"leavened" poems
After reading about some tribal warfare in a far away land, I wrote this true story down. Now re-published every year on this day. Seems more appropriate than ever
one July 4th,
many years ago
walking the streets,
of the city of Nice,
situe on the Cote D'azur of France,
on the Mediterranean Sea,
where ships of navies
may safely park their sailors,
sending them ashore for R&R,^
they, leavened to disembark^^
how I came to be there is a
poem for another time
walking the streets,
palm tree resort,
along La Promenade Des Anglais,
coming at me,
Three Sailors,
unmistakably
American
one white,
one black,
one brown from California,
which I believe,
is still part of the USA
how we fell upon each other
in warm embrace,
smiling, bestowing
blessings of grace
not as strangers,
but as fellow signatories
on the Declaration of Independence
brothers,
long lost, reunited,
as if it had been many years,
since we last had our arms entwined,
one family from one far away united place
dialectical differences ignored,
even the wide-eyed 'Bama boy,
totally comprehensible, for on that say,
we spoke a language that
encompassed a single brotherhood,
a common histoire,
all on that
holy day
no tribes in America, no colors,
no religions,
only sisters and brothers-in-arms
I need not choose to believe,
for it is certainty guaranteed,
that should it happen again
twenty years hence,
perhaps with their great grandsons,
my embrace will,
exactly the same be,
for I know it true,
there are
no tribes
in an*
American heart
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 4:40 PM UTC
These berries are bruises
Fading birthmarks I have still
Fresh from that morning you opened my curtains
Rolled down your window
Promised me honey and a candy-colored life.
These berries are bruises
You made me breakfast in bed.
Too early you lifted my tent,
brought a full spread:
Fruit, toast and black coffee--
But when I tilted my lips
You drunk first of my womanly cup.
Pouring out hot, bitter slick
My lips swelled blue blister
I stiffened under your dead weight,
I killed my tongue.
I tried to keep dreaming of
Hands to knead me
And butter the softness of these
Blueberry scone hips,
But instead you picked all the berries out
Your greed a mouthful,
The growing woman inside me leavened--
Watching you stain my girlhood,
Popping one fruit bead after another
******* the seeds from my teeth.
Jan 31, 2012
Jan 31, 2012 at 2:25 AM UTC
I walk alone, out in the vastness
of space, heavens vaults, darkness
leavened by the brilliance of
unknown galaxies, and the far off
light of distant stars.
I am alone. lost in this eternal
field, of dark and light, black
and white, and all between,
shining, eternal light, to shine
forever, and bathe heaven, radiant,
in its undying light.
I wander, lost. Am I a spirit,
to wander so, sad and lonely,
cut off from the roiling, chaotic,
masses of humanity, and set to
wander, adrift in a brilliant sea,
vivid colors clashing always,
with the ever present void of
infinity?
But why, if I am here, are not others?
Where are they? Is space so vast, am
I to wander endlessly, lost in the void of
eternity, to be at last at peace, but to have
none others to share it with, none to join me
in my wanderings, none to acompany me
in my eternal journey, none to make it "our"
instead?
And what of Katerina? What of her? Is she here
wandering also, lost and alone even as I am,
enduring the silence of space, alone unto eternity
and beyond?
Or is she some other place, doomed to
eternal pain, locked away, to scream
unheard, save by her tormentor, some
thing of darkness, created from
the blackness of infinity, immortal,
set to guard the way to heavens bliss
the angels dying, falling?
Or is this all, this vast infinity, souls
doomed to wander forever, never
meeting, never crossing, alone
in solitude, forever and for all
the infinite centuries of eternity,
alone?
I wander here, lost for countless
years, stars vanish in heat and
light, whilst I wander, spirit
cast off, set adrift to wander,
centuries come and go,
while I stop to listen for
some imagined sound,
some human voice,
heard but unheard,
the darkness eats my mind,
while light replaces it,
with thoughts of
eternity, solitude and
bliss, together forever,
I and eternity, set to tread
alone through space, from now
until the end of Time.
