There is snow on the ground,
And the valleys are cold,
And a midnight profound
Blackly squats o'er the wold;
But a light on the hilltops half-seen hints of feastings un-hallowed and old.

There is death in the clouds,
There is fear in the night,
For the dead in their shrouds
Hail the sin's turning flight.
And chant wild in the woods as they dance round a Yule- altar fungous and white.

To no gale of Earth's kind
Sways the forest of oak,
Where the sick boughs entwined
By mad mistletoes choke,
For these pow'rs are the pow'rs of the dark, from the graves of the lost Druid-folk.

I saw you in winter,
and thought of tree branches feathered by starlight in poorly lit neighborhoods. A hearth where the more honest parts of myself, I am bared fetal, warmed upon, welcomed.

I saw you in spring,
and thought of long drives in the countryside in the rain. Ice cream melting from our chins dancing petrichor upon our toes, kissing by the sea shore.

I saw you in summer,
and thought of sleepy boathouses, uncovering ancient childhood treasures in the woods. A secret lake somewhere, the sky's reflection in promise. Windy hilltops upon which to blame each other for the sunrise.

I saw you in autumn,
and thought of scarfs and cafes, city streets and sunsets where we watched each others breath escape. Apartment staircases where windchill hibernates, the world slowing down around us from your window.

The first time I saw You, I thought to myself, "I could live there."

My head knocks against the stars.
My feet are on the hilltops.
My finger-tips are in the valleys and shores of
     universal life.
Down in the sounding foam of primal things I
     reach my hands and play with pebbles of
     destiny.
I have been to hell and back many times.
I know all about heaven, for I have talked with God.
I dabble in the blood and guts of the terrible.
I know the passionate seizure of beauty
And the marvelous rebellion of man at all signs
     reading "Keep Off."

My name is Truth and I am the most elusive captive
     in the universe.

Crumbling cities.
Beauty in decay has always reminded me
of you.
When we were little and climbing trees
you told me of ow you would be great
one day,
like Athens and Rome.
I had laughed and called you silly.
Those were places and not people, I had said.
You shoved your tongue out and clamored:
"Watch me do it!"
I think I finally understand what you meant.
Singing songs to me in my backyard you
were amazing, thriving like you had sworn
to me
those many years before.
We danced and screamed from hilltops
with cities unfolding beneath
our mere human feet.
You weren't kind of the world, but you were
king of mine.
Later that night you dropped me off
at my front door.
Kissed my forehead and murmured
"Goodbye, I love you"
instead of wishing me goodnight.
You fell in the time between night and dawn
and when I woke up the next morning
our empire was gone.

There is snow on the ground,
And the valleys are cold,
And a midnight profound
Blackly squats o'er the wold;
But a light on the hilltops half-seen hints of
feastings unhallowed and old.

There is death in the clouds,
There is fear in the night,
For the dead in their shrouds
Hail the sun's turning flight.
And chant wild in the woods as they dance
round a Yule-altar fungous and white.

To no gale of Earth's kind
Sways the forest of oak,
Where the thick boughs entwined
By mad mistletoes choke,
For these pow'rs are the pow'rs of the dark,
from the graves of the lost Druid-folk.

And mayst thou to such deeds
Be an abbot and priest,
Singing cannibal greeds
At each devil-wrought feast,
And to all the incredulous world
shewing dimly the sign of the beast.

Standing with her head low and shoulders slouched,



centered in open field of dying foliage, she stood alone in the pouring rain.



She held a bright yellow flower that nestled so gently in between her slender fingers.



Overcast skies, fill the atmosphere with grey and white towering columns of fluffy moisture.



Blue skies peek at out as the clouds mutate and morph moving along with the winds taking on new forms at every breeze.



Sun rays shoot through the an opening where the clouds part, beaming down below to the golden fields of hill, grass,



and the occasional tree; giving life supporting energy for only a few seconds until it quickly



gets covered by the onslaught of clouds. Shinning on her pale fleshfor that second



she felt the life providing sun permeate on her cold wet skin with warmth.



Rain still trickling down upon her face and flower close to decay,



the light reluctantly giving her the energy to lift her head with prowess.



