of the rainbow must be sown on every track. When summer dawns on frosted fields, fingers of warmth probing into the hearts of seeds that sleep, come now its time for growing. Plough the furrows deep. When summer dawns on frosted fields, fingers of warmth probing into cold frost hardened hearts. Awake, its time for knowing!”

The purple man in forest sees green light of yellow globe is shining energetically its light on all, and one with all he walks in joyful song. Along a branch a leg is stretched, a long leg, there a person sits within the tree, smiling song of life,

“He's just like me!” the purple man does not intrude but curiosity is wakened as the man is standing tall and then is gone before his eyes of sight. A figure dressed in light, not vaporous, a solid man who flickers on and off he sees. The purple man perplexed is wondering, when at his side a figure tall and grey is standing, branches on his head, without a face in the full light of day. The purple man looks for the face, the seat of senses known to know who is it there and meets an eye as old as universe. The eye is looking for the same and as they meet in trap of combined senses all, there is a spark and purple man is travelling then, he is not in the planet Zu at all. The visitor who comes to show the way gives him a choice of paths to take, he forward walks along a narrow lane with strange and pointed leaves of maize. Rustling in the plants the other chases past, he greets him at the other side, and man of light is shining on and off out of the gate the purple man to guide. The rainbow bridge connecting all the worlds, the green path that all who live must share, the purple man looks for the visitor but turning finds that nothing's there. Then rippling wave of green comes flowing through the woodland and the day, it passes through all that lies before, and purple man is standing in its way. Green fire! The life! The sap of tree! I see! His spirit soars as Wayland flies away.

Looking down at hands and feet with rainbows shine, in great delight he finds he is not purple now but made of light sublime and at his step the irises spring bright.

It wasnt long before the baluster flapped somewhere in the distance and Icarus knew how old he had been on the day of his birth. For whatever reason, the snow capped cappuccinos he had willfully destroyed in a heated debate on fiscal policy had him beginning again. Why was there always a beginning where there was an end? Fur traders used to circumnavigate the Hudson's Bay of his humanity when he was young, sharing drinks and fire water whiskey like it was all an H2O ready for the soul search. Sadly, many ended up in Hitlers concentration camps weeks after the **** invasion of Poland, about a month or so before the fall of the Roman Empire. Beginning with a last breath, Icarus strode off the plank with a new-found confidence unnatural in his niceties of long past. It was as if 1 minute and 35 seconds was enough to dish a clamouring populace onto the dinner table before the fat step-father gleefully orders
everyone to 'dig in, everyone!'

Cancelling everyone's appointment with Dr. Pardon meant the gaining of a key participatory certificate in El Dorado, and the gold lingering in dusty sun-beams was sifted for the taking. Some got rich, the rest got miserable. The rest used to imagine the gold, staring at ivory towers and lottery tickets, apple cores lording over old public servant applications near the city hall drain pipes as the modern world collapsed into a flash-mob image of Ronald Reagan.

Icarus was a sliver of duskish light flittering a top distant windowsills, all cupped in an intentional light because happiness was as possible as sadness. Not that considering either would make you either.

Icarus slept as his wings incinerated at the first glimpse of the solar system. He now believed every single proverb the old ***** slumbers had whispered their children as they woke to find themselves adults.

In the beginning he found the beginning beginning again. It made him feel however you wish. Both were just as possible. Both were just as much a jazz configuration as a smooth and easy guitar rift.

Ahha!

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

Let me explain.
This poem is about sleeping, dreaming,
the failure of my inadequacies in poetry to heal.

Three years after its birth, it is exactly what I am feeling this day.
It is long rambling and you won't stay for the whole movie.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Erudition is perdition,
dreaming in words, accursed,
death to the visionaries,
release from visitations
of over-staying, unwelcome guests,
Johnny Cash, Jesus,
Forefather Jacob, Bobby Dylan
and their whiny,
smug-smiled missives
on behalf of the
all knowing, dream invader powers,
who
just-happens-to-be-know-it-alls.

These guys,
sub rosa angels,
electioneering,
hand shaking  
you into dreams
that make you wonder              
unceasingly  

I have renounced chants n'
dreams that
wander                              
meaninglessly

so if there is no
repeal of the stupification
of the human condition,
just invent words that  fool
willful and mostly please
nobody

don't ask and don't tell,
then we can agree
that a life,
its peculiar
Hallmark Card of grief,
cannot be
disambiguated

yours is yours,
different from mine,
single poems cannot solve
multivariate equations,  
un-blow mind sensations
that circumnavigate my mind    
as I edge along the
borderline tween the
United States of self-realization,
and a State of Mexico
drug-induced, seductive and
self-administered pat down,
a colorless, tasteless, dreamless
evening in the company of
a rest-once-and-for-all,
sleeping pill

Repudiate yourself,  
privately you
hyperventilate,
but others willing to borrow
those surfeit of rapid
misunderstood breathes,
stored in brown paper bags,
that will be divided
most ingeniously by the
Misappropriation Committee
for wordy oxygen tanks,
desperate for refilling

Recant, Renege,
Renounce, Repeal,
Repudiate, Retract,
I herby foreswear
all previous poems, please
Return them

Back, send them,
so, I can end them,
desist any new arrival of vaniloquence,
direct 'em to  the trash box of inconsequence

My wrongful w-rightings
are now cashiered,
my cool is in mourning,
my plateau is flat but
upsided downded,
words drownded,
both sides now, spring silent

Tried to swim to safety,
to Spanish Harlem
but no hablo espanol,

In Miami, they done me in
for the crime of
insufficiently thin,

In Ghiradelli Square
they deemed me too blond
not 'ciscan enough
yet, in Frisco fairness,  
done deported me,
making me to choose
tween Los Angeles and/or
Orange County

So, poet poseur, where you gonna run too?

