1.

From our
safe windows,
we crane our necks,
rubbernecking
past the slow
motion wreckage
unfolding in Homs.

We remain
perfectly
perched
to marvel at
the elegant arc of
a mortar shell
framing tomorrows
deep horizon,
whistling through
the twilight to
find its fruitful
mark.

In the now
we keep
complicit time,
to the arrest
of beating hearts,
snapping fingers
to the pop
of rifle cracks,
swooning to
the delicious
intoxication of
curling smoke
lofting ever
upward;
yet
thankfully
remain
distant
enough to
recuse any
possibility
of an
intimate
nexus
with the
besieged.

2.

From our
safe windows,
we behold the
urgent arrivals of
The Friends of Syria
demanding
clean sheets
and 4 Star
room service at a
Tunisian Palace
recently cleaned
and under new
management
promising a
much needed
refurbishment.

The gathered,
a clique of
this epochs
movers and shakers,
a veritable
rouges gallery of
ambassadorial
prelates, Emirs and
state department
bureaucrats
summoned
with portfolio
from the
darkest corners
of the globe.

They are
eager to
sanctify
the misery
of Homs,
deflect and
lay blame
with realpolitik
rationalizations,
commencing
official commissions
of inquiry,
deliberating
grave considerations,
issuing indictments
of formal charges for
Crimes Against
Humanity
while
remaining
urgently
engrossed
in the fascination
of interviewing
potential
process servers
to deliver the bad news
to Bashar al-Assad
and his soulless
Baathist
confederates,
if papers
are to be
served.

Yes, the diplomats
are busy meeting
in closed rooms.

In hushed circles
they whisper
into aroused ears,
railing against
Russia’s
gun running
intransigence
and China’s
geopolitical
chess moves.

Statesmen
boast of the
intrepid justice
of tipping points
and the moving poetry
of self serving tales,
weighing the impact
of stern sanctions
amidst the historical
confusion of the
asymmetrical
symmetries
of civil war.

Caravans
of Arab League
envoys roll up
in silver Bentleys,
crossing deserts
of contradictory
obfuscations,
navigating the
endless dunes
with hand held
sextants of
hidden agendas.

The heroic
Bedouins are
eager to offload
their baggage
and share
on the ground
intelligence from
their recent soirées
across Syria.

They beg
a quick fix,
the triage of a
critical catharsis
to bleed their
brains dry
of heinous
recollections,
pleading
release from a
troubled conscience
victimized by
the unnerving paradox
of reconciling
discoveries of
perverse voyeurism
with the sanctioned
explanations
of their respective
ruling elites.

The bellies
of these
scopophiliacs
are distended;
grown queasy
from a steady diet
of malfeasance
an ulcerated
world parades
in continuous loop;
spewing the raw feeds
of real time misery;
forcibly fed
the grim
visions of
frantic
fathers
rushing
the mangled
carcases
of mortally
wounded
children
to crumpled
piles of smashed
concrete that were
once hospitals.

We despondently
ask how
much longer
must we
look into
the eyes
of starving
children
emaciated from
the wanton
indifference
of the world?


3.

From our
safe windows
we wonder
how much
longer can
the urgent
burning
ambivalence
continue
before it
consumes
our common
humanity in
a final
conflagration?

My hair already
singed by the
endless firestorms
sweeping the prairies
of the world.

How can we survive
the trampling hoards,
the marauding
plagues of acrimony
fed by a voracious
blood lust aspiring to
victimize the people
of Homs and a
thousand cities
like it?


4.

From my safe
window I stand in witness
to the state execution of
refugees fleeing the
living nightmare
of Baba Amr.

The ****** of innocents,
today's newly minted martyrs,
women and children
cornered, trapped
on treacherous roads,
mercilessly
slaughtered and
defiled in death
to mark the lesson
of a ruthless master
enthralled with the
power of his
sadistic fascist
lordship.