She fixates her eyes deep out into the hilltops and the skies above,



where the light shed through; steadily recuperating from her desolate outlook before.



Noticing wonders and the rare beauty of her location, that she had given no mind to before.



Managing to reveal a smile she once held behind the clouds, forgetting completely that she was ever alone to begin.

When hills are on my mind
I think Mt. Everest
Where snow caps brush the sky
Up past the eagles nest

Some feel desire to go
To climb the Matterhorn
Some love the history
Of the seven hills of Rome

But there's a hill much better known
It's not beautiful or high
Not famous for its ruins..
But one condemned to die

They say God's Son was there
And that lonesome road was hard
But He gave His all for man
And He made us sons of God

Fall surrendered, snow fell, and Ruth’s mother bought a blanket for her daughter’s seventeenth Christmas. It wasn’t a very expensive or spectacular blanket; it was extraordinary only in the fact that it hadn’t been picked mindlessly from a Christmas list but had instead been chosen lovingly and thoughtfully. She knew her daughter was forever chilly and would love the blanket’s fleece side, and she laughed to see that it had snaps just like the blanket she herself had spent her evenings cocooned in when she was Ruth’s age. So she wrapped the blanket more beautifully than the other gifts and set it gently under the tree.

The sun stretched, adults yawned, and Ruth opened her mother’s gift on Christmas morning. At the sight of the blanket, her grandmother’s eyes welled with memories of Ruth’s mother, looking almost identical to how Ruth looked now, wrapped up in her own blanket with the snaps. Ruth admired the gentle color of the blanket’s slick side and stroked the fleece side against her check before setting it on top of the rest of her gifts. She thanked her mother enthusiastically (she’d always been acutely aware of her reaction to gifts in front of their givers) and laughed good-naturedly at her grandmother’s hovering tears before hugging them down her face.

Naked trees shivered, frost iced the landscape, and at her mother’s suggestion Ruth spent the winter with the blanket layered beneath her covers. She nestled beneath it every night, but felt guilty when she couldn’t love it any more than anything else she had in her room, and she never snapped it around herself as her mother had done. She’d tried to wear it like that the day she was given the blanket, but it had made her feel uncomfortable and constrained. So instead she slept with the blanket spread flat beneath her sheets through that winter and into the spring.

Spring sprung, flowers bloomed and Ruth bounced for a moment on her toes before diving headfirst into his eyes. The weeks passed for her not in hours and days but in giggles and kisses, and she was surprised when her usually analytical, suspicious mind released her heart and allowed it to love recklessly and entirely. Making her bed one giddy morning, Ruth stroked the soft, fleece side of her blanket and then the slick, smooth side, and she thought of sweet picnics and stargazing from quiet hilltops. She folded the blanket and kept it in her car in preparation for any such spontaneity.

The moon beamed loudly, prom streamers fluttered, and Ruth danced with him wildly. Her classmates all felt just as immortal, and everyone laughed and spun and anticipated together. When they finally left the dance, Ruth’s body was still coursing with the night’s excitement, intoxicated with young love and the bright eternity that stretched before her. He brought her to a small hilltop where she spread the slick side of the blanket against the grass, and the two lay trembling there beneath the stars. Finally, he wrapped his mouth and his heart and his body around hers, and her innocence leaked slowly onto the fleece.

The moon slid drunkenly behind the hills, birds began to wake, and Ruth flew home on her own audacity, leading the dawn behind her. In the dim light, she noticed the garbage can her father had brought to the curb the night before, and she decided to spare her mother the pain of discovering the once soft fleece now stained with rebellion. Quietly, she lifted the lid and dropped the blanket inside. Its snaps scraped loudly against the can for an instant, but then the morning quickly swallowed the noise. By the time the lid banged back down, Ruth was rushing back to the house, her blanket already forgotten.

We came,
like young infants
stumbling head-long into hedonistic existence
Feeling air beneath our feet in the ****-smelling rooms,
hiding behind cushions and blankets and exchanging knowing looks
on starry nights.