My better half sleeps,
my left half weeps,
so conditions normal.

Satan laughs,
offers me ***** or poetry,
knowing full well that having
foresworn, addictive wordmongering, liscentiousness
that a single letter
would stupor me into a
drunken poetry slam at
St. Paul's Church,
into Satan's collection box
of wordy sinners,
where lost souls, ex-poets,
prevaricate
vainly, in hopes
that anyone will let them
transubstantiate
in order to avoid their
expiration date
on Stub Hub

surrendered the master key,
turned in my ID badge,
opened inner sanctum no more,
poetry boy is ratiocinated,
peril dispatched, swear that I've
excommunicated the voices
determined to disintermediate

the compromise I've reached,
help is contraindicated,
ex-officio is my new grace state

please, devices decontaminate,
otherwise, poems disintegrate,
excoriate them, don't wait,
to disassociate'em, insufficient,
remove them from hard drives,
yank'em one and all!

let the diet begin,
no more food for thought,
no more dreams
wrought and recorded,
permit the ambient calm
of the still of the night
that engulfs,
to harmonize with the flatline
dreamless sleep that the
mind monitor machine
etchingly, quietly records

let hours of research
be rewarded,
by my imbibing the product of
laboratory pharmacological
fine tuning

***** S.,
what outrageous ego
let me suppose that in
mine own words,
I could improve upon
your lovelies,
with now bland homilies,
recitations of my anomalies

What id sexed my brain,
was I completely insane,
to imagine that I could
improve upon:

"and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the
thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to,
'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd.
To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream:
ay, there's the rub"

Finished: Nov 27, 2010 4:44 AM

Who’s to say how
He might come back for a second
inhumanely heaped-up helping,
if we grant that immensity
of our assumption He did come
kingly first into this inside-
out size from a do-you-miss-me-
yet’s mirthfully mythical realm

I have seen Him
lurking in a particle-board fine
finish on the thin outer membranes
of our estranged and better faces;
He’s Higgs-boson omnipresent,
but far too theoretical
for our broadly practical, turned-
away gazes to rediscover

There He is now
rising in the favela’s gap-
toothed grins with fabulously naughty
corners this glee-pawed grandpa twists
using cur jests his ***** charges
imagine as flightless quarrels
grey-hooded pigeons would gaggle
were they over-stuffed on golden grain

And there again
on a Calcutta mound’s cluttered
conic end, smog-like He slowly lifts
with the crust-gnawed, razor-wire crimps
of a soup-can’s unconsummated lid
as dainty fingers crawl in toward
a gelatinous glob still clinging
to the powerful pretense it’s meat

And there once more,
conceding oms, He restless flickers
at the margins of blocky beige
Beijing screens as crisply clicked clacks
circumnavigate the darkling
smooth patches and spit-spark a few
conscious drips to squiggle out from
the babble of noxious red seas

Emerged, this welp
won’t toddle off to dribble-stain
the dressy linens of a made-up
nanny’s well-mannered and ornate
evil; it will curl up instead,
a swaddled yawn with no yearn to
suckle under His real mother’s
gaping wide and grungy bloused best

When I was born,
From all the seas of strength Fate filled a chalice,
Saying, This be thy portion, child; this chalice,
Less than a lily's, thou shalt daily draw
From my great arteries; nor less, nor more.
All substances the cunning chemist Time
Melts down into that liquor of my life,
Friends, foes, joys, fortunes, beauty, and disgust,
And whether I am angry or content,
Indebted or insulted, loved or hurt,
All he distils into sidereal wine,
And brims my little cup; heedless, alas!
Of all he sheds how little it will hold,
How much runs over on the desert sands.
If a new muse draw me with splendid ray,
And I uplift myself into her heaven,
The needs of the first sight absorb my blood,
And all the following hours of the day
Drag a ridiculous age.
To-day, when friends approach, and every hour
Brings book or starbright scroll of genius,
The tiny cup will hold not a bead more,
And all the costly liquor runs to waste,
Nor gives the jealous time one diamond drop
So to be husbanded for poorer days.
Why need I volumes, if one word suffice?
Why need I galleries, when a pupil's draught
After the master's sketch, fills and o'erfills
My apprehension? Why should I roam,
Who cannot circumnavigate the sea
Of thoughts and things at home, but still adjourn
The nearest matters to another moon?
Why see new men
Who have not understood the old?

