Matilda.
The light of my life.
The poem of my tongue.
The fire of my chest.
The wind of my *****.
The hate I loathe.
The beauty I view.
My lady.
My dream.
My hesitant rainbow.
My fearless tears.
My coverlet and starlet;
my blanket and dainty amulet.
My distant promise and cautiousness;
but in all my darling; looking ever so stately-
yet not like yon faraway, morning dew.

Matilda.
The hands I adore;
the fingers I want to kiss.
The solitude I live in;
the fate I was born in.
A pair of eyes ever to me too divine,
A charm that loyally strikes, and glows and shines.
A lock of hair that petulantly sways and sweats.
A midday tale of love; as how it is mine,
a beauty that this world ensures,
but cannot adore.

Matilda.
Even the brisk turquoise sea
is ever less glossy than thy eyes,
for their calmness is still less harmful,
unlike unbending, thus insolent tides, at noon.
Ah, Matilda, thou art yet too graceful,
but tricky and indolent, as the puzzling moon!
Thy purity is like unseen smoke,
tearing the skies' linings like a fast rocket,
making me ever thirsty, turning my heart wet,
but still this attentive heart thou canst not provoke;
thou art a region too far from mine;
but still luck is in heart whose fate's in thine.
And as thou singeth a tone I liketh to sing
I cannot help but more admiring thee;
And as thou singeth it genuinely more,
thou capture all my breath and give it all a thrill;
for I realise then, that thou canst be stiff, as sandless shores;
but thy beauty canst so finely startle,
and whose startledness
canst ****.

Matilda.
But deadness, and ever desolation
are vividly clamouring in thy eyes;
Thou art but distinct, distinct indeed-from serenity;
for thou warble thyself, but gladly-away, from thy sullen reality.
Ah, Matilda, how canst a soul so comely
be hateful to fame, and dishonest just from its frame?
Matilda, to those merciless hearts indeed thou beareth no name;
Thou art a shame to their pride, and a stain to their bitterly fevered, sanity.
Yet still, thou art to innocent to understand which,
and in love naively, as thou just art, now-
with that feeble shadow of a pampered young fellow,
Whose stories are also mine,
for his father's money is donned,
and coined every day-by my servant's frail hands;
The sweat of my palms obey me in doing so-
I am my master's son's poor sailor,
and he his sole heir-and soon is to inherit
an indecent boat; full of roaming paths, doors, and locks
And at nights, costly drapery and jewels shall be planted in their hair-
yes, those beastly riches' necks, and skin fair,
And thou be their eternal seamstress,
weaving all those bare threads with thy hands-
ah, thy robust ****** hands,
whilst thy heart so dutifully levitating
about his false painting, and bent even more heartily, onto him.
Ah, 'tis indeed unfair, unfair, unfair-and so unfair!
For such a liar he was, and still is-
Once he was betrothed to a bitter, and uncivil Magdalene;
Uncivil so is she, prattling and bickering and prattling and bickering-
To our low-creature ears, as she once remarked,
She who basked in her own vague hilarity, and sedate glory
And so went on harshly unmolested by her vanity, and fallibility;
But sadly indeed, occupied with a great-not intellect,
As not sensible a person as she was;
At least until the winds knocked her haughty voices out-
and so then hovering stormy gales beneath,
took her out and gaily flung her deep into the raging sea.

Still he wiggled not, and seems still-in a seance every night,
whenst he but cries childishly and calls out to her name in fright.
Her but all dead, dead name;
'Till his father tears him swiftly out of his solitude
And with altogether the same worried face
but drags his disconcerted son back into his flamboyant chamber.
Ah, and I caught thee again, Matilda,
Bowed over the picture of yon young sailor;
'Twixt those sweet-patterned handkerchiefs
On thy lil' wooden table, yesterday
And curved over yon picture, I was certain;
I caught some fatigued tears in thy eyes-
for from thy love thou wert desperate,
but still unsure even, of the frayed tyings of cruel fate.
Ah, Matilda, your hair is still as black as the night
The guilty night, though nothing it may knoweth, of thy love,
and perhaps just as unknowing it seemingly is;
as th' tangled moon, and its dubious arrows
of unseen lilies, above
Shall singeth in uncertainty; and cordless dignity
And which song shall forever be left unreasoned
Until the end of our days arrive, and bereft us all
of this charismatic world-and all its dearest surge of false,
and oftentimes unholy, fakeness.
Oh Matilda, but such truest clarity was in thy eyes,
And frightened was I-upon seeing t'is;
As though never shrouded in barren lies
Like a love that this heart defines;
but never clear, as never is to be gained.
Ah, Matilda, and such frank clarity dismays me;
It threatens and stiffens and chortles me,
for I am certain I shan't be with thee-
and shall ever be without thee,
for thou detest and loathe me,
and be of no willingness at all-
to befriend, to hold, or to hear-
much less reward me with thy love,
as how I shall reward thee with mine.