We ran,
down green hills on hot, sunny days
and burned our hands on shed roofs
and the ends of rolled cigarettes.

We drank,
berry cider in the dark,
dancing drunkenly outside bars,
sharing secrets behind closed doors
and open whiskey bottles.

We needed,
no one but each other
and each other's mothers -
Some opening their arms to us
to swaddle us like newborns,
Others dismissing us with a wave of a hand

We spent,
the last year of our school lives
immersed in each other,
some more than others.

We cried,
like shell-shocked soldiers
behind locked bedroom doors
and into smashed-up mobile phones.

We returned,
to those dark evenings,
to drink ***** on hilltops and smoke endlessly,
laughing at everything ******.

We were glowing stars.

We loved,
and those immature jokes hit our shields
and not our bones.

And now our lives have changed
and all those heady evenings spent
hiding beer from Bulgarians
are behind us all.

We are alone,
in this world.
Some moreso than others,
But we are alive.

We are still us.

Footprints

I saw footprints in the snow
I had to follow where they go
Tip toe'd in every step
To keep my feet from getting wet

Over Hilltops, through valleys
And forests of pine
I traveled and traveled
Snow blind to time

When the footsteps ended
It was once again spring
I traveled the world
and hadn't seen a thing

Stranded by the shores
of vast oceans blue
With very little hope
and nothing to do

Except watch pirates
catch mermaids
With lassos of gold
And dolphins tell stories
Of days of old

As all seemed lost
What did I see
That sent a wave of hope
Crashing over me

I saw footprints in the sand.....

i, the honey bee
travel broadly for sweet nectar
through meadows of honeysuckle
near springs framed with lilies
over hilltops swaying with poppies
i travel near
some days far
searching for my next sip
one that makes it worth the trip

my favorite place to go
is to the hive at night
nestled in the comb
knowing that my honey will provide you with delight

You descended into my soul so effortlessly, like dark blue dissipate into the muted periwinkle sky that kiss the hilltops of dew covered mornings.
Had there been but no measurement of the graceful manner in which your touch take a turn from skin to grasping onto organs locked behind the stern walls this may not be so difficult to comprehend.
Yet for the first time, the notion of numbers on a clock became irrelevant and I saw this beginning in gradients and neon bursts of color that illuminate all in its path.
For what can we track the depth of which we dive into oceans- with a ticking minute hand or the depth in which the opacity of our surroundings grow?
I caught you at midnight, I drowned in your essence like 500 kilometers below sea level, I admire you most at sun break, and I love you, how I love you, like the most effortless periwinkle blue.

Following dark roads all night
looking for bright lights
to spark excitement and wonder where life went
the further we break from the burden of the world
the thinner the barrier between us and the heavens
I can almost reach out and touch them
while were on these hilltops
dancing like demons and devils
letting the magic dipped paper slip split
my mortal mind from my immortal soul
as the past slithers through the crowd like a snake
lurking in the grass only rearing its head to boast its own self loathing
but being so lost in the bass and the movement
makes me not even close to human
makes me more immune then
a deaf man trying to tune in or an ignorant man assumin'
and just as me and her return from our voyage
mother earth greets us
with the most beautiful sight
these one time eyes have ever seen so pristine
like a dream as a cloud drops to kiss the crisp hilltop
once again everything stops
and I thought
even witnessing the rot that she got
from scraping the bottom of the barrel
and lapping up the sin couldn't dampen the thin grin on my chin
so smile back baby
because not even all the cumpsters, so called friends or Christopher Walken himself
can stop us.