Cry, puppet, cry!
The audience is waiting, the Puppeteer prepares.
Tiny posters frame the site. Their tiny print declares:

“Welcome To The World—The Comedy Begins”
(Yanked around from **** to tomb, derided from the wings,
a doll will try to navigate while tangled in his strings).

The stage is dank and dingy, the props and players cold.
Cobwebs cake dismembered dolls from sold-out shows of old.
The curtains part…the puppets bob…at last the show’s begun!
The stars come out to ogle. The seasons start their run.

Rise, puppet, rise!
Dangle in your diapers, in shorts and then in pants.
Pirouette for pedagogues who pan your puppet prance.
Welcome to the world, dear boy, the travesty begins.
Twirl for flirts and bullies, hopscotch through the haze,
trapped in something deeper than the basic script conveys.
Papa Puppet, Mama Doll, amazed at how you’ve grown,
pray someday you’ll make a little puppet of your own.
They sacrifice. They sympathize. They stumble to and fro.
The stars come out to ogle. The seasons come and go.

Dance, puppet, dance!
For deity, for family, for country and for home.
Park your pretty plastic horse outside your plastic dome.
Welcome to the world, good sir, the tragedy begins.
Good patriarch, good neighbor, good volunteer, good friend.
Fight to save that plastic grin and plastic cash you spend,
Greet each day with grim resolve, kiss Baby Puppet ’bye.
Fall in line in lockstep in your plastic suit and tie.
Fight to face the fake parade, collapse when day is done.
The stars come out to ogle. The seasons merge to one.

Die, puppet, die!
Cry for your conscience, left at the crime,
writhing in rhythm, twitching in time.
Welcome to the world, old soul, the final act begins.
Howl into the deaf abyss, as if the night would care.
Fight to keep your plastic faith, to hold your glassy stare.
Fight to force your hinges wide, to curb your quaking springs,
to clench your dummy fingers through a hail of severed strings.
A shadow grows.
The Puppeteer’s impatient eyes appear.
The curtains close.
Children’s laughter filters through the faint applause you hear.
The paint begins to flake and peel, the plastic eyes roll back.
The stars come out to ogle.
The seasons fade to black.


Thanks for reading The Seasons. NOW PLEASE CLICK ON THE LINK BELOW TO READ MY MAGNUM OPUS HERO, A SPRAWLING, GROUNDBREAKING FANTASY FOR GROWNUPS IN TWO PARTS, ABOUT THE FIRST MAN TO CIRCUMNAVIGATE THE PLANET. (BUT YOU MUST CLICK ON THE PROVIDED LINK AT THE CONCLUSION OF PART ONE TO ACCESS PART TWO! THAT’S WHERE THIS TALE’S AMAZING RESOLUTION LIES. But please...intelligent readers only!)
NOW HERE’S THAT LINK:

https://allpoetry.com/poem/14922744-Hero---Part-One-by-Ron-Sanders


Copyright 2020 by Ron Sanders.

contact:
ronsandersartofprose@yahoo.com

Somewhere along the way the
silver threads that embroider daylight with dreams
have melted, losing architectured edges and I find
these days it's harder to tell whether I'm
even awake at all.

Trance chaos, but curiously calm,
considering and sleepy.
My corridor is long but I
have no reason to hurry.

Broken lamps against the walls
dusty apartments to spiders and fluff.
No lightbulbs.
Only husks of maybe
once upon a time ideals.

There is a familiar light of
gossamer gold murmurs over me
I've been here before and
there isn't much farther left to go.
Incandescent airspace
pulsing like a living heart
rising, ebbing, coaxing me on.

The lamps are a silent vigil to my journey.

Again I am here at my tabula rasa.
The door is laid with bricks, sealed by my own earthly hands
Will not open! Will not open! Un-opening door.
And as far as I've ever come.
Light all around, fleeing from robinred tetris brickwork.
Intimate, tantalizing, maddening
Bone aching Mystery.

Yet. Yet. Yet. Yet. Yet.
I yet.
Yet again.
I am here.
Crossroads. Yield to trains.
There is no last stop until I
play cartographer
and circumnavigate
Wasteland concepts. Swamps of muted wishes.

Until I put my broken lamps back together
I am here.
Wandering,
waiting,

a ghost.

If you're lost and feel alone
Circumnavigate the globe
All you ever have to hope for two

And the way you seem to float
Circumnavigate in hope
And they seem to lose control
With you

Everyone of us is hurt
And everyone of us is scarred
Everyone of us is scared
Not you

Your eyes closed
Your head hurts
Your eyes feel so low

Everyone of us is scared
Everyone of us is hurt
Everyone of us has hope

For you.

