Colonial mansion, in an ocean of grass,
windows aglow as I walk past.
funeral service now used of verandah,
but I hear music, not mournful stanza.
french doors open to a reminisce,
with boyhood heart, of vitreous.

Footfalls on parquet floors,
tux and gown past crown moulded doors.
captured ambiance of a setting sun,
shown from chandeliers highly hung,
day I was born, born the day of prom,
I smiled cordially, and my date fawned.

Girls betrothed by corsage on wrist,
rare french curls--a lunar eclipse.
bedraggled boys now dapper and genteel,
vest and bow-tie, a knightly feel.
chapperesses smiling at maidenly gait,
happy drowse in  mansion estate.

Cuff-links, silk gloves, nail polish of gloss,
beheld tonics and sweets, carefully aloft.
opening cord, an arrow from cupid's bow,
striking coquettes to their tippy toes.
they sprang to dance,I stepped back,
invisible in shadow with tux of black.

Shoulders, lake ripples easing to shore,
hips, gentle waves, right before they pour.
boys stiff, as if waists beheld sabers,
legs, sweeping brooms of on shore waiters.
"your too handsome to stay here unseen,"
said rivaling chaperess, past semblance of queen.

"You should dance ,"said glittered lips of pink,
bent like sparrow wings, during teacup drink.
privy to why in shadow I hid my blush,
her class my crush, that crushed me so much.

She strained me, even the shadows she gave,
black silk, stretching,--convex and concave.
crude metal and wood classroom seat,
clasped her waist of slender physique.
she was guarded by a window in curtain mail,
and tended to by servants of light and gale.
light loved her skin of Mediterranean sand,
and wind enthralled by each and every brown strand.

Light penetrated strands, blondly hot,
wind would blow, cooling pony tail off.
her shadow curtsied under my desk,
long legs danced in irritableness.
mourning class is abuzz with scent of prom,
flower not frost, rules the school's dawn.

I gave my consent, to an earlier invite,
then on, suitor blinded me with light.
and Great Gatsy, and looming prom night,
subjects of sparrow wings pressed tight.
" show of hands, who do not have a date?"
slender wrist arises, from an arm curvate.

alone, she shown that no one asked her,
this stone of Rome amongst boys of plaster.
hand fell with boy of teachers match,
wind shrouded her,from the window sash
rays gave discomfort,to gaze her way,
but I looked through burning ray--

To see a trace of a tear,in eyes ovate,
a goddess unsought, with sadful face.
I, poor, fatherless, could not possibly go,
to prom with princess of arched portico?
I could not interweave my hands to dance,
or know where I could place my glance.

Wind blew a scrap from her desk, indiscreet,
it was pierced by light at my feet.
"will" and "with" were dotted with a heart,
"prom" and "me" before most painful part.
my name in her beautiful free hand,
the color red from hearts inkstand.

(Class bell rings) I travel over star lit lawn,
the music gets louder as I return to prom,
eyes turn to cotton, in shadow as I ponder,
as pain was forgotten, I came upon her.
invisible hands, lifted my chin to a red shape,
our eyes met, her's smiling, mine agape.

Only a glass-maker could imagine my sight,
seeing hot curves form in dance floor light.
only a wax-wing could have rivaled her eyes,
waves gently broke to gown down her thighs.
"will you dance with me,"she softly entreated,
" I don't know how,"a coward repeated.

A princess which tournaments were held,
for which every timber of mansion were felled.
not for Rome the mansion's Corinthian column--
--for her--from quarry prom did befall them.
I could not tarnish this feminine form,
with my lineage in crown she adorned.

I turned from beauty, to dark acres tread,
under willow, I play the last thing she said--
my name--as I shunned from last chance,
now back under willow, cane marks my stance.
I have preserved her forever, shying fate,
even if it was with my own heart-break.

I still see her--in the most beautiful prom poses--
--still--as lights flicker out and a coffin closes.

The flags interweave in a synchronous pace.
A pattern is formed and dissolves into space.

Kaleidoscope movement and the swish of a sabre.
What flows like dance is a pain and hard labor.

Glitter and make-up fluff and curls for the show.
But there's nothing soft about the rifles they throw.