Matilda, this love is too strong-but so is, too poor
And neither is my heart plainly bruised;
For it is untouched still, but feeling like it has been flawed
Ah, why does this love have to be raw-and far indeed, too raw!
I, who is thy resilient friend, and fellow-sadly never am in thy flavour;
for in his soul only-thy love is rooted;
And this love is forever never winning-and it is sour,
Like a torn, mute flower; or like a better not, laughter.
And my heart is once more filled with dead leaves-
Ah, dead, dead leaves of undelight, and unjoy;
Whose cries kick and bend and strangle themselves-
all to no avail, and cause only all its devouring to fail,
For his doorless claws are to strong,
Stealing thy eyes from me for all day,
and duly all night long.
How discourteous! Virtual, but too far, still-
corrupting me; ah, unjust, unjust, and discourteous!
Tormentingly-ah, but tormentingly, torturously, insincere!
Ah, Matilda! But soon as thou prayeth,
every single grace and loveliness thou shall delicately saith;
Thy voice is as delightful as nailed, or perhaps, cunningly deluded vice-
Which I hath always feigned to be refuting tomorrow,
but is only to bring me cleverer and cleverer sorrow
'Till hath I no power to defy its testy soul,
that for no reason is too shiny and bold,
but so dull, and bland as a hard-hearted summer glacier,
and too unyielding as hurtful, talloned wines.
Oh, but no appetite I hath, for any war
against him-for he is fair, and I am not,
He is worthier of thee, than my every word;
He who to thee is like a graceful poem,
he who is the only one to smirk at
and hush away thy daylight doom.
Matilda! For evermore thy heart is mine;
and mine only-though I canst love thee
only secretly, and admire thee from afar,
Still cannot I stand bashful, and motionless-too far,
For I wish to hath been born, for thy every sake
Though it shall put my sinless tongue at stake
And even my love is even gentler then blue snowflakes;
and more cordial than yon rapturous green lake.
Ah! Look! Upon the moors the grass is swirling,
so please go back now; and be greedy in thy running.
Still when no music is playing,
all is but too painful for thee,
which I liketh to neither witness, nor see,
for upon thee the moon of love might not be singing,
as it is upon all others a song,
But somehow to nature it not be wrong,
for he cannot still be thy charm, nor darling.
O-but I hate thinking of which affectionately,
when thou crieth and which sight, to my heart, is paining.
Ah, Matilda! For even to God thy love is but too pure;
for it is faultless as morns, and poisonless-
like those ever unborn thorns;
Of yon belated autumn melody,
But is, somehow, fraught and dejected
With sorrow, for it is him, that yesterday and now
Thou loveth softly and securely,
Two hours later and perhaps, in every minute of tomorrow.

Matilda! But still tell me, how can thou securely love a danger?
For I am sure he is but a danger to thee, indeed;
Once I witnessed how his face
grotesquely thrusted into furtive anger
As he burst into a dearth of strong holds,
of his burning temper-under the blooming red birch tree;
And as every eye canst see,
He is only soft, and perhaps meek-as a butterfly,
Whenever the world he eats and sleeps and feeds on in-
Tellest him not the least bit of a lie;
Ah, Matilda, canst I imagine thee being his not,
ah, for I shall be drowned in deflating worry, indeed-I shall be, I shall be!
I dread saying t'is to thee-but he, the heir of a ruthless kingdom,
and kingdom of our God not-within their lands and reigns of scrutiny,
His words are but a tragedy, and a pain thou ought not to bear;
O, Matilda, thou art but too holy and far too fair!
Thy soul is, so that thou knoweth, my very own violin-
To which I am keenly addicted;
I am besotted with thy red cheeks-;
As whose tunes-my violin's, are thy notes
as haunting and sunnily beautiful,
And cloudless like thy naivety,
Which stuns my whole nature,
and even the one of our very own Lord Almighty.
Ah, Matilda, even the heavens might just turn out
far too menial for thee;
and their decorum and sweet tantrums idle and unworthy;
Thou art far, far above those ladies in dense gowns,
With such terseness they shall storm away and leave him down.
But why-why still, he refuses to look at thee!
Ah, unthinking and unfeeling,
foolish and coquettish,
unwitted and full of deceit-is himself,
for loving should I be-if thy smile were what I wished,
and thy blisses and kisses were what I dreamed;
I wouldst be but warmer than him,
I wouldst be but indeed so sweet,
I wouldst be loftier than he may seem;
and but madden thee every sole day, with my gracious-
though sometimes ferocious-ah, by thy love, ever tender wit.

I hath so long crept on a broken wing,
And thro' endless cells of madness, haunts, and fear,
Just like thou hath-and as relentlessly, and lyrically, as we both hath.
But not until the shining daffodils die, and the silvery
rivers turn into gold-shall I twist my love,
and mold it into roughness-
undying, but enslaved roughness;
that thou dread, and neither I adore;
For for thee I shall remain,
and again and again stay to find
what meaningful love is-
Whilst I fight against the tremor
and menace this living love canst bring about-
To threaten my mask, and crush my deep ardor.
Ah, my mask that hath loved thee too long,
With a love so weak but at times so strong;
and witnessed thee I hath, hurt and pained
and faded and thawed by his nobility
But one of worldliness; and not godliness
For heavens yonder shall be ours, and forever
Shall bestow us our triumphs, though only far-in the hereafter;
Still I honour thee, for holding on with sincerity-
and loyalty, to such contempt too strong
For thou art as starry as forgiveness itself,
and thus is far from yon contempt-and its overbearing soul;
And perhaps friendly, too unkind not-
like its trepid blare of constant rejection, and mockery
And as I do, shall I always want thee to be with me;
For thou art the mere residue, and cordial waning age of the life that I hath left;
For thou art the only light I hath, and the innate mercy I shall ever desire to seek;
and perhaps have sought shall, within the blessed soul of my 'ture wife.
Oh, Matilda, thou art the dream t'at I, still, ought not to dream,
thou art the sweetness I ought' only charm, and keep;
As thou art the song, that I may not be right'd to sing;
but the lullaby; which in whose absence, I canst shall never sleep.