Night at the garbage dump
Sparkle starlight night
Leaves room for little delight
Speedy legs
Out for a spin
Adventure begs
Drags the wind
Follow a leader
To a place one longs to linger
A flight that’s eerie
What’s in store
Darkness galore
Only four hilltops more
Up up up
Around the bend
Climb to come back again
Clouds through moonlight
Old concrete pebbled on the side
Glow with strange historic pride
Field grasses slow to bend
Smells you would not befriend
Below dark field
A collective treasure of human endeavor
One would not dream whatsoever
Crunchy soil
A perfect spot for the voile
Sit below the grassy line
Take in the oddity with too much wine
Head on a swivel
Watch your back
Never know what’s lurking to attack
Time is up
Must not leave the cup
Only once a garbage dump  
Watch the stump
Fly down in pitch dark
Not mistaken for the park
Former mans duty
Listen closely
To the beckoning tutti
It sings in rare night beauty

the brain and mind are not the same thing.

a brain floats, suspended,
down to the tips of my toes
and the blue rivers underneath my skin.

it is a box; simple tasks and quiet construction.

the mind has no such manuals.

it sees baboons in filtered skylights,
eyes as red as the blushing dawn,
gushing about over the hilltops of my shoulders.

it sees stop signs in the glass cracks
of my wooden closet door,
where the dark seeps around the green-light-go.

it sees fingertip to lip,
raccoons at rusty roadways,
Remus and Romulus locked in eternal combat;
preserved in the grains in the cherry tree trunk.

the brain is in the head,
but the mind is somewhere a little above;

hiding away in a doomsday bunker,
loud warnings burning the air,
bathed in cobwebs and blue lights.

away from people who haven’t quite learned,

that the brain and mind are not the same thing.

it is temporary
the mirrored faces reflecting back into one-
it is as temporary as the sun.

it is temporary,
this burning body of youth.
it is temporary insanity
and temporary truth.
it is movable pieces
in the bottle of corked vermouth.
it is ungrateful youth
and all her fantasy
her ****** opportunity-
the days of endless sunshine
fogged with cascading rain,
full of superficial pain,
that only sets into the skin to rise up
much later.
blemished traitors
of your failing past.

it is temporary,
the primping of memories undone-
it is as temporary as the blazing gun.

it is temporary,
it is fleeting
and no matter how these products
keep us believing
they are nothing more
then distractions, they are deceiving.
as the sand is thrown in our glossy eyes
and stars that once opened in the night sky
just for us-
open no more.
we retire from the bridled gore
of youth and her tireless war
and forever more,
must sing the songs of fading youth.
must curse the uncouth,
the way the years
have wandered by
without any proper goodbye
and we, as strangers
in this looming unknown
we must come to know
as past our prime,
past our time,
and be spectators
into the theatre of vanity
we are now excluded from.
oh, how we wish we’d undone
the regrets and missteps-
but we are denied
to ever confide
the wisdom we’ve gained
since beauty and youth
have fled-
we are condemned
to be voiceless passengers
on our train ride to the end.

yet, this is temporary.
as temporary as you and i,
the ailing sky,
the aching stars,
the rolling hilltops,
tracing to the mouth of the river
and when we are at once delivered
to a final resting stop-
we pray, we hope
as tooth and nail dragged
we try to cope,
to be temporary no more-
temporary no more-
temporary no more-
temporary no more-

Day debt
night wept
sleep crept
Attachment.
                       Where is my attachment?
                                evening out of balance
                                        The line of my life has broken
                                                  off into separate identities
Flower feather
Hollow weather
Moonlight Canyon
                                      Skylight childhood nostalgia
                                      Stolen star
Battered cheekbones
Of weary workers keeping to
The hornet's nest
                      Reality a constant terror
                     Of city structures                         swallowing
                                                      ­                             them whole.
Blackbird rests
on an Autumn branch of
hidden meadow
checking its wristwatch obsessively for the
             Hydrogen Volcano
                INEVITABLE.
                                         Termite Corporations
                                          Cavernous Hilltops
                                        All that green is gold
(A straw man in Byzantine robes approaches
            the frosty Manhattan
    to become a relic in it's Libraries)
                         People fall in Love with coincidence,
                 (The illusion of order beyond our field or reach)
        All that love is kept in a
                    Conservatory somewhere...
                          Glossy stems connected to palpitating blossoms.

Our tired eyes are focused to the asphalt confluence
whether fever or handhold.

               Hymns ring throughout the forests of
                                                   Vancouver Island
               Dreamers hang from the Niagara Trestle caught in                
                                                   overwhelming sunlight
                                                        ­ Doused in spirit.