The best part of the guard is not seen by the eye.
It's teamwork and sharing and daring to try.

When the show's over and the props put away.
There's always more practice and some time to play.

So just when you think the guard is all done.
Somewhere in a gym, they're still having fun.

I
Oh how it is quite strange, clowns and princes
along with me, share hits and misses
And how we work, eternities to construct
One man always stood beside me
So here is some spoken word poetry
About my Duck

All these stepping stones, its such a big climb
I gotta just put my nose to the grind

why yes my mass was shapeless, but definitely not aimless a hand full of aces, as my box of tools simply out rules those with mere jacks.
A capering clown
in sawdust mounds
  I would never be allowed
and that’s a fact

lessons  learned on ones own, yet taught by others
And I discovered
the blood that doesn’t connect us brings us closer to one another
no relation which cause the creation by which leaves me fulfilled
Last name: Banks. First Name: Bill
The reason I know skill doesn’t breed passion, passion breeds skill

Now, Though outrageous,
I must say that only the mans good values were contagious
and although the man ages,
the books cover changes,
not the pages

II
On the topic of books, lets take a look
a copy manipulate with traits
of stone written rules
That William had the jewels
to chip loose
I call him Duck
But these actions wont get him confused for a goose

A book of rules in which every one is to receive, Billy Banks believed that mine needs to interweave his own recipe

The reason I keep tricks outside of my sleeves
the reason i wasn’t deceived by the ease of being naïve
The reason my metaphors are as deep as seas

He is the reason I dare to  believe that I am the sea and life is a simple little fish swimming inside of me  which I can control just not directly
its always with me but can be caught up on hooks, tangled up in seaweed
so when is pleads, I attend to its needs
with guarantees of bachelor degrees
and although it will not come with ease the sea calms the storms breeze, clean its debris and fathom that hard work is to be worked hard but always  is always done correctly
I change the tide so the fish swims not always straight but always with strides.

When the stones hurt the feet  to be a climber
Duck is always there with a reminder

Though its deep, I reap
The benefits of being gifted everyday by the array of knowledge portrayed
In the celebration of the man on his birthday

III
So like Obama
I wanna
Make you believe “Yes I Can”
No man, No object, No figure, No wall
Stand in my way from achieving it all
And Believe is my suggestion
Cause the guaranteed truth is good to invest in

All this?
I give credit to the book Duck did edit
So let it

Be known that I stand a grown *** man,
And with these hands let me reach from my soul and pull
within me the key That unlocks the box of tools that help create eternity
and trust me
I was equipped properly
A level to keep my head on straight
A bucket, to help evenly displace life’s weight
A set of blank keys to open any of life’s gates
A chisel and a hammer, my own identity to create

A ladder to climb from the holes I dig myself into
And shovel to fill and forget no regrets and its all just bliss
Like a pig tattoo that never did exist

And finally a broken compass
Not to make me fail, but to force me to blaze my own trail

So when the stones get high and I need a break from the climb
Duck makes sure I know there is always time

IV
So I swear and you know it
And if you don’t he would love to show it
One simple push, poke or a shove
And he will have you believing he is busting out the golden gloves
Doesn’t that sound like the man we all love

The lesson taught?
backing down
means your not at the top

Forcing over stepping stones so quickly on this climb
Duck made me know to do my damage in my prime

So at seventy five,
you are still alive
And to nobody here is it a surprise
Another story of the scar
Another cigar
To smoke
Your too up to date to even be called old folk

So at seventy five
you are still alive,
and to me it sure isn’t a surprise.
And Duck I want you to know to me you will never die.

and let it be known, I refuse to use your present tools as my stepping stone
As everybody’s life path must be created on their own.
So as I refuse to use your present tools as my stepping-stone
The man that I named Duck taught me to reach the tops thrown

And I will never ever quit climbing….

*A tribute to my Grandfather Duck on his 75th Birthday. A spoken word remix of a poem he taught me, that has been the motto to my life - R.I.P Bill "Duck" Banks

Step inside the refuge of my disillusionment,
you will find a blood red sun bursting in the eyes of
a man that never harnessed an even temperament.