I cannot avert my eyes
marking sights
of pleading women
begging for the
lives of their children
in exchange for
the gratification
of a sadists
lust.

My heart
is impaled
on the sharp
spear of
outrage
beholding
careening
children mowed
down with the
serrated blades
protruding
from marauding
jeeps of laughing
soldiers.

I drop
to my knees
in lakes of
tears
reflecting
a grotesque
horror stricken
image of myself.

My eyes have
murdered my soul.

The ghastly images
of Homs have chased
away my Holy Ghost
to the safety of a child's
sandbox hidden away
in a long forgotten
revered memory.


5.

From my safe window
I seethe with anger
demanding vengeance,
debating how to rise
to meet the obscenity of
the Butcher of Damascus.

The sword of Damocles
dangles so tantalizingly close
to this tyrants throat.  

The covered women
of Homs scream prayers
“may Allah bring Bashar to ruin”

Dare I pray
that Allah trip the
horsehair trigger
that holds the
sword at bay?

Do I pick up
the sword
a wield it
as an
avenging
angel?

Am I the
John Brown
of our time?

Do I organize
a Lincoln Brigade
and join the growing
leagues of jihadists
amassing at the
Gates of Damascus?

Will my righteous
indignation fit well
in a confederacy
with Hamas and
al-Qaeda as my
comrades in arms?

Do I succumb to
the passion of hate
and become just
another murderous
partisan, or do I
commend the power
of love and marshal
truth to speak with
the force of
satyagraha?

I lift a fervent prayer
to claim the justice
of Allah’s ear,
“may the knowing one
lift the veil of foolishness
that covers my heart in
cloaks of resent, cure
my blindness that ignores
my raging disease of
plausible deniability
ravaging the body politic
of humanity.”

6.

Indeed,
physician heal thyself.

I run to embrace my
illness.

I pine to understand it.

I undertake the
difficult regimen
of a cure to eradicate
the terrible affliction.

This
pernicious
plague,
subverting
the notion
of a shared
humanness
is a cunning
sedition that
undermines
the unity of
the holy spirit.  

The bell from
the toppled steeples
still tolls, echoing
across the space of
continents and eons
of temporal time.

The faithful chimes
gently chides us
to remove the wedge
of perception that
separates, divides
and undermines.

Time has come
to liberally
apply the balm
that salves the
open wounds
so common to
our common
human condition.

The power of prayer
is the joining of hands
with others racked
with the common
affliction of humanness.

Allah,  
My eyes are wide open,
my sacred heart revealed,
my sleeves are rolled up,
my memory is stocked,
my soul filled with resolve,
my hand is lifted
extended to all
brothers and sisters.
Lift us,
gather us
into one
loving embrace.

Selah


7.

From the safe
windows of
our palaces
we live within
earshot of
the trilling
zaghroutas
of exasperation
flowing from
the besieged
city smouldering
under Bashar’s
symphony of terror.

Our nostrils
fill with the
acrid plumes
of unrequited
lamentations
lifting from the
the burning
destruction
of shelled
buildings.

Our eyes spark
from the night
tracers
of sleeking
snipers
flitting along
the city’s
rooftops.

The deadly jinn
indiscriminately
inject the
paralysis of
random fear
into the veins
of the city
with each
skillful
head shot.

These
ghoulish
assassins
lavish in their
macabre work;
like vultures
they eagerly
feast on the
corpses of their ****,
the stench of bloated
bodies drying in the
sun is the perfume
that fills their nostrils.


8.

From our
safe window
we discern the
silhouettes of militants
still boldly standing
amidst the
mounting rubble of an
unbowed Homs
shouting;

Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!

raising pumped fists,
singing songs
of resistance,
dancing to
the revelation of
freedom,
refusing to
be coward by
the slashing
whips of a
butchers
terrible
sword.


9.

From my
safe window
my tongue laps
the pap
of infants
suckling from
the depleted
teats of mothers
who cannot cry
for their dying
children;
tears fail
to well from
the exhaustion
of dehydrated
pools.