I am alone, and I wonder,
perhaps, I am not
alone, perhaps I do not wander,
but instead set my feet to the path
appointed me. For perhaps those
stars were not always stars,
those nebulae not always so,
gaseous and vast, but instead were
souls like me, journeying only
to meet their ends as light and
gas and rocky spheres?
Perhaps, I shall know,
perhaps I shall see,
later amidst eternity.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
Another Mature October arrives
And your Frog takes to the Pool once again
Showing that Bronze Moment on endives
That same Monument inspired by then
Now, how is she? Healed after that long wait,
Eager to join your leavened momentry
Her hands, clasped, in Solemn Prayer ascend
Hoping your Form connects respectfully
Yet this the Replacement your Father left,
A Prospect extend to your Future Seed
Will test your Patience; Unless by one's Theft
Takes her Bounty more than what you will Need.
You knew all these; Yet to blindfold your eyes
Whilst high on the Board; A Truth or a Lie.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
Himself, in a crying shame
Spoil me with a door, a fury too overt...
Excuse a jaded court, mellifluent by name?
A rosey future, a mission to earn the word...?
Worlds to weigh, a happier conscience
Ruses and voiced rage, particular to winds
Of times trying, the boot of legends
With the turn of somewhere simple into lent minds...
Fists in the air, a fight will remember remorse...
Sides of same and days rue, to collect a heaven
Is such a fickle repose, the dawn of a new force?
Worth one spare moment, to tell the difference as leavened
Throw after throw - to tell a characters tale
With the gaunt terror of risen voices and deeds
That calmly collected a house, that secluded with what will
A house of reaches of tomorrow, has the sense of entirety of needs...?
A piece of cake, a dread to eat it...
There in an uncertain stare, with a rolling hiccough
The total of vice to share, the challenge of a chosen wit
That has seen the truth, a course to new causes that knew the tough
For a new land, the barriers of meagerness's echo
To a chastity in round eyes, and the curiosity of a waiting hour
Let with the light of opportunity, in these steps we hold
A mind at bay, that knew one thing more than patience, a salt so sour...
Apr 28, 2023
Apr 28, 2023 at 8:14 PM UTC
Blow, Lyceum grasses, blow,
From coiled lips of your wolf-god Apollo
Whose dawn-padded paws to starprints roam
This temple-tribute to thought-illumined roads.
Blow, Lyceum grasses, blow
Of wave upon wave of your brushings-by,
From staff to sandal-fall to cloak hemline,
For rhapsodes, your song-odyssey to sew.
The Greeks built the sun,
Upon scaffolding~acrobaticon~
With pear-skinned lightness to glow,
Or like leavened bread from the woodburning stove.
Blow, Lyceum grasses, blow,
The sun lies old on its famine-cracked pillow,
In spittle of gold and yellowed phosphorous,
With the gods past-blown to ruin.
May 25, 2019
May 25, 2019 at 11:00 PM UTC
One?
Done
Fun?
None
One
If two?
Pass through
Will do
And you?
That's two
How bout three?
Shall we see?
Bit more free
Works for me
So says three
Can we try four?
It gives us more
Not such a bore
Crack wide that door
Lead us on, four
Would we dare do five?
Tis too high to strive?