A cresting wave crashes on the beaches along
these rusted railways that interweave these broken skies,
a  road paved in regret, spilled from my minds eye.

Obscure sounds, and muted lights diffuse from
the gutters lined with my inner child’s blood. We shiver
coldly, a voiceless wind passes misunderstood.

Tragedy unfolds before our eyes, the luster has
given way to rust due to an underlying apathy. Without
affection, resolute urgency is beyond our capacity.

A cursed fate we are resigned to hate, a blessing
we’ve dusted over in a fools gold asylum. A serious man,
with serious lusts, still a bitter ghost of mistrust.

Wash your ****** hands in the morning sun,
remove your emerald isle from the barrel of my gun,  
hearts bleed ruby red, a vascular fire in the sky.

Fate will fall about the movements upon your ethereal
skin, neurotic waterfalls rush through the nightmares you’re
living in. Bid to create a dream… where we… are clean.

a pretty face and she’s little waisted
a pretty place and a little wasted
tumble and tip into submission
stumble and slip into position
set all sweating systems to go
as emotions among other things grow

I’ll love you like you won’t believe
you’re the merchant and I’m the thieve
I’ve got a trick slid up inside this sleeve
trust me darling, I will not deceive

that’s just the way the story goes
when we remove our whorey clothes
and get right down unto the bone
the nitty gritty, the solid as stone
I want to get down to the heart of you
I want to feel every last part of you

I’ll love you like you won’t believe
you’re the merchant and I’m the thieve
I’ve got a trick slid up inside this sleeve
trust me darling, I will not deceive    

I will not deceive, please believe
I will not deceive, you best believe
as long as we can receive and relieve
as long as we interweave every eve
darling I would never, could never leave
I will not deceive, I will not deceive

I’ll love you like you won’t believe
you’re the merchant and I’m the thieve
I’ve got a trick slid up inside this sleeve
trust me darling, I will not deceive

Rich crimson leaves cascade from trees
Embers of fire in the breeze
Luna sails the black sea unseen
Autumnal spell of Halloween

We carve a brood of sculpted gourds
Bake apple pie for all adored
While trick-or-treaters come and leave
Phantasmal dream of Hallows' Eve

Candles burn bright in our window
Ancestors led home by the glow
Our bonfires flames swell with sheen
As shadows dance on Halloween

Let the feast for the dead begin
This spirit night, the veil is thin
Humans and ghosts interweave
The magic realm of Hallows Eve

The clock strikes the Witching Hour
Loved ones graves we bloom in flowers
This spooky Eve of in betweens
The time of rebirth, Halloween

Spider

Walking into a corridor of neatly aligned cobwebs,
that have your history strewn across, like telephone wires
intertwining and intersecting,
Making all the conversations and voices interweave,
crossing paths - causing a disruption in the line,
the static disturbances echoing through the dark corridor
embellished with these cobwebs that have been lost in your mind.

The cobwebs speak like conversations
from broken telephone poles
that are overlapping and confusing the mind,  
muddled and disarrayed, lacking any sense.
time has consumed these thoughts,
leaving bits and pieces,
that only mislead you


You swing across paving new paths with silken threads,
crisp and new, like adhesive,
glistening with prosperity.
Yet you keep these deep rooted cobwebbed memories
locked in your mind,
like Pandora’s box ready to unravel.
So just let them retire,
they have fallen and become undone,
and now they just collect
dust from your memories
Reminding you of thoughts,
that are specked and flecked
with dusty recollections.

Those worn out thoughts can no longer collect,
they only eject,
tangled stories confusing you
and bemusing you
So don’t collect
your abandoned webs,
like a memory book - they are no longer relevant,
they were just webs you wove to learn
how to weave the web you now conceive,
strong and secure,
fully capable to endure.

Everything is covered in thick, heavy white mist. I inhale it in, and exhale a wispier, lighter version of it back out; my shivering lips parted in a small smile. I swirl the patterns of the mist in between my pale fingers, trying to beckon them into soft shapes in the air.