10.

From my
safe window
my heart stirs
to the muezzin
calling the
desperate faithful
from the toppled
rubble of dashed
minarets.

We can
no longer
shut our ears
to the adhan
of screams
the silent
voices that echo
the blatant injustice
of a people under siege.


11.

From my
safe window,
I pay
Homage to Homs
and call brothers
and sisters to rise
with vigilant
insistence
that hostilities
cease and
humanity be
upheld,
respected and
protected.


12.

From my safe
window
I perceive
the zagroutas
of sorrow
manifest as a
whiling hum,
a sweeping
blue mist,
levitating
the coffins
from the rubble
of ravaged streets.

The swirling
chorus of
mourning
joins my
desperate
prayers;
rising in
concert
with the
black billows
of smoke
dancing
away
from the
flaming
embers
of scorched
neighborhoods.


13.

From my
safe window
I heed
the fluttering
wings
of avenging
angels
furiously
batting
as they
climb
the black
plumes,
lifting from
the scattered bricks
of the desecrated
city.

It is the
Jacob’s
Ladder
for our
time;
marking
a new
consecrated
place
where
a New Adam
is destined
to be formed
from the
pulverized
stones of
desolation.

14.

From our
safe windows
we peer into
resplendent
mirrors
beholding
the perfect image of
ourselves
eying
falling tears
dripping blood,
coloring death
onto the
blanched sheets
of disheveled beds.


15.

From our
safe windows
our voices are silenced,
our words mock urgency
our thoughts betray comprehension
our senses fail to illicit empathy
our action is the only worthy prayer


16.

From my
safe window
I hear the
mortar shells
walking toward
my little palace,
the crack
of a ******
shot
precedes
the wiz of a
passing bullet
whispering
its presence
into my
waxen
ear.


17.

From my
safe window,
my palms scoop
the rich soil
of the flower boxes
perched on my sill.
I anoint the tender
green shoots of  the
Arab Spring
with an incessant flow
of bittersweet tears.