Helen thought she’d have some fun
On this very special day
Slipped into her hiking boots
Trundled out to play
Along the way she met JP
Preaching to some dog (the four legged variety … lol)
Told him her intentions
Notes were duly logged
The plan
It seems
Was to escape
From the confines of the net
JP was now surveillance
He would eradicate the threat
Trapped inside
For years and years
So desperate to be free
Played a canny game
When they used the
“I’m mad … Insanity Plea!”
As they waited for the verdict
Raitch fed them Choccy Cake
Richard sat there laughing
“Guys this IS a big mistake”
“What do you think is out there
Do you think these folk are real
They do not care about you
There only in it for the thrill”
Raitch had heard enough
Punched him in the face
Told in no uncertain words
“The net is NOT your place”
Richard scuttled off
With his tail between his legs
Bumped into John Patrick
They then took up selling pegs!
Helen’s palms were sweaty
She could almost taste the breeze
She said her five hail marys
No longer would she tease
JP …  he sat all serene
Madder than Mad old Jack McMad
He had two pencils up his nose
Underpants positioned on his head
It was a funny sight
As I’m sure you folk can see
This is more than often the case
With your internet family
Hours passed like days
Then there came the loudest knock
Eliot breezed into the room
Silenced all into a shock
He said
“Hey guys
You can’t go out
I need to keep you here
For I am very lonely
See … my melancholy tears
I was abandoned at birth by my mother
Who ran off with a horse
Father couldn’t look at me
So … filed for divorce
As I wondered in the wilderness
Lost and all alone
I started writing poetry
I started building thrones
The biggest one
Was just for me
To sit and rule this land
I acquired all my subjects
The outside world was banned
So … please guys
Play the game
Accept the world in which we live
Please stay with me
Please play with me
And all that I can give”
Well … it pulled up all the motley crew
Who tried to escape from this regime
It made them all sit down and think
“He’s right
We are a team”
Helen wiped away a tear
Accepting of her fate
Realised now
The time was wrong
To circumnavigate
Maybe in the future
When she’s old and grey
She will have the courage
To rebel and not obey
But at the moment
Eliot needs her
Trapped inside the net
And that
My friend
Is where she’ll stay
It’s called a dead cert bet !!!

HAPPY  BIRTHDAY  TO  MY  LITTLE  FRIEND  FROM  DOWN  UNDER -

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 29, 2017)

It was named after the ship’s Admiral,
Louis Antoine de Bougainville,
and it usually crawls along the porch frames
or borderlines the windows of bedrooms,
transforming dingy frame bungalows
like a mistletoe of summer.
Angelenos pronounce it almost Spanish-like
without the lovely trill of Ls.
And this morning we look up
where it came from
and hear this story
about the first European
who found it on exploration in 1769,  
2oo hundred years before Woodstock.
A botanist, who was also a woman,
snuck aboard a ship disguised as a man,
flowing through the drab spaces and corridors
where women weren’t allowed.
The galley, the botany, the discovery.
Jeanne Barē, the first woman
at the circumstance
of bougainvillea,
the first one
to circumnavigate,
to circumvent
the world.

Sun dust haze
an old wooden door
I reach, locked
handles, hands
pressed splintering
knock,

The newspaper reads EVACUATION NECCESARRY
Exasperation of the lilting seed of sanity;

the clocks unaligned to my watch
the fridge has been off for days
milk curdled, cheese hardened
this Panadol, IbuProfen parachute me
down, codeine
hits me hard upon the ground
the fireplace surrounds
a dragon breathing flames out of our mouths
and the room is no longer hot;
it is supernova.

Stars sound like songbirds outside, shooting,
gargled gin smells like grace,
erase
the drone of Arab spring
the scent of comradery
for a security station
computational bastion;
calculus of reason,
reputation, family, existential crisis
lets circumnavigate

to the window ,
reality split by liquid,
a rainbow in the sea,
children dancing beneath the Pohutakawa tree

“Hello?”
“Hello, were you here all along?”
“Long enough to see
those purple hues of your dressing gown, you
standing aimless across the room,
you came here today too?”

“I didn’t really choose” balloons, still tied to the ceiling
pop
“I must go”
“Stop”

ground dissolves, glass
mirrors, present, past
pop

“take my hand
lets watch the angels carry the sun away”

I keep a list of words that remind me of you.
Buoyant, Renegade, Circumnavigate
Alexithymia, Insatiable.

No.

I have this dream,
Of living on Mars, surviving without oxygen.
Leaving everything in the world behind

But never you.

This lonely container; used to interact and circumnavigate
the complexities of this earth, of this land, and of this temporary place.
To meet, mesh, mold, and communicate mentally and physically with other
fleshly canisters on this ride, this trip, this journey.

Then emotion is what our essence does, the spirit of us that resides within,
Yearning to unite with the ethereality of another, to bind with their intangible magnitude.
Loneliness connotes desolation, void, and emptiness; the heart weeps longing to fuse,
There is unconscionable comfort in reaching an island in twain, not in singularity.

Though these receptacles oft give us fleeting tastes of satisfaction,
It is yet impermanent and fulfills the hasty need of our lust in the interim.
Yet when we make exquisite LOVE to one another,
Our vessels dance whilst our souls provide the music, the dance floor, and the ambience.

We were made to be together,
And I love our fit.