I am not an expert
on anything,
especially prose.
I write in free flow,
my rows are all uneven,
it's the way my mind thinks,
how my tongue gets twisted,
clamouring & stammering
to find the right words,
to set my record straight.
Like I said,
I am not an expert on anything,
I just try to spell it like it is.

Somewhere beneath that piano's superb sleek black
Must hide my mother's piano, little and brown with the back
That stood close to the wall, and the front's faded silk, both torn
And the keys with little hollows, that my mother's fingers had worn.
Softly, in the shadows, a woman is singing to me
Quietly, through the years I have crept back to see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the shaking strings
Pressing the little poised feet of the mother who smiles as she sings

The full throated woman has chosen a winning, living song
And surely the heart that is in me must belong
To the old Sunday evenings, when darkness wandered outside
And hymns gleamed on our warm lips, as we watched mother's fingers glide

Or this is my sister at home in the old front room
Singing love's first surprised gladness, alone in the gloom.
She will start when she sees me, and blushing, spread out her hands
To cover my mouth's raillery, till I'm bound in her shame's heart-spun bands

A woman is singing me a wild Hungarian air
And her arms, and her ***** and the whole of her soul is bare
And the great black piano is clamouring as my mother's never could clamour
And the tunes of the past are devoured of this music's ravaging glamour.

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!

ME ALRIGHT!

She watches as
I write.

The soft wheeze of lead
leaving words in its wake

like seagulls following
the trail of a ship

clamouring after
the refuse of the mind.

Soon the page is
littered with words.

They crawl across the page
in their best 4B.

It pleases her to see
the graphite leave these

tracings of me
upon...beyond...the white.

She looks at the journey of my hand
as if writing were a magic rite.

She asks if she can
draw.

"Sure..." I say
and the words cease.

I just put the tittle
on an small i and j.

The words splashed across the page
like puddles of thought drying in the sun.

I hand her the pencil.

She shakes it and shakes it.
And shakes it.

"What's that for?"
I dare to ask.

"The pencil is too full of words.
I want a pencil full of lines."

"I see..." I say
even though I don't really.

Well, it seems  to work for
nothing comes out but line after line.

She lost in the little planet of
her intense concentration.

She throws in the odd curve
and a wonky circle every now and then.

The lines look confused
not too sure just what

they are doing
on this scrap of paper.

I ask her what
the lines mean.

"The lines are you of course.
See...?"

"I see..." I say
although I don't really.

But indeed in this
drawing I am

very much
as she sees me.

The page never lies.
These are scribbles that were my eyes.

I have as it happens
eyes five

stuck on the side of
what appears to be a head.

And yes only one leg.
One leg with seven toes.

An abstract alien
bird father.

It takes pride of place
sellotaped to the fridge.

"Yep...that's me
alright!"

king of the sea,
with a rigorous exoskeleton peeling away
moulting causes such distress,
exposed to the thrashing undertow of the sea
and enemies

who protects you?
a callow arthropod poised on fractured shells

it isn’t your father,
balancing a bottle of brandy between his lips
or your confidant,
skidding his tires across your mind

a starfish tried,
she threw her arms round your shell
as you added new muscles underneath
she stuck her tube feet in her claws
as you brittled her skin
she said I love you
and you retreated

when you are 70
and clamouring the floor
put your arms behind your back to beckon her to you
try –
she is the sea and no one owns her.

WHAT A WONDERFUL LITTLE BOY

The view
gazes at him.

The landscape gathers
itself about him

as if he were a piece of pigment
in a painting a blob or blurr

of blue or green or
something in between.

"What a wonderful little boy!"
a passing cloud, pauses...muses

and says once more in case the hill
hadn't heard.

"What a wonderful little boy indeed!"
a tree agrees...winking...its leaves.

A river runs through him
alive in his senses.

The grass runs all over
the field tickling his naked toes.

Sunlight throws
itself at his feet

bows before him in all
its glory.

A breeze throws his hat high
up in the sky and

returns it to his hand
as if by command.

The clouds grazing now
upon a hill top

fascinated by his presence
how he has come to be.

"He makes us feel
so very much alive!"

One cloud nods
to another.

"Oh, there's a poet in him
to be sure to be sure!"

the river remarks
its voice clamouring over stones.

Time that sheep dog barks
but the clouds only luahg

"See how he lends us
his voice

in order that we may think
and speak.

Look I'm talking
in human words."

"Ballea...Ballea...Ballea!"
the farm shouts its name.

Again and again and again
the river exclaims

"Owenabui...Owenabui...Owenabui!"
sunlight dancing in its voice.

A bird stands stock still
upon the air

neither coming or going
just standing on nothing

as if it were a punctuation mark
typed upon the sky.

Time returns now
in policeman mood.

"Move along now...nothing to see here
move along now!"

