"libris" poems
Thank you Galileo for tilting up at their sky,
as the bull, crab, and ****** sent caution from thought
to the flat dirt umbrelled by musing why,
''or a fire of stone from an old hellish plot''
Sinners will crumble like a drum to a wall.
Glints of knife scratches shall drop from their clouds,
while Libris will beckon to the vowels of the tall.
Your protest shall quiver to madness aloud.
Plighted in brick, left to whince to your game,
the branders, hatassers preach love and then die,
but the truth of their lie only whispers exclaim.
Thank you Galileo for releasing this sky.
Apr 7, 2010
Apr 7, 2010 at 7:58 AM UTC
ex libris,
from the library
of my vocabulary,
draw a slender text,
old, yet untitled,
needy for a birthright,
transforming unlined, unwritten,
into a flesh and bloodied word concoction
there are many similar such,
empty volumes,
on my mental bookshelves,
literary clocks that
have yet to commence ticking
from floor to ceiling,
from soles to mind sight,
their patience untested
this book, these words,
are ex-me!
for they are a
welcoming,
a thank you note,
a hello,
all of which can only be extant
if in the mind of a receiver
*as I compose, I own,
as I post, I disown*
they are more than shared,
more than gifted,
they are ex libris:
briefly my own,
but now wholly yours...
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 11:48 AM UTC
Gilgal Oasis
Green Sand
Of an Unseen Tribe
Water
en Circled Life
Lyons Gateway
Love's Meandering Rose
A Woman... ISher
White
A Lions White
Titanium Mystery
Unspoken Infinity
Dark Rose of
FAITH
Turning, Listening Smile
She Met My Gaze
Power Greeting Peace
Felt
All of It
Ruben
Red Coloring
For a Rose
Ex Libris
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 2:33 PM UTC
What’s the purpose of it all
It’s only raining dust and grit.
The sky is weeping spatter
And the only sidewalk is
On the far side of the street.
They shined up Highway 95
But out front here is nothing
But deep breaches in the tarmac
And anything that doesn’t hurt
Me manages to itch.
All the good stuff is locked up
In upstairs rooms down endless halls
Where something has been splashed
Across the carpeting
And the door is always padlocked.
The book inside is second handed
And it’s marked up in random places
That don’t align with what
The index says should be there
And the Ex Libris page is missing.
The day is pecking at its shell
Of hopelessness and need
In hopes of gaining freedom.
The prayer wheel is no longer spinning
And the crimson candle has gone out.
There are reasons for it all
It’s written up in Sanskrit ink
And plastered on the backyard wall
That keeps it all inside or out
And I’m stuck in the middle.
ljm
Mar 15, 2024
Mar 15, 2024 at 9:48 AM UTC