Music selection:
John Coltrane
A Love Supreme
Acknowledgment

Oakland
2/28/12
jbm

A feeling, an ocean and a dream to describe:
It’s another mid afternoon morning and the sunlight billows through the windows and pierces my eyes; they fight for consciousness and after some struggle with my two-ton eyelids, I managed to pick myself up and stagger off to the shower. Twenty minutes later, cleaned and clothed, I make my way downstairs to see what faces still linger in the house from the night before. With each step from under my feet comes a cold shrill scream; the nails, with a century of twisting and turning wiggled themselves free. With the slightest exchange of pressure, the nails give way and plunge back into the body of the stair from which they had escaped.  
It’s quiet downstairs. There’s not a sound; no voices of laughter echoing from the floors and off of the ceilings, not a sound of friends or strangers’ feet as they scramble to rustle up their clothes and belongings from the night prior. I had grown accustomed to hearing this in the morning and in all honestly, I’ve grown quite fond of the array of faces that had made camp here for the night. Usually this means front row seats to a race track where they all spin and run into one another to get started on their endless lists of routines and obligations. For the lucky few who get to vacation rather than push papers on the weekend, this meant a new companion and hopefully a day of company. Unfortunately, today the house is hallow, so empty it could make someone dream.
After pacing the house for a bit, the stillness starts to settle in; the leaking faucet growing unbearably ever more predominate with a slow crescendo of slurred reminders, drip no one’s home, drip you’re alone, drip what are you going to do? Drip, drip and the deafening silence like a parasite is crawling its way up and under my skin. My feet and hands get restless so I grab my acoustic guitar and head for the door.
On the porch, I take refuge on the cool concrete and light a cigarette; as the cherry churns the paper burns slowly, mimicking the melody of minors strummed ever so softly. My mind starts to wander, slipping into its self, lofting away like the ribbon of smoke from the cigarette. How funny it is that the greatest of men and minds have achieved the unbelievable; they unraveled the wheel, the moon met man from a tin can, empires leveled by the push of a button and as a tired heart’s tick softens, a surgeon’s scalpel cuts open and easily replaces it. With all the trophies brightly polished placed on the mantle of man there is not a space for the trophy that is truly worth parading; a cure for emotions. Irony, like a well aged whiskey, drunken my humor and ferments my appreciation. As a disease loneliness infests like a tumor, endlessly growing. The thoughts that once retreated so easily at the first hint of war are now back, glowing with vengeance tailored with armies; and they’ve got me cornered, it begins.
I start sinking, farther and farther down, unable to swim in this brackish abyss; any attempt to kick my legs, swing my arms has become a day dream, perhaps its only momentary paralysis caused from my leap of faith from my raft of hope that in my mind I had been previously enjoying the warm weather and smooth sailing; until the vessel caught a flame and was swallowed by the ocean of despair.
The light that once danced all alone up on the surface has retreated from fear. My lungs now burning as they cling to my last breath, they swell with anger, splitting at the seams from the pressure of the ocean’s hand gasping my poor lungs, tension alone compressing my entire chest I can feel the sharp pains as they are growing nearer and nearer to exploding, I clench my already squinted eyes from the burn of ocean’s salt. In some last attempt for survival with my eyes firmly tightened, just as the water starts to creep its way down my throat into my lungs I can feel the water begin to thicken.
No longer sinking into the great void of salted rift tides but resting gently on a mattress of sand. With my back exposed, the sun quickly heats my sopping wet T-shirt, my bones fill once again with life. Have I, by some lottery of luck, washed up on the beach? Scrapping the sand from my eyes in pursuit to unravel this mystery, the sand has magnetized itself to pruned skin and drenched clothing. I clear my eyes to the best of my ability, I can still feel the sand gritting in the folds of my eye lids and after a few fresh breaths of air which fill my sore lungs with relief, I roll over to sit up and dig my feet deep into the sand. I look out shielding my eyes from the blinding sun with my hand. I look to the left and then the right and quickly darting back and forth from each position, there is no ocean in view. What was my inevitable aquatic ending has now vanished; no longer sinking but standing. I am alone in what has become an ocean of sand; a desert of wandering and mystery.
With the blistering sun and vultures circling over head as constant reminder that this is in fact real; I began to stumble about for shelter. After what seemed like hours of hurdles the moon flies high while the sun sleeps in the southern sky, I find myself under a cliff of overhanging rocks; sitting down the rocks are warm and almost caressing. This bit of refuge reminds me of my mother; as a child I remember straying from her in a department store. Unknowing then that she had not been tailing me like a blood hound, until I turned around and as far as I knew she had vanished from the earth. After sprinting and retracing my steps like map I see her, the site of her from across the store fills me with joy, still sprinting I run to her, eyes like a fountain they poured into her arms as she held me there in her arms; they were warm and safe.
A faint smile crawls its way onto my face and the same tears of relief rain from my eyes and floods the ground; the sand now flooded starts to move vigorously from side to another. Out of the mist of their rumbling out gets pushed a blade of grass, and then another and another one by one pull their way out of the sand  to the surface; as the flowers start to blossom the slumbered sun awakes to a lush field of flowers filled with life. Within the field I move freely about, running in circles of familiar joy; the large sunflowers sway in the breeze of my arms as I run past them. The garden is beautiful with explosions of color all around held by peddles of flowers, and a small pond in the very center; a garden this perfect had to have been birthed by a gardener with the most beautiful of hands; Hands much like my grandfather.
Kneeling down beside the pond I splash some water with my hands on to my face to clear the filth from my pores. A gleam catches my eye from the mirror of the water, and I’m staring myself in the eyes. The pond isn’t reflecting what’s circled around me, but it’s reflecting me as a child, a bit older than the child crying for his mother; my face in the reflection, so precious and young just beaming full of life.
As if the pond were a movie screen the memory that had started to fade with age in my memory is playing crystal clear. I can see that little boy surrounded by familiar trees and flowers with the fields running farther than my eyes can see. That little boy is laying on the equally little wooden bridge that stretches over the little pond, my father laying beside him on the bridge with their heads and hands poking playfully over the edge of the bridge. Through the eyes of that little boy I can see a stick in hand trying to catch the nonexistent fish just as his father had showed him. My father looks down at me with a smile flooding his face as he says to me, “you know, Chad; I’m very lucky to have you, you’re all I could have ever asked for in this world. You’re a beautiful boy, a perfect son and I love you very much”. I remember watching a tear roll down the side of his face and watching it fall and disrupt the surface of the pond. Back on the other side of the glass; as his tear hits the pond the ripple breaks up the memory and just like the garden, the pond with the little bridge, my father and his sweet child; they all disappeared just as they had throughout my life. This time things felt different, not the cold touch of my bitter friend loneliness, but seeing that memory polished, shining new brings peace to my heavy heart.
A sharp sting burns my lips, the cigarette now burnt to the filter rips me back into body leaving the army, that ocean, the desert and the garden all behind. From footsteps behind me “I hoped I’d find you here”; I turn around and there she is, standing silhouetted by the sun, my angel. Charcoaled hair and island sky eyes, she had come to rescue me. “Hey you, I was hoping we could spend the day together; are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” I smile and nod my head. “Aright then come on.” and with that no longer in the vantage point window watching, but through a door and living.