And the landscape loses a voice
the sky its ability to see
the cloud has no words
the bird become a dot

only the sunset
whispers to an horizon

"What a wonderful
wonderful little boy!"

the clamouring noise of our times
hides the holy - disables our noticing
yet there are off-beats of time we can attend

the clamouring noise of our minds
consumes our attention - distracts our soul
yet systolic beats of thought name our noticings

between the memes of our times
are counter balancing sensibilities
to pause our conviction - to open our hearts

between the memes of our minds
are roots of tradition and wisdom
to complete and challenge our understanding

so to extend our fervent hopes to good purpose
so to embrace the silence - and find blessing

All sounds have been as music to my listening:
Pacific lamentations of slow bells,
The crunch of boots on blue snow rosy-glistening,
Shuffle of autumn leaves; and all farewells:

Bugles that sadden all the evening air,
And country bells clamouring their last appeals
Before [the] music of the evening prayer;
Bridges, sonorous under carriage wheels.

Gurgle of sluicing surge through hollow rocks,
The gluttonous lapping of the waves on weeds,
Whisper of grass; the myriad-tinkling flocks,
The warbling drawl of flutes and shepherds' reeds.

The orchestral noises of October nights
Blowing ( ) symphonetic storms
Of startled clarions ( )
Drums, rumbling and rolling thunderous and ( ).

Thrilling of throstles in the keen blue dawn,
Bees fumbling and fuming over sainfoin-fields.

Can you hear them whispering
There inside my brain
Can you hear them tinkering
Trying to shake lose what is sane
Can you hear them Clamouring
There inside my mind
Can you hear them favouring
With sadness all they find
Can you hear them plotting
There inside my cranium
Can you hear them knotting
All my thoughts till thier alien
Can you hear them screaming
There inside my brain
Can you hear them scheming
They are driving me insane


The voices here inside my skull
Are always chattering, never a lull
They are bent on my destruction
At first it was a sweet seduction
Now it's a roaring wave
Trying my head to cave
I can hear them as plain as day
Can you hear them what they say
Those voices in my head
All them yelling, one thing said
They only want me dead

Comeback

Perhaps I should be grateful
That I never was recipient
Of great applause,
Years of adorers,
Broadway’s honey,
Years of being stunning,
Grateful that
I never had to kowtow, bow out,
Miss the kudos and the fame,
Never knowing what life was
With and without them, since I never got them.
Never got to play Las Vegas,
Glad there never came a time
Of longing for a non-existent encore,
Cheering I no longer hear.

Hair going grey,
Kilos heading the wrong way,
You are asked to make a comeback,
Or you’ve asked to make a comeback;
Life feels boring,
No alluring pleasure takes the place
Of listener filled with earful grace.

You sweat and strain, extra kilos off again,
Get back routines,  
Move as you did in your teens,
Flexibility, the voice retaining every nuance.
Frank and Cher came back again - and then again.
We followed each rendition, each gradation, limitation;
Cheered until the cheers turned into hesitation.

I am grateful that I never
Had the clamouring for autographs and tresses,
Shredded dresses, theirs and mine.
Never had the glamour and the clamour of masses,
Fervent need to make a comeback,
Coming back to audiences smelling wine:
Hard to define.
And still I play and sing and grow.

Comeback 5.28.2008/revised3.19.2021
Birth, Death & In Between; Time; Vaguely About Music; Arlene Nover Corwin

With voice that could inspire the angels of hell,
    To rise up, take arms against the Devil and rebel,
    You sing to Heaven of Love's luscious truth,
    Consists in it a kind of Beauty rare forsooth,
    A song to make all heart's swoon, take flight,
    Banishing demons of the night,
    Thou art the sublime friend, risen from eternity's fires,
    Inspires feelings suffice to be sung to lyres,
    Thine destiny to be immortalized in words sublime,
    That vanquish hell and transcend time.

    O cherished friend, beget thy sweetest sound,
    That doth ring along the Earth, up and around,
    Gift me with your precious Peace,
    Your perfect care, your clamouring Love increase,
    Blithe spirit indeed, coy mockingbird,
    Who does true justice to the word,
    Where God sings instead of does the verbs,
    I knew in my Heart I was one of your herd,
    Cubs of God, afoot on paws of passion,
    Love an exquisite chemical reaction.

    Borne aloft on divinest wings,
    Troubador inspires mind to flight, to sing,
    Searching fathoms of Love, the depths of soul,
    To unite the Heart with one and all,
    Fierce the luscious hues and hot,
    The passion which through my mind crept,
    For Truth of your words I could have wept,
    Deciphering mysteries of our Heart's crypts,
    Knowledge true on which spirit roves,
    Your song frolics in Love's treasure troves.

    Keep the flame alive my friend,
    Make my spirit whole once again,
    Next to thine truths illusion pales,
    Thine words doth scale all Heaven's vales,
    Fluttering like a ribbon on the breeze,
    Blowing through the wind and trees,
    Touching ears and minds and hearts,
    Gifts with light of love which imparts,
    Truth sufficient to be sung to lyres,
    From that great Knight that rose from Heaven's fires.

He walks, traverses Love's line for miles,
To save the Heart from wicked wiles,
That deceive the soul and self of worth,
But Love will be found even in Love's dearth,
Warming our Hearts the breadth of their girth,
Shielding us in warm spirit's sheath,
Dreaming, rocking, to and fro on passion's heath,
His words put Hearts in exquisite health,
Heartbeams go in every word,
Praying sublime to the lovely Lord.