When I close my eyes lightly, the mist shows the little hidden stones in it to me. With my eyes closed, I can see the gently-colored ephemeral fragments rolling, tumbling gracefully along with the mist. I can capture one for three seconds with the fast nick of my fingers and read the secrets imprinted on their smooth surface, before they melt away from the little heat of my finger tips; because of this I do not steal the mists of its many secret stones. Some things are better left uncovered.

When I start dreaming away, the mist comes and whispers in my ear. I can hear all the little happenings it has seen as the years past by: stories of great loves, who loved with all of their hearts and souls; stories of children, who danced and smiled from the bottom of their beings; stories of kind hearts, always reaching out a helping hand; stories of bravery, and its many forms.

When my skin starts to go numb from the cold, the mist starts to circle my ankles and coil around my wrists. Little cold breaths of mist wriggle to the space in between my toes and fingers, tickling the soles of my feet and the palms of my hands. It envelopes my waist and runs its fingers through my hair, giving me Death-cold kisses on my white cheeks; and presses its back against mine as an old friend, sitting there, with wordless comfort.

When silence nestles all around, the mist rocks me to sleep, blocking my ears from any noise and from any nightmares to enter into my mind. It forms in thick layers underneath me, so that I can no longer feel the rough ground below me but a soft blanket of mist. It lifts me a bit higher so that I can float. So I float while I dream, and my dreams become serene, floating pictures.

When the ringing of silence grows to a quiet music, the mist curls into the palms of my hand, and the delicate wisps interweave loosely to form a hollow ball, with a parting in its surface the size of my lips. I lift my palms up and place my shaking lips on the oval hole and murmur a secret to the mist. I tell my secret wish; a wish that everybody has, that they hold on with dear lives; one that some follow recklessly, one that provides inspiration and strength, one that some, for the benefit of those they love, place away in a little jewelry box.
The hollow ball colors a pastel, pale blue. The delicate wisps tighten their hold to one another and shrink into a small pebble, sweeping off into the mist.

The mist forms another hollow ball inside my palms and I whisper a message, asking the mist to send it to a soul. I fill the hollow ball with words of beauty of the world’s nature around us and finding the secrets, stories and wishes they’re just waiting to tell you, if you’ll only listen.
The wind carries it off and it appears again: not as a ball of mist or fading rock.
But as a story, written down for you to read.

i know nothing of you

but that you are anthropological
when you are inside unexplored diversities
that are not plums or peaches,
that you are a white siren with red nails  
and that you want my knickers
sent enveloped, and sealed with
plastic cobalt kisses.


i know nothing of you

but that when they say poets are not in season;  
you pluck me out lime-coloured and prematured
and tell me to ripen beside your afternoon tea
because you demand embryonic words
and pretty phrases that will keep you
animated and high.


you make me know not-

ions are unmarried clouds pregnant with ink;
yours are metabolic and invisible,
injecting sugar into my fallopian tubes.
you press your mouth against my sternum
and interweave your tongue with my heart,

                                                      we mould into a double helix.


you make us into nothing

but a genetically mutated flower
with two vulvas, collapsed between two pages
of a book that a ***** slapper would read
in the rain at two ams in between
****** acts and neon sunsets.

Suffuse me with yourself
Like the reflected sunrise steeps the trembling drop of water struggling not to slide off its leaf.
Like swirls of amber-tinged tea spiralling out to fully claim the warmth of the cup.

I think as we press together how mostly we are space
How easy it would be to interweave our infinite vibrating tiny particles:
Little bits of you slipping between the little bits of me
completing what we hadn't known was incomplete.
A tapestry of shivering flesh.
Seamless as we share breath.

The sun sets,
the droplet shivers on the leaf, lays still.
Rests.

To render strings of scenes from your head
into words on paper
that another person could read in order
to recreate the voice of someone unmet,
and at the same time be presented beautifully and clearly;
to choose the right words making the right phrases
making the right sentences making the right paragraphs
making the right chapters, and to have these chapters
interweave into a cohesive story that manages to
fulfil the reader and make him feel
joy, sorrow, despair, or hope;
is insanely meticulous,
and inanely ridiculous.

And to come up with characters
that need to feel alive:
to have to be so many people at once,
each with their own dreams, wants,
thoughts, feelings, identities,
and treasured memories,
how can one not explode?
How can a mind not erode?