Holy Melancholic September
Sweeps away the dusty Summer,
                                                        e­verything seems renewed
                                                        I­n the rain..

i
no less than two hundred souls lie
        clustered along the shoreline
        lowland they call a town.
there where the hilltops look
        below, where salty waves
        in unending sequence
        lap the rocks.
the foam floating still is fading
        and the icy gloom of night is gone.
the tug-tug of the diesel engine
        interrupts the balmy silence
        of the sleeping town.
perchance,
        here is a variant
        (or is it?)
        on new island soil
        tread one another foot.

       ii
away now from the busy hum of
        factory, from the hurrying trucks,
        daredevil drivers, the unwelcomed
        whistle of the morning train,
        from the strained scream of the
        lumpia vendor, from the sophisticated
        melody of nightclub music, from the
        alms-begging cries in crowded sidewalks,
        from pretending graded glasses seeking
        sheep-skin, high-pressured ticket seller.
        away form the honk-honk of waiting
        limousines, the haste of presses
        accommodating headlines, the cackle
        of the radio announcer.
        it takes a sea to part the two,
                and many others more, yet the
                watery distance do mend the broken
                piece-part of the broken whole.

      iii
broken by the water barrier, part of
        the broken scheme – a stray mass
        the grown untamed.
blame it on the ills of war, a frenzied
        sickness, a cancer-growth.
        a callousness undisguised
the city’s pleasure is a farmlife’s
        leisure and these
        in different garbs exist.
not even mindful of the worms
        that eat up the human heart,
        like a rotting fruit.
with colored goggles
        the hue is blood-red and shady black.

  iv
o city of pain,
vineyard of desire
o burial ground
        where lay bedfellows
        they who came, stayed, gone,
where stumps and leafless trunks
        are bare to the sun,
        breathless and devoid.
while fingers are busy
        counting metallic coins.

  v
no, not a flood shall cleanse
        this wild and wanton fleshliness,
        nor upturn the barren farrows,
        not the rise of the tides
        nor the fury of the winds
        not even the whiplash of a strong hand.
the deluge in every clayey figure
        in the farm and furnace.
the going up beyond the worldly
        watermark of the passing tide
        that is man.
the man
        the self
                is the starting point
                from which the line
                        of the circle revolves.
                        and in our chambered brief hours
                                of aloneness, shall speak
                                a shrill deep-seated voice
                                to which we shall be all ears
                                        and shall tremble.

Often I dream of the countryside.
Where hilltops are  lit with a sunrise. 
Where it's peaceful in the moonlight. 
Life is simple, if not sweet. 
It's odd enough to me to have to be, let alone act an entity. 
I find myself on bended knee. 
Coping only with what will be will be. 
city slicked roads can't guide you home,  but what if asphalt and streetlights are all you've known? 

Follow the breeze to the plush of trees, where everything you say is heard down to the way you breathe. 
The tall green grass stands about knee high, the rush of the stream brings new surprise.  
Country life, 
where the hills roll until they're out of sight. 
And the days unfold until they're out of mind.

We rode to Ta’if on a flying carpet
— a Toyota with a missing hubcap

sweeping through  fattened clouds
which clung to the hilltops like grazing bison

arriving on the otherworldly plateau that wore
the death shroud of an old hermit’s mystery

which our Prophet reached in sandals as ******
as the deck of a Nantucket whaling ship

Arabian Himalayas. He climbed like a yak
and the Lord strengthened his steps

Our taxi driver — as lost as the cheque in the mail —
poked at his satnav and called his mates

The Almighty’s beloved followed the angel and
never lost his way. He strained with pain

Our driver’s mirrored eyes intruded while we
held hands on the back seat and yawned

The Lord smiled down upon his aching friend
and eased the pain in cramping calves

A sagging mosque now hunches where the ignorant
had cast away the chance of a lifetime

Oh think if they had taken him in — Medina
would sit as a happy king on a mountain throne

I immortalised my love in a photo in that mosque
praying as a saint where our hero had struggled

I adore my captured shaikha and the memory
of when we followed in the footsteps of our Prophet

Out in the range,
Beyond all cell phone,
The peace of the valley,
The mountains around,
Where elk graze and deer run,
Where horses call home,
If I could do it,
A ranch wife I'd be.