In vain the tyrants suppress his song,
That raises voice above the evil throng,
For all hearts are drunk on his music,
Learning from his passion's rubric,
A Guru who made Love his melody,
To heal our sore and tender malady,
Applying salve to sullied spirit,
With wanton word and wanton wit,
Love grows wings, in every line,
Show me how to make your heart mine

Be forever laughing, living,
Friendly, florid and forgiving,
Let your truth in Hearts gestate,
For it let us be elate,
Towards the light of Lover's sun,
Through which the cosmic fires run,
You take us on wings of blazing fire,
Burnished with colours of desire,
What the mind dare grasp the bolt,
Of Zeus, through which our Heart's shot.

Glances from across the room louder than the music
louder than the bass that everyone is waiting drop.
Musical notes clamouring against the floor,
don't pick them up.
leave them there,
walk around them
on tip toe
in ballet slippered feet.

feather light or lead heavy.
veins of lightning.

forming vowel sounds with my mouth.
ooooooOooOOO
EEeeeee
i. i. i.
AHhhhhh

Sew me together with fingertips like the soft kiss of lemon drops,
coming up the stairwell
the warmth of wanting
the bite of yearning.

Flushed pink.
Pinched red.
Pricked purple.

Spaghetti mind of soft thoughts
turning hard and stale like cracked chapped candy cane lips.

Naked and waiting.
Scabbed mosquito bites that bled bright red.
OOoooowww.

Gimme a sec.
3-5 business days until rejection.
I'll keep you posted.
48 hours of maybe.
Lemme get back to you.

No RSVP
establishing a lack of certainty.
but but but
Re: Urgent: Plz Respond ASAP

*But when?

tea leaves sit soggy, sad
forgotten  at the bottom

of the cup

leaching, bitter tannins
now, forgetting the life they led

no one willing to read their fortune
no spilling of the secrets
they never truly had

just detrius now
from dust to dustbin
the cycle of a tea leaf
long or brief,
happy or sad
a parable, in hot water

once green and lush in colour
in essence, verdent's liquid fame
once used and now just *******
every life has limit, every limit claimed
as we sup, we suffer the race of time
running through our fingers

clamouring at our mind

one day we too,
will be *******
waiting for the dust,
one day we too
shall leach our liquids
in the unforgiving  dust

No life or death
Pain or pleasure
Galaxy
Or Universe
No more beautiful dawns or dusks
No world of wonders
Or anything
Once we are gone.

So it’s Now Boys!
Attention!
As Huxley said
On “Island”.
Live for Now.
For this very moment.

Stop.
Let your mind go blank.
Listen to your body
And all that surrounds you.

Breathe in the oxygen
That gives us life.
Admire the sky
And all beneath it.

Join with nature:
Sapping grass and foliage
The song of birds
As Mummy Sparrow feeds her fluffy chick
Its beak open wide
Clamouring for food.

Enjoy it all
While it lasts.

Paul Butters

Dennis was a citizen
A denizen, a resident
Of somewhere near a motorway
A hideaway most opulent
Ensnared amid the railway
And trail ways for motorcars
A haven from the modern day
The takeaways and trendy bars

But shattered in the summer morn
His rest was torn by hammering
Invading what was once inert
So to his curtains clamouring
He banished each to either side
He threw them wide with knuckles white
And saw in front of his abode
Across the road, a building site

A certainty within his mind
Did slowly wind his purpose tight
And with a grim determined jaw
Across the floor he took to flight
Descending stairs without a care
His morning hair resembling
A dandelion set to seed
In need of disassembling

He strode across his dining room
And snatched a broom which lay by chance
Against the table by the door
And held before him like a lance
He mounted his beloved bike
A cycle like no other made
And on a builder set his sight
With all his might and unafraid

He charged his foe at quite a rush
And with his brush, the builder smote
And leaping from his trusty steed
He did proceed to stop and gloat
Before resuming in his spate
The builders mate did turn and run
To raise the dragon, JCB
It roared with glee and wheels spun

So Dennis, though his ears resound
With just the pound of noble heart
Did firmly stand and face the beast
His brow was creased and feet apart
He struck the creature savagely
And stubbornly with just his head
And that, according to the news
Was what the paramedics said

The End

In the heart of your ears through splendid cities pierced with light,
the river murmurs of mad seas in lonesome rooms
of the veins in the arms of notorious daughters, oh blue waters!
i sing and the woods sing!
she stands polka dotted in a great bronze chariot
the shivering willows like an ***** of iron down the long black river
we entwine our thin arms and great conquering black eyes
the sky is hell-red where the stars are sleeping.
in the sacred woods, under the light of the horizon
the poet speaks of eternal voice *****-pipes;
I cared nothing for all the horrible spinning eyes of the ferris wheel,
clamouring birds seen as archipelagos and the eyes of panthers

nodody gives a **** about real birds like the voluptuous coyote eagle

Alfonso is a handsome bronze-hued lad
Of subtly-changing and surprising parts;
His moods are storms that frighten and make glad,
His eyes were made to capture women's hearts.

Down in the glory-hole Alfonso sings
An olden song of wine and clinking glasses
And riotous rakes; magnificently flings
Gay kisses to imaginary lasses.

Alfonso's voice of mellow music thrills
Our swaying forms and steals our hearts with joy;
And when he soars, his fine falsetto trills
Are rarest notes of gold without alloy.