ChawzzyScript

I'm the wronger

a wooden soul
destined to stoke for eternity

I better start smoking again
maybe the harder stuff  

to get my soul used to breathing in ash
my lungs will be black and caked full


chugging deer blood and bull
to erase
the feeling of me

you tell me I'm an un-thinker
superfluous thoughts of a prosthetic heart

I had a dream once
I was peeling
never ending oranges

pulling the skin from the sweet juicy
flesh
drops of tang slipping from my fingers

but never sinking my teeth into

orange suggests so many contrary things
trees indicate life
prosperity

but eating an orange means separation
illness

tie me down
batter me

I think it unwise
you chasing me

to the un-pearly gates
those burning barriers
you circumnavigate

while I will smell of citrus
for eternity

It's a logistical rule I own
To attempt a poem
Every day
Based on a word
Or a feeling
But I wasn't
Feeling much
Today
So I gambled
A gambol
In the Webster's
And it was my thumb's fate
To find "Palpitate".
Funny that the previous poems
Both deep and sincere
Had the Heart as their center
So clear and unpretentious
And ****-near annoying
Relentless in their calling
Out to a Lost Love or three...
Old "woe is me"
Always attempting to
Circumnavigate the heart.
To go around the push-pull
Of Love lost denied
And surf away on the curl
Of swollen palpitate.

one so involved in their own thoughts
needless to say they have allowed it to circumnavigate them
around their life
nothing makes sense

My chest spasms...
Tightening vessels resemble bricks
Who knew that memories could feel so heavy
My eyes close for a moment
Flashes of your faces yank violently onto my optic nerves
While my brain attempts to circumnavigate
Turn regret into something easier said than done
My fists clench feeling hot and cold simultaneously
Air rushes into my wrinkled lips
While I breathe NEARLY all of this lingering essence out
Out of my lungs
And I try yet again to return to earth
Hearing an emphatic rhythmic pump
and your well–intentioned attempt to turn words into quietude

I need to escape the past,
But how do I escape that which has made me,
That which has developed me,
As a film,
Pressed with the stains of a forgotten time
But a remembered pain.

How do I forget the past I created and in turn used
To create me and my knowledge,
The power I use to circumnavigate
the treacherous waters of the present,
A present so wilted by my distaste and displeasure
One simply cannot fall away
And out of the depression the past creates.

How can something like the past, in the past
Be so current,
Ruling the present and so Forward
As to rule the future.

How can I escape the past,
The past which built me?
Is to ask how can the house escape its builder
When without it, I would suffer no grandeur
And experience no appreciation.

The past has built me,
Moulded me,
The faint moss washing over.

My past has led me to this present,
The present I am so grateful for,
How could I wish it undone?

I am not my past...
But I am my Past's creation,

Where does forgotten time escape to? Does it seep away like heat after a heavy rain or does it hang around us all like a fog in the morning? The seconds fall and form wrinkles that stretch across us like scars from a time left behind, a feather that smelled of roses and rotting wood. The minutes feast on us like ravenous vultures waking from a slumber of eternal winter. Our reflections move in slow motion, unnerved and apathetic to the plight of its supposed doppelganger, while we, tangible we, circumnavigate the void of our thoughts and predetermined anarchy with a crazed sight of apprehension and fear. We come around to gaze upon our reflection still running in place, still chasing the forever mystery of right and wrong, love and hate, life and death. We shrug with pity and envy before moving along to circle the world of ourselves once more with the whips of time at our backs and the hounds of hell at our heels.

I’m feeling right as rain on a window pane in a war of attrition,
And I love how the rain beats me into submission,
And I hate how I’m always in need of some reason for a division,
That riddle of forever being cut down and somehow risen up in the middle

Circumnavigate the delusional oceans of my mind,
And I love that place between being dead and alive,
And I hate how I’m there and yet still to arrive,
That riddle of being lost and found by being stuck in the middle

To be a fly on that flower on the wall,
And I love to see how it feels to be left out of it all,
And I hate to be unable to fall,
That riddle of asking “How?” and not “Why?” that comes with being trapped in the middle

I’ve written this part,
For what feels the millionth time,
I can only resign.
The scars upon my hands,
Connecting teeth-marks
The guilt within my heart,
That’s where the sickness starts,
That riddle of being sick and yet unable to survive without lingering in the middle

To be a Superman is so **** superficial,
Superb superstition feels so insuperable,
Juxtaposition in a definition of terms makes the Super seem just simple and little,
That riddle of being everything and nothing that is superimposed in the void of the middle

And I love how I’m here all alone in the middle,
And I hate how I’m here all alone in the middle

The textures of a star as with her flesh
Are not those that seep nor soften
That they grace the hands divine
With the airiest of moistures or the fluidity
Of fire. It is far from that.

All smoothness that I know I felt
And are all too palpable.
Now I abstain from such,
     From such nakedness.

Not the papaya, the apples, the grapes of La Union,
Nor the watermelon kind of touch
But of the moon attenuated, the pierce
Of the narrow light or the folding abaniko,
Could unravel me towards the discovery
Of wild fragilities, little by little, all too tender,
With its river, and its regions forbidden
     And its sections.

I circumnavigate my passions
Towards hers.
     I shiver.