The wind cross the hilltops,
The water below,
The cattle out grazing,
Hawk and eagle stand watch,
Fences and dirt roads,
Pastures and fields,
If I could do it,
A ranch wife I'd be.

Rainstorms and snowstorms,
Thunder and hail,
Content beneath covers,
Warm arms to hold,
Comfort me, cuddle me,
I'll be by your side,
If I could do it,
A ranch wife I'd be.

There's peace in the stillness,
There's warmth all alone,
Just two souls and hillsides,
We're never alone,
Isolation is a comfort,
Out out of reach,
If I could do it,
A ranch wife I'd be.

The barking of ranch dogs,
The mooing of cows,
The horses they knicker,
I sigh like the wind,
The bird songs and crickets,
The sounds of out here,
If I could do it,
A ranch wife I'd be.

Out in the range,
Beyond all cell phone,
The peace of the valley,
The mountains around,
Where elk graze and deer run,
Where horses call home,
If I could do it,
A ranch wife I'd be.

~A Ranch Wife I'd Be by Bethany Davis, June 7, 2014

it's always an ocean
grainy and washed by the sun
seafoam floats light as your laugh

rosary beads left on the beach
while the salt rolls in from the hilltops of *****

and when i breathe in i can taste the sweet smoke
and your perfume reminds me of the desert

exhale and dance in the brine

Will archaeologists dig
For veins of code
Lost scripts of forbears
In dead machines
Of love and grace.

On clear days will fathers
Hold children aloft on hilltops
with the render up high, no fog,
And proclaim legacies
Of digital lego.

'Soon child all this will be yours'

Will meaning be found
On a plastic thumb
Under a fingernail of silicon
In a Chain World


young but weary were the eyes
that witnessed the desert dawn
and heard the ancient village cries
of sheep and goat and cattle fawn

fatherless, without the skill
to plane and join the wood
used to gather up earths till
steps short of where his father stood

his efforts to drill and plug rough plank
awaited the harvesters scorn
who offered him this one slim chance
to cease the funeral horn

while mother lay in quiet sleep
purloined fresh figs, he stole away
to walk the barren sandy keep
avoiding the words she would not say

he reached the dusty tans and browns
that painted the scorched earth
through dunes and strife and sinking mounds
and fell beneath the suns full worth

so low was he, so lost in spirit
eyed by the death bird, the sharp shinned wing
life’s loud call, he would not hear it
his repose intent on surrendering

then, one last time he raised his head
up from the blistering sand
and spied a vision in coppered red
a fishers boat, perched on parched land

the sight was the spark that fired instinct
that hovers beneath each soul
our hearts homogenous, yet distinct
on chance that one has found his goal

he raised himself with his last strength
and headed for the land locked ship
mindless of the shimmering length
entranced in  dreams shadowed grip


the craft was gray, and far from foam
it’s tethered mast twisted and bent
the hull was gashed, keel and deck undone
from which harbour had this wreck been sent?

the young man reached the sheltered ship
and fell beneath it’s sparse shade
then felt a cup brought up to dry lip
who dreams of water in a desert glade?

the weathered mate was old and broken
much like his stranded  vessel
his words were uplifting, a happiness spoken
his boats plight a small obstacle

whiskered white, crooked in bone
strength hidden beneath frail tendon
the task is great but not alone
could he send the boat, a new sea beckoned

work with me  as we attempt
full sail this craft beneath the windy lair
when labor’s shared, knowledge is kept
my age, your youth and a little repair

why debate the young man thought
events are only but a dream
a chance to practice what he father taught
eye the board, swell the peg, lift the beam

so, that next day in rolling heat
they began their ventured labor
square, line, bit and mallet beat
wood sinew joined with neighbor

and through it all the old man shared
far tales of risk and glory
offered comfort and compared
the mystic with the daily story

the days slipped by, he knew no count
only splintered hands and shoulders weary
their work was slow yet no amount
could turn the craft to sea worthy