But, O Alfonso! wherefore do you sing
Dream-songs of carefree men and ancient places?
Soon we shall be beset by clamouring
Of hungry and importunate palefaces.

On the eve of whatever day it was, I awoke with the thought of sand jazzing its way through me like a joggers rush of blood to the head. Not a lot of fun, but fun enough to smile at the prospect of a working vehicle now clamouring its way seamlessly into my life and out through the front door to shake the post-mans hand and ask him his name for a Friday drink session because he's more than a postman, he's Michael Thurney Barnet of 5864 Quesnel Street, Powell River, BC, V8A 6H5.

1.
And so, I clamber up the heavy *****
and sit alone upon a wide, flat rock.

I still the voices clamouring hard within
and try to listen to the air settle and breathe . . .

The eagle swoops low, whirring loud beside the rocky outcrop
likening its talons to sustain the hold of life . . . (this line to be amended ...sounds odd)

Leaves quiver silent on massive trees
obedient to nature, yet roots bold outgrown . . .

Shade reaches and stretches genial arms
while feel of dark and moist, fertile ground pervades . . .

Air thick with teeming life the eye can't see
thrums with invisible threads, linking slow tendrils . . .

Quiet sky looms dignified and peers squinted
while sun rays slant into pores, kiss my cheek.

Beetles scamper light along the soft, red sand
and not unlike them, I seek still the answer within . . .



2.
Fierce fire takes up dry tinder, consumes into heated coils
destroying with relish, yet offer cleansing balm . . .



3.
Sudden rains refresh, glance off surprised face, upturned
sweet deluge leaves all sodden to delighted heart . . .



4.
I turn not away
I look up
to receive . . . gladly.


I give such thanks
fall on knees to see . . .

No red sky (as in my nightmares)
No lost sun
No smoky horizon
No grey trees
No dead leaves.

Only yellow sunshine
Only blue sky
Only green leaves
Only clear horizon

as far as the eye can see.




S T, 8 May 2013

Can you hear them whispering
There inside my brain
Can you hear them tinkering
Trying to shake lose what is sane
Can you hear them Clamouring
There inside my mind
Can you hear them favouring
With sadness all they find
Can you hear them plotting
There inside my cranium
Can you hear them knotting
All my thoughts till thier alien
Can you hear them screaming
There inside my brain
Can you hear them scheming
They are driving me insane


The voices here inside my skull
Are always chattering, never a lull
They are bent on my destruction
At first it was a sweet seduction
Now it's a roaring wave
Trying my head to cave
I can hear them as plain as day
Can you hear them what they say
Those voices in my head
All them yelling, one thing said
They only want me dead

Listen
to these green plants
pleading
beseeching

you would think
they'd be used to it by now
but every year the same old thing

look the rain is finished folks
you're on your own now
nine months before the next shower

this is how leaves suffocate
see the gray dust clogging their pores
hear them choking
under a wind thrown blanket
this is how they drown

brittle and crackling the grasses
soon the weight
of a starving grasshopper
will be enough to snap
them

shrubs will dump
their curled up castoffs
earthwards
scribbled twigs alone
will remain

from now on
only the thieving airplants
will thrive
viral invaders
******* sap from reluctant hosts
who can ill afford
to accommodate them

now patient rocks
are emerging from cover
each a palette of vivid lichens
sundecks for snakes and lizards
now that the clamouring grass
is gone

the land lies baking
withdrawn
curling
into herself

even the air
sighs
slumps

soon fire will come
to cannibalise
the undergrowth
play chasey
through the dry grass
send ants scurrying
downstairs
flip a nod
to the big old cactuses
tickle the toes
of the mesquites-
who will stand stoic
observing the pillage
around their hot feet
and shrug
resigned
seen it all before
they are above it all really

fire
will play homage
to their indifference
lay down
a black velvet carpet


wind
will whistle up
tiny tornadoes of ash
to pirouette
and perish

everyone
will accept the inevitable
eventually
and just knuckle down
to wait it out

in a state of trance
floating
                  on a dream
                                      of rain



Tricia Lambert
Mexico
Nov 2010

jesus came back in 1945 in egypt
with a shepherd
digging the scrolls up:
the nag hammadi library...
the jewish historian josephus wrote
about a false egyptian prophet
~2000 years ago,
dot dot dot...
well... dot dot dot;
counter argument?
in defiance the defence rests its case
with a semi-detached and a roast dinner
every sunday until death do us part.
sorted then!
*** change's a bonus on top of
that balancing act to keep glogotha relevant
in terms of impregnation above the interest
of bethlehem to orientate
east with 3 splinters aimed at gift:
take east and you're looking at a linear
two dimensional realm of preceding allocation...
preceding allocation of the mirage that's
a recurrent but nontheless a receding mark
of served colour...
****... we all missed the 2nd coming in 1945...
the holocaust got the historians clamouring
for the columbus prize - as that famous hip-replacement
for the jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way!

People who shout deserve no sympathy,
shouting is stupid, callous, rude, and cheap.
Nothing good can come out of it, but bad,
it made those shouted ones scared, frightened, stressed.
Honestly, shouting's the worst thing, I guess.

Those husbands yelling on their caring wives,
they don't deserve to be loved, should be banned
from getting married, making women cry.
Or fathers shouting on their kids. Oh no,
they don't deserve to see them, oh they don't!