The birds don't care about the internet.
Their anger is with the ground,
the place where the green goes,
the fields of the hunt and
the roots of the trees.

Their hearts pound in anticipation
of flight into the blue, a
lofting of the body high.

Their cries herald freedom,
the warm sun on soft feathers.
It is their exhilaration breaking forth,
like the promise of soft lips that
by rights are not your own,
tender in the night welcoming you.

i was going to write to you,
the reader, about joy and
its mysteries:  something sacred,
the pins and needles felt
throughout our human-shaped
boxes, the shadow where we
hide our hearts for others to steal.

i long to tell you, dear reader,
if only you can promise to
hold that secret close ...
Can you?  Can you keep this secret?

... (yes)...

So can i.

The now has left my body.
My mind is emptying
Of all thought of today.
The moment is receding;
I feel my feet lifting
My arms are floating
As if in a pool of light
Like water, buoying me
With untouching caresses
Lofting to evanescence
And I know it is fine
This feeling of pleasance
Of no worries in me
No hurrying to be done
Nowhere I have to be
No reason to run.

I am centered in this,
A feeling of completeness;
Of needing nothing else,
A spiritual sweetness,
A relaxing kind of comfort
Surrounds and enfolds
By singing unheard songs
Deep into my very soul.
I am happy here, smiling,
Somewhere in the self
Where not even I can see,
That I am someone else.
I am someone loving
And kind and caring.
I love this feeling so
I wish I were sharing
The sense of a world
Where everything is right
And everyone is floating
In the same golden light.

Lofting in the breeze
Her scent, So subtle
An Intoxicating allure
Hints of Rose and lavender
For my love, she's the cure

Her supple red lips, plump and ready
A most delicate treat
So luscious, so beautiful
Eagerly awaiting for
Both of ours to meet

Her eyes, so bright, so deep
Gazing with everlasting affection
So deeply entranced, encapsulated
In our powerful connection
So close now, I see my reflection