I do love this jive
Let's stop while still live
Safe with lines of five
But hear the cry of six
It tempts as time still ticks
It's not just a quick fix
But adds to this great mix
Yes, hear that call of six
Rules change as we reach seven
Words lengthen, stretch to heaven
Lines rise like bread so leavened
The changes wrought by seven
Hard as the end draws near with eight
Liked this before, now's not so great
Long lines I don't appreciate
Thanks for nothing, unruly eight
Entering the danger zone with nine
Meaning gets lost by end of the line
Despite the trouble, guess we'll be fine
Phew, we just made it through there with nine
And finally we arrive here to ten
What an intriguing journey this has been
I'm so relieved now to be at the end
So long, good night, let's sign off now with ten
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 12:20 AM UTC
12:53am, January 3,2025
New York City
<>
*A Traveler notates these words to my attention, but only because I make myself
a convenient target, for truthfully,
it is addressed to one and all,
to the royalty of:*
We,
*who speake out loud, to all those who ***** these damp woods full of wet words, that spring up overnight, ripe for the plucking, there for the taking, an exacting where & when they did not even exist
the twenty four prior*
These purloined overnight creatures are
white and black
*lettered truffles, like the pages on which we inscribe, the letters raw, exquisitely tasty, shaved, measured in grams, but only when shared with others, in the privacy of our open minds, after being spooned from within us with exquisite care upon the pages that decorate our lives, sprinkled
with great care and cunning*…
*but when consumed, our five senses rage with aromatic pleasured pain, for these letters, so tiny, so powerful, grow only when
combinatory, individual bitty granules,
but when leavened, they enhance, provoke!,
they sauce, the*
flavors of the ordinary
*of our experiences,
creating the extraordinary
when interacting upon
our five robust senses*
*for without the spaces of delineation,
our jumbled words are but the
random jingle jangle of the sounds
of night winds, rustling a tune
pleasant but incomprehensible*
*Here I take your leave,
with the liberty taken
for speaking in all our names
to a Traveler
who so succinctly captures our work,
the glue of our interactive Us,
Our,*
Collective of Individuality
Jan 8, 2025
Jan 8, 2025 at 9:20 AM UTC
There are no tribes in America
after reading about some tribal warfare in a far away land,
I wrote this true story down....
~~~~~~~~~
one July 4th,
many years ago
walking the streets,
of the city of Nice, situe
on the Cote D'azur of France,
on the Mediterranean Sea,
where ships of navies
may safely park,
sailors ashore
leavened to
disembark^
how I came to be there is a
poem for another time
walking the streets,
of the palm tree resort
along Le Promenade Des Anglais,
coming at me,
Three Sailors,
unmistakably
American
One white,
One black,
One from California,
which I believe,
is still part of the USA
how we fell upon each other
in warm embrace,
smiling, bestowing
blessings of grace
not as strangers,
but as fellow signatories
on the Declaration of Independence
brothers,
long lost, reunited
as if it had been many years,
since we had our arms entwined,
one family from one far away united place
dialectical differences ignored,
even the wide-eyed 'Bama boy,
totally comprehensible,
for on that say,
we spoke a language that
encompassed a single brotherhood,
a common history,
all on that
holy day
no tribes in America, no colors,
no religions,
only brothers-in-arms
I need not choose to believe
that should it happen again
ten years hence,
perhaps with their grandsons,
my embrace will exactly
the same be,
for I know it true,
for there are
no tribes
in an
American heart.
^disembarked to be leavened....either works
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC
His words were leavened with love
as He shared His last mortal meal.
If you listened with care
His voice maybe cracked with grief
even while His hands were laced with grace
as He broke the crust
releasing the warmth into the chatter
He shared with His friends.
And if you watched closely
His hands perhaps shook a little
as He poured out His full bodied wine
intense in its dark flavour
infused with fragrance
as if ripe for an altared offering.
And if you looked into His face
you might have seen a sheen
in the firelight
over the determination
to see this through
to the last.
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 2:02 PM UTC
When these summer squalls have subsided,
I will reap the kernels of my discontent.
bushel by bushel,
I will harvest my wistful fields
until they are barren of want, and come fall,
I will take my troubles to the mill.
lined-up and counted,
I will bake them in the sun,
and when they are dry,
I will grind them with a stone salvation.
under a December sky,
I will bleach them with a mild amnesia
so they are as white and soft as springtime snow.
Then, baker befriended these kneaded woes will rise--and this time,
I will feast on the bread of my shortcomings.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 5:31 PM UTC
(the poem, the story intends to reveal,
or vice versa, the story I'm told is very old)
Seven silent days of shiva, sort of premature,
sitting with one called their friend,
our friend, as we watch, from now
from here
we know the daysman,
we observers in mind,
flies on sores, flies on walls, we can use their eyes
we can pity the comforters and the comfortless moan,
Come into my comfort zone, cries Job. What comfort?