Not only them, but anyone with voice
raised to the level of barbaric noise,
should have their shouty mouths zipped, forcefully,
if they don't want to calm down, quiet be.
It is a matter of human dignity.

People who shout should go to prison, yes,
punished for making other's lives a mess.
Look at dictators, they shout to terrorize
their own people, they are never nice,
most of them are just heartless psychopaths.

I don't hate anyone, for it's not fair,
but people clamouring - I can't stand them.
Shouting to do is a very shallow thing,
sign of pure lack of common decency,
barbaric, rude, inhuman, callous, cheap.

If you do shout, please keep away from me,
and I will keep away from you, I will,
for life's too short to live under the thumb
of shouting idiots, monsters, psychopaths,
barbaric, rude, inhuman, callous brats.

I have the keys,
but I ring the bell instead.
She opens the door always,
peering from behind,
wary, irritated eyes.

He stands behind her,
holding a ladle, most of the time,
with a soft smile on the face
he greets,
which I meet,
then set my bags aside.

The living room is a tidy map
of corners sectioned as per need,
a corner to pray,
a corner to store,
a corner to watch TV.
Hidden inside drawers
is a room for memories.

But this is not where I live,
but away in a room confined
to sleep, dreams, and reflections,
and one black rectangle
that keeps me aligned.

It is my escape route,
from the noise the vessels make;
in the kitchen when they thump,
on the table where they clamour,
from chasing footsteps that chase each other
to and away in tantrums.

I have one window that slopes
towards a paradise that chirps and glows
I have a door that remains closed
to the only house that I ever had,
love, but cannot adore.

I restrict myself to that one room,
in the end, the darkened corner,
and pass through the clamouring kitchen
and the rumbling living room
every morning,
to step out of that door.

you grow your beard out a little in may and look
like a flyboy in 44 with a soft face, soft mouth
just toughing it out to get home to apple pie and books
the one with the glasses, so to speak.

new, but in a way that says "if i shaved it
i'd be cutting away the memory of every bead
of sweat i shed in the time that this all grew"

and you look at me and god
those are .50 calibre eyes
green as the pacific
clamouring with all the pain and silence
of its little islands.

The world spins.

Lives are all struggling, clamouring to survive.
We invent technologies,
create literature,
music,
art...

What is this drive that makes us this way?
All I could think of is that someday
we will all die,
and nothing
will matter anymore.
We are
just
tiny
specks
of the entirety of this universe,
and no matter how much we say that humans,
the **** sapiens, are the most
supreme creature in this planet,
or in this universe -
it's not true.

I fear the day when everything
will be gone,
when there'll be no one
to recognise the petty little achievements of mine;
and the kind of achievements
we humans call miracles.
I fear life, and I fear death.
Even this very moment, I'm fearful
of the uncertainties,
of what might happen.
Everyone is.
But we still breathe,
doing things that'll all be
forgotten later on without giving up.

Here we are on the road.
We must be going somewhere.

Til twinkle pinkie rosebuds turn shrubbery so wild
wilder than the fume upon which the moonglade
climbs gloomy tide to make welcome of the night
until the little birds sing your name
then times be as happy as flame
One goldfinch and 3 white pigeons
a colourful macaw parrot and falconet
or the black crowncrane of large pinions
soul's fleeting harbinger of the lorikeet
type, as i await the little birds sing
The whole of my being approves
by the star shining in northerly clime
as in clinging on tight to a feeling so true
of grim death in moment so prime
until the birds vocalize your name
only then shall I not feel the disdain
Patience robs the clamouring chest
heels are still weary and cold in rest
and soon little birds send me tweets
by the dawn chorus of early birds' beats
shall one become happy and gay

He sits atop his lofty minaret
Long legs wrapping round the tower like a spider
Surveying his kingdom of faceless travelers
With his dark eyes and the tick tock from his chest
Nameless forms all touching hands
And speaking in some foreign tongue
Impenetrable to him
Familiar words in unfamiliar circumstances
Like TV commercials all clamouring for attention
Saying nothing at all at high volume
The only voices that make sense are the crows
With their mournful reminders of decay
The inevitable end cycle of things
Rot and rebirth
He sits in this place
Watching the beetles and flies turning things over
Waiting for them to turn him over
So he can start again as something new

some people forget that writing into excess is never a modern sign of wavering... it sometimes means that there's enough for it to be exhumed... call it instant-archaeology... it's not about other people's conversation, it's about their company, and that far from being reached let alone being riddled...*

a letter to a lovely Ms. ***.:

hey! stop exposing your Nancy like a nun and poke back with a conversation - i'll sooner be dead than a monologue.... Florence Nightingale hear my plea - i love how the following "strings attached" gets attached... 3 thousand miles away, living in a cultural ferment of only youth included / exposed content... but no otherwise: curb the chances of oath and here plops a plumb punch... never heard of 5 o'clock shadow with such an explanatory shortening expressed with the least bereft: or right twitching buttock for a enamoured heart-attack heart: a clamouring clown said: if someone painted a Mona Lisa on my face... if someone... i'd ditch the circus and the claustrophobia antidote trick... so ** and no Santa... and ha and still no Santa... it.... it? it?! hey! hey presto al fresco! god, and i wrote this and i wasn't even fifteen readied for a cougar and: she's his p.r. / publicist... whatever the **** that means... they can and can like the wold and the three guinea pigs;
p.s. the wolf's advances are heaving packed, sure, but asthmatic: or three nights in Paris. you'll never write a book in London: everyone is being prescribed eternity with a timescale of 100 years max... and i do mean that retaliation to the question in Icelandic terms: test your d.n.a. sequence, stop frolicking over forced saints taking care of retards... or ditch the whole Darwinism; how many down syndrome kids does it take it take to chop a tree into firewood? one **** and a whip. see how far the joke goes? me Chimpanzee, me Panda, me me! forks and up yours! build that building of royal surgeons and public opinion -
autumn always auburn, chequers auburn with oak -