I have yet to measure a feather,
Her waist,
     With my lips.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

Circumnavigate Earth with your never-ending journey;
To find peace,
But instead, you land in a place of abomination, of pure horror
Poverty, sickness, pollution, ******, ****, war,
Hatred
You move on, but everywhere is synonymous to everywhere
The only tranquillity that can be distinguished,
Is up in the place between heaven, and sea,
The place only reserved for your species
Designated to your entirety so that you can still live free
For as long and far as elegant wings can flutter
Superior to the Hell we call Home, to the Home we call Hell

If this train went off the rails just as I was saying, "I love you,"
and the clanging noise caused you to hear, "I'm so far above you," instead, would you then go on to die regretting every previously treasured moment of our lives that we'd collectively spent on the off-chance that I'd been a pretentious ***** the whole time?

If I went broke before you could cash the check that I wrote in order to fix your broken childhood home - the one that your parents still live in and stand to lose if this check doesn't clear - because of some completely unpredictable market fluctuation/bank identity theft error,
would you hold me accountable for it?

If you counted every syllable in every sentence that I spoke on your half-birthday and it didn't add up to your age divided by one-third of the time it takes for your ruling planet to circumnavigate the solar system, would you then find our relationship to be some kind of gross horror?

If I walked away right now, while you were in the middle of asking me some ridiculous out-of-context question with no consequence, would you think it's because of some kind of insecurity or cowardice?

soundless space

directionless drift

toward the sun and the stars

toward Saturn or Mars

reckless release

of empty debris

we greet as we pass

with a silent wave

we circumnavigate

every heavenly body

we see on the way

Gently feeling round the edge,
detect the shape of inner you
and I’ve been tangled in the texture,
taste and weight and scent and hue.

Ardently keening for the contact
Hearts race. Our basest needs need meet.
Now heat is emanating out
like all the clothes about our feet.

Circumnavigate your figure
in a boat inside my mouth.
Paint long ribbons in its wake,
colour you in till you’re a lake.

The water’s warm, the tide is rising
let the swell come rolling in.
Lovely undercurrent rythme,
relentless. Drawing me within.

Here come the breakers, catch a breath,
asphyxiate a tiny death.
Between your thighs my ears are roaring,
hear a pulse and nothing else.

Convulsions padded by our warmth
Hold on, and throw a gentle fit.
We're just swirling in the swell
The outside world does not exist.

Nosferatu     would have balked if not   gone bald.
    They,  too,    from themselves their selves do balk.
Circumnavigate     the   lily pond,
          Iron Lady in the    swaddling baking    egg pies,   with spited
     Curlers    in our    fronds   and — equanimity's edict — forest green-eyed addict —   is
A     plumbed    plum;    a dendritic denizen for    the   cypress,
Willow that   's hung!     Willow that sung!    Soothing it   hugs
     the    sights — such   sour honors  — so smooth-over the boy's club,      so you can get in or      out    whichever    youregoingfor;
bring    them their rose water   which drips   next to the
     chiffon and the    lubricated sewing table — the grape to-
  mato-mottled lunar  ligament: by  dew of the top lip, do lay —
     go gray    in taut winter

Because faulty showers left you still soiled.
A million parts of water to one part salt.
Heretofore,
no more to be spoiled by the appetites of those too hungry for
beach burgers.
Sandy fingers curled 'round chicken tenders drenched in
ranch.
Circumnavigate the globe just to circle back around to the same *******
circumstance.
Looking forward to a summer of love:
Drugs, freak outs; doomed
romance.

Let me circumnavigate your lips with a sailing kiss. This romance of sinking ships caused by siren songs must end. Swirling compasses point to mated souls, first or last doesn't matter. I'll soar these shores, living wave to wave, till I see you in my horizon.

16 Psyche
Astroid king
Gravid with iron
Nimble in flight
Circumnavigate
The stars
They revere you so
Your steely frown
Rigid and dense
Elegance
Oh, Astroid King
Your story retold
Is a tragedy
Trajectory
Unknown and alone
Nebulas, they glow
For you
Satellites, they shine
For you
But I, I cry for you
Astroid King

It is our consciousness that lives alone
That is why I stare into your eyes
I wonder about you and if you are the same as I
Beyond our chanting
And our place between Kings and beggars

Is my mission to avoid death
Or just the mere thought of it

So I begin where delusion has led me to a new world
And yet I do not risk my life
I am no mariner crossing vast oceans
That would be remind me too much of death
And yet acquiring breadfruit is enough to circumnavigate my fate

The pleasantness of why we are here is the story we write
Our purpose must be believed
Whether we find it or not
What is good and evil are equal in the sight of a mortal man
He cannot conquer one or the other
He can only hope to find solace and joy in humility
In the building of a home
Or the love of a child
For honor beyond that only becomes tinder for his own glory

Am I so far evolved from lions
Dignity
Strength
Courage
Unquestioned worth
I see it in their pride
I am only able to reason the things they do not care to ponder

But there was a man
His greatness unquestioned
He was unafraid to die
So much that he risked his life everyday
Each new day a blessing
A chance to save mankind
To remind them that the path is peace
Not power
Every bone was broken
But not his soul
That was their mistake
For every blow sounded the drum
And God heard it well
And though the dove could not find him
Still he knew
In him he was well pleased