Why me?
was answered,
Job looks our way and winks, an a side,
I invited the daysman, he says,
but only ere knowing God almighty
knows,
and the accuser of man,
whom mine symbolizes,
knows not,
how it is to be a mortal man,
wombed or un.
Would God there were a daysman betwixt us.
I said, unaware,
completely of any good news on its way my way
I coulda said nothing, had I known
Would God there were a daysman betwixt us.
I said, I thought,
So I can
wonder whys and hows, ask where truth abides in what men have
imagined, what drew the sweetness, what drew pain,
is luck a factor? Sacred making, did we get that wrong?
Seems is as it seems to be, here.
This is not afterlife, this is life, today.
This day's daysman twixt truth and lie,
in the meta game, he is neither
archaic warden of loafing warrior's watchtower,
or miller minding the grinding, seeing
all who labor,
they shall eat.
Who legislates tradition? Meek or mighty?
******* speaks: ax Moses.
Fair, that's fair. Meekest man God knew,
some of his works
could be cut and paste, that's fine,
he wrote the rules in his day.
He can be the referee, the daysman in this game.
A mediator for fools who only ever knew lies.
A man who once was a speechless babe.
A referee who makes the rules? Jesus, can we cheat?
This is leaven? We loosed leaven? Jo-bob, we didit!
Jesus H. Christ! The bomb.
Once enacted the package never stops,
as long as there is that which can be leavened,
it shall be leavened.
The Kingdom of Heaven is like that.
===
No, life isn't fair. The good guys won the metagame,
quite a while ago.
But, if you ain't in the game, you wouldn't agree.
Time will tell. What the hell, wait and see.
Merry Christmas.
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 9:12 PM UTC
The breeze is forceful, but not stiff,
it is the tropical storm's long lasting,
Arthur's lingering kiss goodbye,
(like the ones taken and given at airports and train stations,
volatile, wild passionate)
the breeze is anything but stiff,
it flexes, gusts, whipping sleeves,
coffee coolant excellent
the waves are rollicking,
revealing their white underwear,
but wise sailors say no thanks,
the bay pure, no vessels surface contaminant this morning
the sun apologizes for its yesterday absence,
claiming the aquifer cried out very thirsty,
so it took July Fourth off,
but now the water table rising,
the sand colored soil dark, rich, wet,
the grass cleaner, greener,
but the lawn, branch littered,
the wounded of the weather wars
the sun, a bit embarrased by his absence,
waits patiently for that odd fellow
by that dock, in that chair solitary,
to do his best poetic explanation well enough,
so that all summer rainy days will be
past and future forgiven
and the odd fellow taps and tends
to the living crowd surrounding him once again,
recalling he once wrote of leaves frothy waving
like cappuccino foam, and was that not
years ago and how could that be?
though the atmosphere is modest agitated,
the poets heart now, leavened and levitated,
for rain must have its due day,
purposeful, somber, serious, endless repeating,
(some say cleansing, but not he)
laughing at himself,
outdoors he writes
differently,
lighter than air, crafting careful
a single sonnet of suntan lotion odors,
and natural songs of bass drums in ear thrum,
and one thought alone,
criss crosses repeatedly,
yes, that one,
"wish you were here"
and he goes inside to get fresh coffee,
greet the woman sweaty fresh from yoga.
she delayed, the ferry captains paying obeisance
to the self same breeze,
but the seagull observer,
stands in place of the odd fellow's guard and watch,
during his temporary absence,
bulkhead posted, cawing in his stead and on his stand,
in seagullese,
which the poet speaks oh so well,
mantra chanting the poets
and the breeze's refrain too,
wish you were here
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 10:39 AM UTC
i went back through
my old pieces
and it all became so
bleached,
white sugar, white rice,
skim milk, I used to be
so rich, cream, honey
oak sap,
I wrote and it felt
natural, saw in
words and coffee
hues, tastes and
teaspoons clinking
bowls rolling, counters
covered in flour
batter running into the
sink and onto my
feet, i could bake
bread on my palms
leavened and without
yeast
i wrote like everything
was alive because it was
because it is
because I am.