kingly European - that coming of winter -
                    Czech and the Carpathian mountains -
oh sure... now the Romance...
the Romance... now gone... fish 'n' chips...
                       i lived in England 20 odd years
the most romance i ever received was an A
at A-level history.
                                             i'm still asking you about
the sort-**** resolve though...
                                             i'll start laughing
when you get off the *** of rocking that
bellybutton girdle or curbbing.
                **** me, Hindu cows of ethnicity in
former Empire bound villages entrapped
by nostalgia;
                 sounds like the perfect breeding ground;
and it is, given the ultra glass like people
who feel the stamping of a mosquito dead
like they might feel a Serbian insurrection
into tonguing Ottoman:
but of course the English man engages:
because he "knows"...
                              just as long as he learned
the cabbies ref. i'd be
fine                            in championing
him on every turn...
                                   chappy ain't no
chappy to be a happy lad... so what
does that matter? i'm quasi 21st century
but actually trapped in 20th century.

                                                 i do love that
it's all happening in H'america...
                                                         makes the trivia
questionnaires a lot shorter...
                                           every time i think of
eating i think of a H'amburger rather
than              a H'entucky -
                                            because the inflatable
Juan with draw-on stubble
                 married a Chasing the Dolly wife -
                    and never mentioned Mozart once...
FAME = P + CANON
                        Pachelbel's Canon -
or... the nuance of the millionth plumber:
   y'er toilet made e burp?
                           hence the maiden at the aisle
and the ******* in the cot...
                    and the serenade of the Cotswold runny...
flapping flapping furore -
                         or the chicken grease off my cheek
in fully glaring applause: rather than i tattoo
a knuckle on some ponce Netherlander
spitting onto a Polish girl's cheek and some pseudo
Irish tells me that i need psychiatric help.
ENGLAND!
                         *******!
Handel grew fat and you grew slim...
                       Shakespeare wrote and you demanded
Emoticons!
                          Emoticons rather than emotions!

you can try to escape Europe, you really can,
but trying to submerge Poland as a colonial
country akin to the Africans will only demand a greater
rift in your little delusion,
                                   by god my heart is a kindred Scot,
nationalist...
                          and i will rip that bloodied cheek off yer
******* cheekbone the minute you say yer-nay-own...
                          play chequers an' tartans wit ye!
i'll make Jack into a stripper and the union into
haemorrhage George and jolly Andrew...
                           you make me into your little
Ethiopian herder i'll make sure that little
emblem of tourist insignia dies with it...
                        Spain is cheap... given the English standard...
Greece is too...
                                  the Alps are a cheap middle-class
**** and the Carpathians are Dracula...
                                          whoever gave these wankers
the Greenwich compass thought twice about the same
wankers... contemplating a trip to Mars..
                oi!
                              glaciers!
                 oi!
                                        the Mariana Trench!
oi!
                             ah, **** it...
oi oi... toe foe un luv 2 twin bananas!
*** yer bananas!
                                             yes, we employed a few
of those specimens to straighten the problem out:
none returned, all remaining became classified as:
with cannibalistic tendencies:
                                          stimulants increasing
deviating behaviour? synonymous rhyming:
                        crime
                                         slime
2 + 2 = bonkers...
                                  cannibalism
     altruism
                                   hedonism...
               soothsayer's saying:
                                if not a limb, at least a thought;
yum yum yummy.

Herself of infinite possibilities stemming from
that moment...
Drowning within her womb! Never one for reflection,
as those that looked upon the glaring in reflective
gazes where her sisters that were still connected
with her memories.

That which was meant to feed the focus of life wrapped
upon there throats like the hangman's noose.
She looked on hands reaching in the vastness of diluted
life, her screams silent within only her sisters heard her
clamouring  as life was diluted from there figures.

Gazing upon there reflections, no longer a trio of playful
content. two months she was collected in apparitions
that floated around her.. decaying into void reflections.
The silent screams of her sisters lingering through the womb
even though they were gone there cries haunted her.

As she was released the memory faded beyond her innocence,
till age crept upon her skin, and in years that past.
Echoes images of crying babies filled the air, till her eighteenth
and when she gazed into her self she saw herself.
But when descending her sister with opal eyes lingered.

Skin crawled like spiders weaving their thoughts on her
skin, beneath herself things crawled. Videoing herself in
mirrors echoes surfaced like one drowning in nothingness.
And she saw those of her conception reaching forth for warmth.

Looking upon the mirror, the love of those who were echoes
reflected in her absence cried at what was taken before.
A pact was versed for even though there form was lost
a trio of life still lingered within her, from womb till birth.

Now they live a life of echoes each respective of the others
emotions clinging to the shorelines of each consciousness
that washes up. There is a sea shell on the shore but there
is three echoes that live within this moment haunting the
shades of life's passing, never looking at ones own reflection.