Her skin, so ripe, so smooth
So lustrous and silky
My longing for you
does not make me guilty
Truly a masterpiece, a work of art
I've fallen in love
Never again shall we part

bridge to heaven,
apex of the earth and sky;
west by north, corner of a nation.
where the ocean deep and blue,
rises from its depths
to join the hands of sea blown grass,
together reach for cotton wisps,
the cirrus clouds aloft to clasp,
teasing curling locks of hair
in a brilliant sapphire sky.
garden where the angels visit,
stoop to touch the darkened sod;
swoop to give a breezy nod,
a soft salvé from above;
joining sailing boats
with colors flying,
their wings of sheets
catch winds offshore;
waves collide in dance,
splash at bow en-trance,
curtsying like a curtain call,
here at play they soothe, enthrall;
transporting, lifting, cavorting, gifting,
on breezes light with gentle lofting,
Zephyrus sends them over yonder,
ever distant, ever stronger,
’cross the strait to reach her border.
port of angels, home to men,
bridge to offer sweet descent...
this, the end of jacob’s ladder,
dream of angel’s softened laughter,
listen close you’ll hear their whispers,
words of grace in flowing vespers
blowing down from snow-capped ridge
gently ’cross the angel’s bridge.

Fortunately, there were five modern toilets having
Lavatory flushing cisterns like those invented by
Sir Harrington in one thousand five hundred ninety-six, being
Built near the kitchen because the air in this room was dry.


This cook-room was constructed in a place where it was deemed safe
To have a cooking fire; it had a good layer of lime
With an air space to insulate the brickwork from the unsafe
Adjacent timber; the brick walls were expensive at that time.

The room had two brick fireplaces and boiling was the method
Of cooking while three coppers with lids were set in the brickwork.
With some funnels passing through the deck head, they were connected
That protected the kitchen and allowed the steam to perk.

Firing on the uproll could mean a shot going into
The rigging; the sailors and the passengers took the pumps
To extinguish this fire, doing all they had to do.
The pumps made of leather were assembled from the dumps.


And coupled every fifty feet with brass fittings; their length
Was about twenty-three meters; this ******* worm engine
Was made by John Lofting in 1690; its strength
Was pumped by a team of men working to relieve the tension.


The fire was small, but it could extend to the cabin cruisers,
Which were nearby; while the men were working hard to escape
The danger, the strange man as one of the fast movers
Deliberately entered the gun room; Cruz saw his shape

Entering and descended the stairs in a hurry
To stop him; he entered the gun room and took a gun.
The stranger turned to Cruz and shut him, but his eyes got blurry,
When the room was suddenly filled with the rays of the sun.

(Cruz shut this man in the face. Both of them fell down. The women were in a boat and Fargo made efforts to bring them to the shore.)

A big wave hit the boat, causing Geraldine to go
Overboard; she fell off the boat into the water.
Fargo jumped in the sea to save her and started to swim below
The water; she screamed for help; the waves rose up to scatter.

She could not remember how she fell; her head and arms
Were barely visible above the waves; Fargo swam
Toward her and brought her aboard, '' you're safe from harms.''
She vomited, ''I want to be far away from where I am.''

Meanwhile, Bella lost her balance, and within a split second,
She fell off the boat and tried in vain to hold onto
Chiara's hands while asking for help, but her fate beckoned
When a giant jellyfish stung her arm on back to fronto.


Chiara saw her treading the water and moving her head,
But lost the sight of her after a few seconds ''She's gone, '
Said Chiara; after saving Geraldine, Fargo said ''she's dead, ''
He turned around the boat, ''Look, that jellyfish is coming on! ''

(Fargo jumped in the sea to rescue Bella. He brought her aboard, but she has been underwater much more than she could resist. His resuscitation efforts were unsuccessful. All along the ragged shore, there were a lot of stones under the water. They got down out of the boat and walked in the water while bringing the boat to shore. Meanwhile, ten pirates, after swimming in the water, climbed on the carrack to **** everyone on the board. Fortunately, they didn't see the boat.)

(To be continued...)