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 2:14 PM UTC
It was a yellow Corvair convertible
Ralph Nader's bogey
our pot-fueled chariot
our escape into the night sky.
We were strewn across a grassy slope as if fallen from above
stars thick in the sky
still visible in those days
Page Mill Road
south of the City.
And all of the vanities
and honesties of brilliant youth
slouched about our shoulders
lit our speech
moved our *****
in the direction our fates intended.
It was freedom. It was
escape. It was a foreshadowing
of much trouble
pre-dawn knocks on the door
handcuffs and the tearful call
home.
And a life leavened by sadness,
a constant sense of doom,
but a foreshadowing as well
of miracles dressed in second-hand
clothes,
but miracles just the same.
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 6:43 PM UTC
There are no tribes in America. This is my annual reposting of my July 4th poem, written years ago. After reading about some tribal warfare in a far away land, I wrote this true story down....
~~~~~~~~~
one July 4th,
many years ago
walking the streets,
of the city of Nice, situe
on the Cote D'azur of France,
on the Mediterranean Sea,
where ships of navies
may safely park,
sailors ashore
leavened to
disembark^
how I came to be there is a
poem for another time
walking the streets,
of the palm tree resort
along Le Promenade Des Anglais,
coming at me,
Three Sailors,
unmistakably
American
One white,
One black,
One from California,
which I believe,
is still part of the USA
how we fell upon each other
in warm embrace,
smiling, bestowing
blessings of grace
not as strangers,
but as fellow signatories
on the Declaration of Independence
brothers,
long lost, reunited
as if it had been many years,
since we had our arms entwined,
one family from one far away united place
dialectical differences ignored,
even the wide-eyed 'Bama boy,
totally comprehensible,
for on that say,
we spoke a language that
encompassed a single brotherhood,
a common history,
all on that
holy day
no tribes in America, no colors,
no religions,
only brothers-in-arms
I need not choose to believe
that should it happen again
twenty years hence,
perhaps with their sons,
my embrace will exactly
the same be,
for I know it true,
for there are
no tribes
in an
American heart.
^disembarked to be leavened....either works
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 2:45 PM UTC
This Eminent Night paste your Birthday Bed
And once beyond the Lines did Celebrate
Which soon enough most Leavened Hands instead
Cry for your Return-on-Turnips belate
Yet come these Savours invite your Prunes wash
As far-fetched Dames sowed Yeast to spice their Grin
Hoping to raise each their Best Flavours cast
All the whilst One already placed therein
Which in her Form - her Greatest Gift offer -
Of her Warmth wrapped your Little Man hugs neat
And in her Jump - Nerves blew your Mind asunder,
Back-and-Forth rub this Hour's Hormones repeat.
Still the Candles blew; Ignored the Musky Air
Which both Cherries broke; As Predicted there.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
Wishbone
Holding things down
on my end, calibration
the name of the game
purchase gained and lost
longing for your exquisite
exertions palpable
the length of this delicate glyph
grace and menace
in equal measure
on display across the bight
floored by your gaze
play of three fingers against
your effortless pinch
my feigned contortions
leavened by a finning
hand to ward off
the snap of lesser wishes.