And of all the hobbies, passions or pastimes
a human being can engage in—
from juggling chainsaws on a tightrope
to playing the piano while  painting yourself playing the piano
to sculpting a hypercubic klein bottle,
nothing is as delicately difficult
as juggling a thousand possibilities of plot
on a swinging tightrope of self-doubt
while playing the instrument of your vocabulary
to paint a scene revealing itself magically
all the while sculpting an entire universe(!)
piece by piece from the flesh and bone of your own
pregnant imagination.

Who, then, but only the most idiotic,
brave, ambitious, and diabolic self-haters and self-lovers
would write a book?
It's a noble task, to be sure,
for without its fair dose of literature,
mankind would crumble and un-create
back to the unthinking, unfeeling dirt from which it is made.

Impulsive drones, these machos you have flimflammed,

Wolfing your proportionality like a **** brewed nectar of grapes,

When flimsy limb frills no more interweave, expertise reprogrammed,

Are you the lone from infinite frames murmuring, “once more, he escapes”?

Indignation ******* broadcasted, ferocity wrought into the fiber,

Prior, where narcissistic pathway architecture once lodged aloft,

Calloused acknowledgement of her duffel, abrupt pang, necessity for a prescriber,

My mettle is feeble of the soap opera, hanging one’s topper in my breath, I coughed,

The cauldron perpetually gurgling with spume, mingling itself,

Gyrating with giddiness as if my noggin was a top trinket,

No dust crumbs in any bustle ever jubilated atop my pit-a-patting instrument’s

Masses are anticipating for my enveloping blanket,

I perhaps beam till the cattle wham the timepiece, though seldom do I chuckle,

Shall journey with the ensuing waft, no comma for a buckle.

My alliteration is alienating my appetite and i just might atrophy on sight if my rhymes cant interweave to achieve some insight as to why the **** i even try every night.

Such is the life of a write.

In the changing fortune of time,
heartbeats expand and wisdom follows.
Spiraling sweet air
becomes infused with song.

Deep inhale circulates
Eyes become fixated on light.
Energies interweave with moments
golden platter of food placed before awaken one.

And faith carries
as to move forward inside love
and compassion.

Time awakens the sleeping souls,
as sands of hour glass drift
upon oceans beach.

Now mind becomes reborn in thoughts
releasing dark rubble to make expansive pathways
filled with miracles and harmony in new day.

With wealth of time
clouds dissipate
gifting the walker who stands grounded
in steps.

Aho to gift of life.
Aho to those who led the way.

we as poets,
are like birds....
in the sky.
soaring against,
the backdrop of
nature's grandeur

while aloft, we espy,
beauty and sorrow
and all the stuff....
that living life makes,
and falls forgotten,
in-between the cracks,
of just.... being.

from which,
we as poets,
glean .....
words and phrases,
that cause us to,
ponder, wonder
and cogitate.

those whispers of love.
sighing, breaths and sorrows
thoughts of futures blest,
of now, i am impressed
and yester's hollow,
and yet to be put to rest.

and bring them home,
with loving care,
to nidificate....
to interweave what we
see, hear and feel... & know
into the nesting chamber
for our wordlove....
                       for our poem

The Moon is bright tonight,
I have a thousand sheep to count

You're on my mind, you're in my head
The last thought that lingers above my bed

As I breathe, as I pray, as I sleep, as I dream
With gentle steps, you'll interweave
your being into my subconscious

You've been here for a while
a few years you've claimed your place
The lines around your mouth when there's a smile upon your face

Can we dance beneath the stars tonight
and whisper of the Divine?
And when you've left, I'll write poems of how you were once mine

When I walk I'll remember, the silences, the glances
secret clasped fingers held beneath tabletops and hours hours hours
those long dark days of discovery and shared moments were ours

These days are ours for the taking.

My lover’s hair is caught up in the wind’s path
And begins to interweave.
The breeze is caught up in each strand
And begs desperately not to leave.

Oh, I love you, honey,
your sweet nectar voice.
The way you ensnare me
with empty words,
and interweave me,
with warm suffocation.
You are venomous,
and I am dying,
but why does it feel
so much like paradise?
— Y.H.