a crazed endeavor to sail on land
the bond between us lies untapped
our connection now leads to this command
walk this earth, fulfill the prophets rapt

the sky then shivered, the aura to thin  
and rising from the boat appeared
a red wrapped head o’er charcoal skin
she towered, bright smile adhered

the old man spoke: our love supreme
now walks this ground, w’ no gentle wake
I choose to break the sublime extreme
for I fancy birth, creation’s take

the young man gazed at the African woman
eyes bent upward, she dressed in red calico print
by all that had happened, he began to fathom
a powerful force in her white eyed glint

the work progressed, the craft made whole
guided by only her silent smile
by firelight the young man poured his soul
his laments were heard and felt erstwhile

the day had come to begin the voyage
sun burning high, yet keel on sand
cryptic psalm spoke by the sage
earth and sky bent fully under his command

the blue of the sky fell in shimmered drops
replaced by gray earth shot toward the firmament
transformed to foamy wave from bleak hilltops
the air from dusty pall to green sea scent

cool spray filled breeze under leaded cloud
opened canvas cloth bound with simple tackle
the craft bobbed, new joints groaned aloud
for the sea had fallen to sail the stranded vessel

the young man stared, at heavens new plaque
the red draped figure who steered from helm
guided the boat from tack to tack
crowned and throned in her fresh made realm


the sage was silent, physical sense broken
content to sail the deep brine
sea and sky majestic spoken
new coarse now set,  subject to time

yea ! yea ! celebration is inherent !
laughter emits at the joys of fate !
the young mans laments, gone and spent
fruit, bread, dance, and singing elate !

the journey of these wondrous three
led to adventures, too numerous to here collect
amended the testament and set free
each soul, which when heard, stands boundless to select

steps led to his mother’s mud brick abode
from the young man’s heart, his numinous story leapt
but she knew all, without benefit of being told
and all these things, into her heart she kept

Nature's own inkblots,
By time and wind shaped
Each with a story to tell,
Fantasy stirring, recollection as well,
Knowing us better than we know ourselves.  
Some have stooping shoulders,
Like old men after a funeral
Talking quietly on the lawn.
Some have boughs that slant down,
Like eyebrows
On teachers that frown--
Worried and skeptical.
Some stand at varied intervals
Along hilltops above a town
Watching like sentinels.
Some have branches that curve up,
Short, like fancy mustaches,
Or long branches, like eager arms outstretched
To greet a loved one.  
Some stand very close, boughs touching,
Like families saying grace;
On some, the branches intertwine,
Like lovers who embrace,
And on some, the lowest limbs
Fly upwards,
Like a skirt raised by the wind.  
Young ones crowd together,
Some taller than the rest,
Trunks thin,
Like kids choosing sides for baseball.
On some, the branches rise like smoke,
Billowing silently, curling,
Drifting to the sky
Like prayers from a little church
Where all the woman wear hats,
And every man wears a tie.  
Like inkblots spreading they capture the eye--
Each with a story to tell.
Silently standing,
By time and wind shaped
Knowing us better than we know ourselves.

what terrible news, the marx in me said it true, article heading: mental health gets only 1% of council tax...£664 million a year on ****** health... £111 million on tackling obesity. here’s a simpler explanation... c.d. is part of hardware... mp3 is soft-ware... get a scratched c.d. and turn the hardware into software... then put the virus mp3 onto an iPod, which is hardware... then watch the technological virology take over... the host hardware will break, given that the parasitic software is implanted from a sick hardware it was copied from.*