Poem by Marieta Maglas

Rift rafters fall for the love of their sinister lives that continue long after the setting sun,

Breathers lay out their arms welcoming peace with a deadly knife,

Sought after visions lie but for a just cause,

Simple villains turn tides when truth proved to be theirs to gloat,

Lips of curves softly calling for the ears of new found kings,

Lofting lost but on the path that was sought when no path was given,

Crain the neck to see what is alreadyinfront of you,

Suggested laughs at the subtle sight that was born from the head of a baby,

A free fairing fan fiction frantically falling for free franks from Fredrick's farm facility featured February Fifth,

A test to the cure that causes our noses to run amuck,

Fidget in our seats when words of conversation repeated for few sentences know their bounds,

A long lost rambling mind, tastes silver in the blood of night

Sympathetic empathas saying words,
That are read from a script,
No one knew how to write,
It's early and cars,
Driving to,
Another paid bill,
Or whatever Thomas said,
Expierences fulfilled by fuel,
Maybe they aren't driving,
Or drinking,
might just be,
making babies in the,
Basement,
Or whatever Keats said,
Distantly dancing,
To kindergarteners and,
cancer patients,
Just another Thursday,
With mystic music,
Lofting around,
The empty dance halls,
Falling up,
With Christopher Robbins,
To the stars,
The bus is on time
Or whatever Dylan said.

What are dreams but kites we string,
thoughts we stress,
sometimes obsess,
with tails and tales of fantasy,
that we run a field
with overhead,
seeking to find a bit of lift,
a warm and rising currency,
that buys us time,
time for us to bide our wish,
like lofting balloons of lunacy,
but serves us well,
that we do dwell
on thoughts of things
that may yet prove
veritably impossible,
least we lay a plan,
and execute.

I think some move
lightly through each other
and some just gush through
I've always thanked God
for those-whom I love
on earth at the same time

Cognating under
the same sky

Breathing the
doublet droplets
of air

Lofting under
blanket cloud cover
up high

Residing under
matching hemispheres

Roused together and awake
during unexplained times of day

So much eminence
of loveliness
I sometimes feel fate.

a statistic
RIP
don't know how;
i go from mourning to night,
(a quick little flight)
but i come back down

mutually taken
give away before - what - the poison reached,
was it even wanted?

revisiting the place it started;
the smell of the stale air of that room, still holds dear

open 24 hours
like i was for you,
both time and heart.

where did you go?
you were just here
where you even here,
sad ghost i loved?
did i?

the answer will not be found
nor should it ever be.

but i still fell your calming hand on my back,
lofting.

still haunting, like the beginning;
however, a new way.

less alive,
truly ghosting.

Cheesesteaks and grimy streets
with a broken bell walled 'round by glass
over cobblestones trod weary feet
and love is born and hope is born

Strong fountains sweep in summer heat
sparks blaze in artful air at night
recalling every future song
when love is free and hope is free

Autumn ripeness sewed the flag
lofting parchment highly penned
before Billy ever stared us down
til love became and hope became

Cold souls all hunched in grand salons
broadly fluttered civil strifes
two hundred years were faded long
but love remained and hope remained

Reborn of blossoms freeing most
Who stretch on Spring Garden to South
And tumble past down to Navy Yard
until love grows until hope grows

Once wise as Ben struck under tree
If ever Delaware George had crossed
—If this Republic we can keep—
it’ll've been by love and a little hope.

An empty house, no walls or doors,
Cold wind blows and chills the floor,
A single window in the corner,
She's so lovely, how I adore her,
She's been asleep now for a few hours,
Sound asleep after her shower,
Blood-red stains on a perfect veil,
Stillness flows over skin so pale,

Sleep well, my love,

Get down, it's growing closer,
Put down the four leaf clover,
Gray skies and falling stars,
Locked doors and mental scars,
Dreams die and life will fade,
Mothers beaten, children betrayed,
You'll go just as you came,
With red-stemmed roses on your grave,

She wakes and stares into me,
Can't wait to lie and use me,
The smell of flesh, lofting, haunting,
Blood-stained blade, enticing, taunting,
The master butcher, I am sin,
I'll make you pay for what you did,
One cut, two, the floor is gone,
What once was right, turned so wrong,