Moribund,
gentle fervor.

Wires criss cross,
electricity enclosed,
never touch, fencing in,
the sky, the clouds, and where birds alight and touch,
Branches interweave and lace, oxygenation exposed,
roots bury deep,
as the shallow earth is
a deep canvas,
always waiting on the painter of the Light.


From the sky to the dirt tinted ground,
winged fowl to the rodents who bound,
or scurry, as coyotes celebrate a ****, calling
the moon to break the clouds like bread,
with two unseen hands that reach down.



The oceans sounds are the cars that roll
by and the air crests and curls landing
against the beaches made of trees and
hedges, and sitting listening still is the wind
wanting a turn to play coyote and howl, showing teeth
wanting a turn to play rodent tossing bushes about,
wanting to play birds that dance and dance aloft below the clouds while diving to feed off of the heat of the Day, to rise way above to see the pastoral patchwork, Earth below.

What exactly is the sound of a heart breaking?
Is it the careless mention of a name in casual conversation?
Is it the way little moments of agony interweave in to the day?
Moments that really only last a few sudden seconds
but feel like little pin ****** in a soul.
Is it the way a smile will never quite reach the eyes again?
Is it the way seeing a couple laugh and embrace
only further illuminates the loneliness carried inside.
Or is it the sweet sound of someone's first kiss
That makes a chest tighten and a pulse race.
Because sometimes love witnessed is love remembered.
And sometimes remembering is too much.
What is the sound of a heart trying to feel again?
Is it the desperate craving for the softest touch?
Or rapid hot electric rush when deep inside someone?
Is it embracing the pain each and every night?
Waiting for the day where the numbness wins out.
Is it burning the mind with every single sad melody made?
Like a poisoned man searching frantically for a cure.
Or is it the slow realization this is never really over.
It never really goes away.
Hiding all this hurt just gets a little easier.
Until it just doesn't get mentioned.
Just a dark corner in a darker heart.
The emptiness just becomes a little less...empty.
The days become lighter and longer.
The nights not quite as crushing and ceaseless.
Almost like it never even happened at all.
Then the cracks give way and scar over.
What then, is the sound of a heart falling in love?
Is it letting the color seep back in to the world?
Is it the slow deep breaths shared in the night?
Or the feeling thrumming in every cell of the skin?
Is it the crash of a kiss?
The pressure of arms around arms?
Or is it the miracle of everything being new again?
The sound of a heart breaking is simple.
It's the sound of a heart learning to live again.

There is beauty in the clouds that fly by
There is hope in the poor mans eye
There is mystery in the sky
Because you placed it there

You sewed the night together
And set it apart from the day
You knit the land
To interweave with the waves
Being pulled by the moon you set in the sky
Being questioned by the gleam you put in the toddlers eye
You created curiosity
So we could search
And made a masterpiece
So we could find you, the maker of the stars
You are magnificent
In your grand splendor

There is now hope in my life
There is now light in my blinding night
There is now a sun in my clear sky
Because you placed it there

I often find myself dealing with small things, it's gone down so deep in me that I see them as a whole form of priorities. Has it always been a mistake doing the things that I genuinely feel isn't a mistake? How do I be myself if I feel so, so wrong after every single time I decide on doing the things that I want to do? You know just sometimes, just sometimes it feels good being me. But half the time it just feels like, I'm being a **** towards myself. How do I feel right after doing something that I want to do? What are these things, seriously. There's just so much to juggle, too much to learn. I feel like there's just nothing more that I should ever speak of, there's just nothing more that I should ever feel, and there's just so many things that I can't touch. There's just no point being poetic over all of these petty matters because they will just eventually weigh down heavier and heavier every single time you try to interweave your thoughts with your emotions and craft them on a piece of paper, then using your pen to manipulate words that would just eventually drift you away from your driving point.

Just let me be. I don't wanna stop taking drags from my burning cigarette, it's the only way I get to feel that what's wanted and needed to be said is less important. I wanna let the huge dose of reality flow through my veins and feel like all I can ever remember saying was "it hurts". Point is to not remember what happened, but to just feel that it's done.