There were many men
But so too were there women
Waiting for freedom
Waiting in line
For the men came first
And they admired them
They knew who must accept the blows
And though they lived apart
A warrior loves unconditionally
And she knew he would die for her
As he would die for his people
It was enough to know these things

That is how they lived

That is how they lived

That is how they lived

That is how they lived

In mourning always
They knew they were part of a funeral procession
They took turns as pall bearers for their past
They learned to laugh with honor
And cry long enough to live again
For as no storm lives forever
No heart can be broken that is willing to heal itself

If only I knew how

Black clouds circumnavigate the pine forest , trees cull their mouths for Summer rains ! Black crows banter in the welcome cool breeze ,  Bessie's cowbell clangs at the molasses lick ! Pie pans glide across the hayfield , scarecrow comes alive , looks right then left ! Nanny goat calls her kids to the pole barn , head rooster crows , brings the hens to order !

I sleep in sadness;
Or else sadness weeps
Weary and diffident,
Around the world, entangled
In morose grey deeps.

Sad in your gladness,
That I can't participate;
In torpors I circumnavigate
The whirling ocean, gravitate-
Would wish that I could burn.

Wish, to feel anything at all:
That love had me in thrall,
Or hatred made a mess
Of my well ordered senses;
Life: this just is.

Bite me or kiss me,
Wake me up; enlist me,
My dreams grown fainter than a wisp
Nearly drowned in status quo,
When all I wanted, to flame or glow.

There's no time
As life grows taller
Than a winter shadow,
And strangles your words:
Where did glad go?

I chase myself around a corner,
Find no one's waiting there,
For no one to grasp hold;
There's a vacancy inside me
It's colder than cold.

Hell's a moderate place, at best
Everyone's happy and soooo well-fed;
Watching endless hours, of a tv show:
Please set me on fire-
Don't **** me slow.

Black is the seed, and black, the fruit.

The blossom of light an affront:  wrought of nothing,
illuminating nothing, reverting to nothing, the blossom is—
Everything.
And a man contends, endures,
knowing, in his moment, that all that matters
matters not; that in the crowd
he is alone, that in the cosmos
he is lost, that in his writing
he is written. He is a coal, shot hot between voids.
Intense to evanescent,
each pass of a life has a spectrum.

Red is the womb.

Here, at riot’s eye, all bellows howl,
all fires bend to the harlot wind of becoming.
And the nub is a lump, and the lump accrues,
marbles dreamless, in liquor weightless, defining:
Liquid ruby, clinging vine, tallow flower in wine—
the little ogre, caught on a briar, kicks.
Comes a marvelous trophy, squirming and gory,
naked and pendent, blind and grotesque—
wound about the hollows and seams,
spat in a maelstrom:
one more shape in the window,
one more shadow exposed,
in the ****** triumph of light.

Out of the whirl, the faces gather round.
The boy has opened his eyes,
but the infant makes no sound.
Shapes loom to the sides, to the front and rear:
The faces grin, closing in…grow enormous fingers
to point, to pinch—to peel back the veil
and make his eyes scream.
In the dimness a nimbus, a prism, a pearl.
The faces part. The prism paints an image in the whirl.
The figure is a woman, whose seeming lips recite:
“Come sunder the night. Little ember, ignite.
I am mother, I am mother. I am life, I am light.”
But like oil on a rainy day,
the colors blend and wend their way
into the whirl, and there,
subdued, the voice is slurred,
the light, obscured,
and night
renewed.

Here on the lattice,
morning embroiders the tatters of night.
While tall beaded glasses
squeeze melody from melting ice,
the diced and slanting shafts of sun
checker the shadows with tangerine light.
On the sidewalks April’s children run,
but the eyes in the faces see
nephew on the august perch
of uncle’s wicker knee.
Graven in air, the faces shift,
their eyes a flickering stream.
Loosed features drift, expressions run
in subtle strokes of shade and sun.
The stream ***** him in:  swirls of abhorrence,
pools of disdain. Succumbing, drawn under,
he swallows his eyes. But the eyes in the faces remain
watching.

So scrawny it grieves, he eats too ****** much;
ever absent, he is always in the way.
Sickly, quiet, submissive, shy,
he hides when the faces quarrel,
cries when they crack his lie.
Craving love, he learns early to fast;
contriving a limp, he is weaned at last.
What hold wanders here—there are no bridges,
only walls. Every scribe is a master of cant.
The learned are jaundiced, the ignorant smug.
And those who would name his demons,
when maintaining “this will pass,”
fashion their webs of pap and straw.
This animal man is a thief.

Mother,
My world is a stranger.
My eyes are wounds on a mind that will not heal.
I saw more range, more warmth, more mother,
in the dance of sun on heather,
in a single kiss of dew.
Now your urn, blessed bowel, fouls the cedar
of father’s mantel, while he grows blacker,
blending bile with grief and gin.
Those lips that never tendered,
that heart I never knew—mother,
who were you?