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 7:43 AM UTC
I begged you once to eat the leavened earth
which aged and became green by violence
You needed to be full and satisfied
discovering that my stomach had dried
which made you remember the excitement of life
One morning in the stems of aquatic ash plumes
that were rising and shuffling to create
a theater of artificial night, the arm of
the high sea hemorrhaged and
buried skeleton eras
We devoured the earth for love and still the Lord’s blue voice
was fathered like dust in light which we could
see only because of the Sun
Slowly ending
Your long fever blew the ash sickness
away and I wept watching
your perfect body disappear
into the shade of the bleeding, green forest
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 3:07 AM UTC
The last of the bread bakes silently in the oven,
as feelings stir warmly inside my heart
The smell and the aroma, an invitation to greatness,
as the temperature rises—announcing I’m done
Loaves cook in the silence of a sweeter deliverance,
letters rising as words, their meaning devours
The invitations to the meal have all been sent out,
and responded to
The cook may go home, the feast now leavened,
has begun
(Telluride Colorado: 10:00 p.m. Sheridan Hotel, May, 1996, rewritten August, 2011)
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 10:34 AM UTC
I'm the same as I've ever been. I'm a sun burnt sky.
A delirious sullen home sick guy
Sent to read red writing on rocks.
Rocks left by leavened men and heaven sent women
leavened mashed locks of hair and ever green stalks.
Sticking into places.
Shaved half frowned faces.
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 4:25 PM UTC
had no quarrel with the sun
have no bitter bread leavened at the worlds hearth
no trail of blood and bone
no stone flung at heavens hoping to dislodge
for whispered prayer's unanswered
sitting on the high contraption
while the last rays of parting sunlight wane
balanced on the winds whim along thin wire
of my own circumstances making
i seek within myself once again
pour over memories careworn with years
find solace in the cold comforts
of warm embraces engraved in the heart
that i have known such things
that such matters to me as some it dose not
is comfort after all
that i have been loved
and am able to love
there is hope yet
i have no quarrel's with sun or moon
dark is lights difficult lover
they bicker over the dawn
and surrender to eachother as dusk settles
find solace where you may
i seek the sun
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 6:54 PM UTC
I belong to the Church of Goethe,
where on the sabbath we
remove our nitrile gloves
and ****** up our means and trends and hypothesis
to rinse them with metaphor.
coming always hungry, we feast on leavened conclusions
and look to the sky through many a lens--
having traded brushes for pens, pens for brushes
to paint and compute a new sort of hymn
and not in unison, but in harmony
sing: this is religion.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 9:12 PM UTC
Experienced bakers bake bread.
It has been rising
In the cold
For days
Leavened
By an ancient sour dough
Now it has come out
They have formed it
A tough process
Tedious work and foul smells
But they know
That the outcome will be
Worth it.
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 6:43 AM UTC
Mark how, with alien glow--
an imposing form proclaims your
ecstasy, mark!
This monolith of first blushes.
Circuited by a spirit on leave...contours
of seeped salt lit by their sweet burrow.
Ground firmed, with every step the fall
of the world--whose rise only knows
successive steps.
Fast upon heels...keeled over--glistening
with anointment...mark how!
This overarching winter--of co conspirators
in the dead of...who bank and blow
blood till blue in the face.
Their skulls slated to sleep through, as white alms bowls--
yet they contrive...bite you upon both hands,
with the crumpled features of the face you empower.
You are the bell's curfew, a sound more
ancient than rite...where hearers come out
of their skin.
You leave peace to itself...to your quadrant
gape--lest to see what may, or may not configure.
Knowing what endeavors to stain--will belabor
to dissolve as that stain.
How like grape to wine--how like wine to oblivion...
to sodden a leavened sky.
With the care of a flower--never petulant in its exorbitant
youth, cut and set down...one for every step circuiting
this monolith.
These shocked straits of limbs, overrun with sourceless
current...flow onward, onward, onward--by command!
One miraculous, an continuous deference to that
command...seeking out what shall sate the need to do.
What is it to be content with what thou art...is it to forgo,
do what thou wilt?
Retain thy image...do not cast what thou were cast in the
image of...a voice says.
Who hears--as command is voiced, both command and
commanded hear, here.
Unmoved mover--Monolith...dispassionate salve to daily
death, circuited by spirit.
Till blindness, deafness fully informed of stone--alien with
glow...marked how!!!
Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 12:50 AM UTC