i was redecorating my mother’s living room,
for a handshake and the prize:
don’t interrupt my drinking pattern, woman please!
so i found to ancient scribbles of paint,
but then hid them like a treasure chest...
i also found the vol. no. 2 of kant’s critique of pure reason
under one of the pieces of furniture...
over a year i lost it... blamed everyone i knew...
but in reality the realisation came when i rekindled
the bookmark coordinate:
it took me two conscious years to read heidegger’s opus,
consciously defined by reading poetry on the sly...
with kant i ended my reading with the introduction of hegel:
antonyms of a pure mind - the third conflict between transcendental ideas -
i got the antithesis straight away... mainly because it spoke of freedom...
while the thesis spoke of the laws of nature and 1, 2, 3, 4, 5...
0 central...
it spoke of sequencing of events... it spoke of 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
as paradoxical of 2, 3, 4, 5... and 3, 4, 5 and 4, 5, and 5.
i think i better translate this passage to exemplify the point...
i lost kant for over a year and the **** sizzled...
i kept heidgegger for a year and i came out wondering
why it should take someone 15 years to study aristotle by the man’s suggestion,
so i had myself the alternative:
philosophy begins with awe... well... so does tourism.
let's just say there are corridors at the junction...
we say i almost pickled a cat's paw with wet cinnamon
or ketchup to imprint a paw-print with the gaff quote:
i was here, i found the sound meow inexplicable,
incomprehensible... given the human complications,
i decided to utilise meow with randomisation away
from my superior intuition... whereby the phoneticism
of meow was less than my eyesight and hearing...
so i announced the whiskers and fur and snake-eye in mammal
with a meow... i used meow to communicate with the complex
vowel-consonant reason, but i found my intuition
in rachmaninoff's vocalise wordless song... with my ear against
the radio dreaming away... so said man un-attentive of me...
that i managed to mingle my instinct without the meow
asking for butter... and instead for the daydream...
diva lute diva tangled... diva es lute es flos...
there i was... the cat of abashed baptisms at the fountains of
the baptist with my head wetted...
careless for the dung bag walking partner, or the plaything
i was forced to take interest in... my casual...
fat for keratin, as if fat translated from man unto animal
to ask the boar for the daydream of the conveyor belt
with lost fur and gained fat...
off with my shirt i too graded the follow-up...
as a loss in the tightened woods of winter with the losing shadow
of the shadows of beckoned crowns not adorned in vogue.
but this was only 1912... five years before the revulsion...
before the revolution... five years! spent in the abode of harmonics
by the piano i tried to mistune to write a deathly haunt of presence...
operatic alphabets twisted me into recovering from
the foremost attraction of failure... the neglige of virginity lost
to the public's applause missing...
i too could have vouched a coming back: of spirals away from
the champagne starlight in bouquet crescendos,
for the simple minded aura of perfection - but i vouched
hypnosis as the adequate precursor of staging fright
as the lost composition rekindled into revisionary composition
regained - there too i found the picturesque familiarity
of unsung hilltops regaining strength in the longshanks' heels
as if by deed of achilles in strength regained...
to frighten the lowlands with that glorious fame of
being poisoned by the gratifications of excess in the untrodden path
thus trodden by ear and echo rather than foot,
into the zephyrs of the larynx-ballerinas upon mountain-tops...
thus there, among the content misanthropes -
i too searched orpheus' mirror and prometheus' stone
to be bound to an eternal moment that denied all
other eternal moments and furthered the denial
by not allowing a bullish billion of china
its existential prowess among nations so frequented
by scandinavian description.

Watching the snow fall
Touching the pavement, pelting the wall,
Melts time and time again, and call and call

On windy hilltops soft in the flow
Brighter and brighter, the streetlamps glow,
The robin orange-red breast on show.

Give me anybody
Oh give me anybody*

Give me a forest stretching over lakes
Over hilltops unto the land’s end meet
I’ll walk for leagues until my knees buckle
Till I find a sturdy oak to be mine
It shall not be a noble tree, nor grand
But it will stand the weight of my embrace

Branches stretching into cerulean skies
My favourite sight
Sunlight through whispering slices of green
Enclose me in your tendrils
Take me within, my humble oak
I’ll carve out a home for myself
I’ll dust it with hot breath and cleanse with it tears
Live out my days in stoic peace
For wise minds know retreat triumphs
Over the tributary of great feats
Crawling up bodies of bark,
Binding bodies of blood
Tainted blue moss

Let me withdraw into you, I, an oak wife
I’ll weave your ghost-roots into my veins
If my oak should die, let me die too
These badlands are barren and unkind
My legs are made to wrap around your body
They will not bear the stony, unrelenting road