Sleep well, my love,

Get down, it's growing closer,
Put down the four leaf clover,
Gray skies and falling stars,
Locked doors and mental scars,
Dreams die and life will fade,
Mothers beaten, children betrayed,
You'll go just as you came,
With red-stemmed roses on your grave,

I'm so cold, here in an empty nest,
Friendless, freezing, hardly the best,
At anything, no one's here to,
Keep me running, keep me focused,
So cold, dark, damp and empty,
I tell myself, 'I can't leave completely,'
Just enough to see over the edge,
Just enough to know it was all for the best.

if i could do anything
be anything

you'd find me way up with the clouds
i'd be a fearsome sight!
all tawny-brown, white-speckled feathers backlit by a rising sun
oh yes, the dream of my childhood
was to have wings
was to fly

unstoppable, i'd
soar in a low-pressure sea of blue
my wingtips carving clouds
into the most beautiful sculptures

adrenalin, epinephrine
sixty miles an hour
rising,
              diving,
rising,
              diving,
loop-de-loops and barrel rolls
death-defying stunts
blink and you'll miss me

i'd drift so gently
so effortlessly
free to move
with the stratosphere as my stage
each powerful beat of my wings
lofting me higher, faster, higher

looking down,
everything so small below my
dangling feet
giant leaps
from treetop to roof to treetop
wings casting the prettiest of shadows
long feathers feeling the wind ebb and flow

my back aches with longing, sometimes.
you can never really be rid
of the dreams you conceive at twilight
the dreams you imagine with a young mind
in my dreams, i can fly.

Another sunset tries to survive, as it drifts beneath the earth and dies

The dreary dawn awaits for it's alter ego to stumble through the night
In theory gone, she baits the line, and casts our soul into another fight
A leery pawn, a game of fates, it's time to know, what feels just right
An eerie yawn, opens the gates, the perfect dream walks into the light

The sunrise comes with haunting cries, shining down on tearful eyes
Darkened skies remind last night's broken promises are Today's lies

Thieving Gray clouds shade the grounds as my head pounds and Throbs
Weaving Stray crowds of worried rats scurried about chaotically to Jobs
Leaving an unbearably noxious musk wafting throughout the surly Mobs
Deceiving another day until the dusk comes lofting like a thief and Robs

The morning's glory, came and went, and not a moment too soon
The mayhem and the havoc hellbent, clamoring to stay high noon
Tensed sheople just making life's rent, until the stars begin to croon
Incensed at the blanket time we spent, chasing the tranquil moon

Cheetah flying through the tall grass
Hawk lofting on thermals
The wilderbeast dragged to ground
Doesn't feel victimized.
Mouse scampering under an elephant's foot
Monkeys swinging in their jungle playground
The lion sunning himself in the wilderness
Doesn't feel superior,
Doesn't feel special.
Human dropping a test tube
Bats hiding their secrets in caves
Are we all creatures with souls or not?
So when a virus crosses a few boundaries
Why wouldn't it?

a cascade of Pavarotti high cs
the turbulence of ocean tsunamis

a casual duck quack, quack
the clacking of a nine-ball rack

a boot dropped with a thud
the splat when falling in the mud

the morning doves coo coo coo
a diamond rings ooh ooh ooh

a sudden unexpected insult
the response and inevitable tumult

the joy in a finely aged wine
a smile from whom you choose to dine

food just dropped on your pants
the casting of an unapproving glance

a lofting climb of a high flying kite
the tug you make with all your might

the hostas now dead under the snow
will surely soon blossom, that you know

your children's tinkling joy and laughter
will be your symphony in the hereafter

Fievel goes West
Picture me
A wee mouse
lofting my parcels
in a handkerchief
tied to a walking stick
Bringing so little
and gaining so much
I can't wait to lay
eyes on my anchor
of stars
Across these states
In a new place
so novel, so far

I wish I were a vehement wind,
lofting your hopes away,
tussling your identity under bed linen,
with their origins abruptly shelved

I wish I could torment you,
along a long path,
painting you a long frown,
under the glare of an expectant lunar surge.