Ubiquitous, the emerald **** lies splayed, exploding:
from her pores an eruption, on her belly a rank,
stinking moss. She bleeds life, vomits it,
into bud, into blade; sharing with a passing star
the silent scream of spring.
But here she dreams, perfumed,
a picture of grace, her verdure in groom.
Secluded, seduced, sedated. Churls put on her face
while zephyrs attend to the scent of her loom.
Time purls. The zephyrs flit sweetly,
chasing motes in fibers of light.
Playing tag in the sun, currents weave into one,
near a still-life of mourners and fatherless son.
The figures seem rooted, unreal.
As the gust musses trees, light leaps between leaves.
The greenery breathes. As if shaken,
the scene comes to life:  huddling in sync,
the faces incline, their eyes like slinking thieves.
The young man implodes. He reels.
The tension relents and he straightens. He wheels.
He limps off alone, wind hounding his heels,
the moment too eerie to bear. Sedans trickle by.
A raw widow grieves. But the faces continue to stare.
And the wind pirouettes, finds a wing,
has a plunge, brakes low on a rest,
makes a guarded descent. The breeze buffets markers,
losing vigor and bent, then slips thru the stones
toward the beckoning trees.
The draft riffles leaves, where its whisper is spent
and lost a sigh.

A stipend, a shack, a lessor in wait.
Such are the fruits of his father’s estate.
He breaks no bread, seeks no sweet;
strange dynamics govern his blood,
preclude his seed from the common fire.
Music of amity, refinement’s caress,
are brute concerns; abrasive, obscene.
In his quiet aching way he is whole.
Seasons burst and smolder, surrender and brood.
Their pageant revolves about him.
The years breathe, driving the crowd,
steeping its fevers in jasmine and sun.
Humanity brawls, exalting the flame.
But without him.
And he grays, sinking, certain his pain cannot,
could not possibly, be borne by another.
The silence condenses, sets.
At last even pain deserts him.
But near the brink he hears the nervous hum
of impermanence, feels the white pang of being’s wing
as day succumbs to the fist of night.
Dawn burns deeper, duller,
each beam towing a filament of dusk,
each round of the wheel a salvo
in the stunning of his eyes.

Now the years are mired in sameness.
The day wears on. Guests come unbidden:
Conscience, the despot. Sentiment, the leech.
Misgivings sojourn, transmigrate, return,
as Lonesomeness plumbs his moribund vein,
metastasizing.
Still he rooms with the wind, dies waking,
dreams sleepless. And it haunts him:
All this teeming while an instant, an irrelevancy,
a rube’s view of the pulse careening downstream,
working its rhyme into a billion like irrelevancies.
Here must be real, Now must be sound, and yet—
no sooner are the moments cast
than shape is shadow, and present, past.
Only the day wears on.
Blue is the evening begotten, the twilight of our lives.
Dark gathers, mooring its stain
where a dreamer weighs the deep,
his eyes in ruin, his color in vain.
Only ballast and mind, merely ego and rind,
growing blind as the day wears on.

Down this grim promenade,
a musty wind hustles gaunt silhouettes.
They are loth to be borne;
they are patiently measuring stones.
Eyes leap in their caverns, looks light and remain
on a smudge in the gloaming, a scarecrow with cane,
tapping out his tenure in a cold feeble rain.
And now the purple veins of near-night
thud sluggishly, almost grudgingly.
The black earth splits wetly, obscenely.
There:  something impatient stirs, exposed—
Limbless, sightless, the lamprey rises;
her breath unbearable, her length immeasurable,
her age—
impossible!
Preening *****, hypnotic.
In one vile kiss she is sieve and abyss.
Her bruised lips are splayed, her violet mouth, made,
and her churning, insatiable craw is
pitch.

Out of the whirl, the faces gather round.
Was he hurt? Can you hear me?
But the old man makes no sound.
Shapes loom to the sides, to the front and rear:
the faces glare, stealing air…grow enormous fingers
to ****, to pin—to pull down the veil
and make his eyes seize.
In the dimness a nimbus, a prism, a pearl.
The faces part. The prism paints an image in the whirl.
The figure is a woman, whose seeming lips recite:
“Come sunder the night. Waning fire, grow bright.
I am mother, I am mother. I am life, I am light.”
But like spectra from a dying sun,
the colors flare, are torn, are spun
into the whirl, and there,
subdued, the voice is hushed,
the blossom, crushed,
and night
renewed.

Thanks for reading Faces. NOW PLEASE CLICK ON THE LINK BELOW TO READ HERO, A SPRAWLING, GROUNDBREAKING FANTASY FOR GROWNUPS IN TWO PARTS, ABOUT THE FIRST HUMAN TO CIRCUMNAVIGATE THE PLANET. (BUT YOU MUST CLICK ON THE PROVIDED LINK AT THE CONCLUSION OF PART ONE TO ACCESS PART TWO! THAT’S WHERE THIS TALE’S AMAZING RESOLUTION LIES. But please...intelligent, readers only!)
NOW HERE’S THAT LINK:

https://allpoetry.com/poem/14922744-Hero---Part-One-by-Ron-Sanders


Copyright 2020 by Ron Sanders.

contact:
ronsandersartofprose@yahoo.com