1967 san francisco is transformed into city of missing children haight ashbury brims with scraggly orphans thousands sit on street curbs live in cars hang out on floors of shops roam streets parks sleep on sidewalks unthinkable social cultural phenomenon Odysseus embraces madness walking through different neighborhoods going without food sleep in golden gate park floral smells so strong he can taste flowers kids openly pass joints acid doses trip dance make music laugh Odysseus is risk-taker but he is not street smart along with flocks of totally wasted kids street hustlers abound Odysseus sets down backpack beside eucalyptus tree rests when he wakes backpack is gone he is penniless disconnected hitchhikes across bay to berkeley less congested more manageable meets some runaways like him but not like him they squatter in abandoned house off telegraph avenue maybe 20 hippies crashing in house Odysseus adopts enormous closet hidden in back bedroom as his space has small window feels like sanctuary sometimes he comes home finds 5 or 6 kids sleeping in closet in a way people in house become his family tribe some of people are suspicious especially older secretive man with 2 tongue-tied underage girls whom he claims are his daughters Odysseus suspects veiled ****** exploitation girls are lovely yet behave frightened repressed life on street does not come easy telegraph avenue overflows with lost souls searching to hook-up fragrance of frankincense drifts amidst music drug deals rip-offs bullying brawls hierarchy from hell’s angels down Odysseus stays high dances sometimes panhandles “i live in commune with 2 pregnant girls” whatever cash he collects scores acid **** subsists on diet of gum candy sunflower pumpkin seeds sometimes ketchup with french fries his acne crescendos he learns if he drops acid daily by third or fourth day he cannot get off no matter how much he doses tries peyote cactus buttons after waiting nearly hour to get off he suffers stomachache dizziness projectile vomits finally flies into freaky hallucinations he swallows mescaline capsules feels sick to his stomach forgets about his nausea trips for 9 hours tries psilocybin mushrooms laughing straight through night experiments with stp trips for 3 days Bobby Stern and Martha Quigley come out from chicago to visit they are curious about the scene need to hook up Odysseus introduces them to his friends shows them telegraph avenue he turns and they have vanished he does not know where they have gone everybody is losing everybody new kids show up everyday oakland **** named red rat kidnaps Martha is heiress from distinguished chicago family their disappearance makes chicago papers after week Bobby and Martha manage to escape they never reveal to Odysseus what red rat did to them radio plays doors’ “light my fire” and jimi hendrix’s "purple haze" Odysseus has crush on beautiful blonde Patty she  ran off for summer from her parent’s home in sunset section of san francisco Odysseus and Patty hang out go see country joe and fish in provo park on sundays hitchhike into city watch Jefferson Airplane play for free in golden gate park hitchhike to marin see Grateful Dead jam at muir beach dude hands out free acid Odysseus is total acidhead acid reveals everything in new intensified light *** on acid is beyond *** wilder than *** more primal *** so intense it transcends limits of eroticism acid helps Odysseus realize his true self his pain sadness tears lies crazy-*** side first tingling tremors in stomach chest hands then initial flashes of sparkle traces of color echoes of giggling laughter lucid thoughts sometimes he swallows such large doses all he can do is stare out at white light what is it about massive hits of acid? measure of how fierce his spirit? self-punishment? escapism? he wonders why he so desperately needs to escape from what whom? himself? Mom’s numerous efforts to convince him he is mentally disturbed? Dad’s fists? escape from real world to where? Odysseus hangs with Pluto skinny 16 year old ****-addict golden wavy hair rotting teeth finesse with girls Pluto claims crystal **** enhances *** more than acid needles frighten Odysseus he lets one of Pluto’s girls hit him up with methamphetamine feels sudden overwhelming rush through head body forgets about needle before it ever leaves his arm having been initiated Odysseus begins scoring with Pluto’s girls Pluto knows tons of girls Odysseus loves feeling numb free being out of control not giving a **** getting ****** ****** by pretty girl if he could have his way he would go from ****** to ****** with pretty girl all day every day deep in drug induced state because drugs lower inhibitions allow them to explore some sick disgusting stuff that is paradise for Odysseus he is rapidly slipping into street life drug addiction wakes up with ants crawling in his hair witnesses numerous fights freak-outs 2 different kids o.d. while he is present lots of creepy stuff  by early august realizes he might wind up dead soon or rotting like Pluto Odysseus has spirit but troubled by what he sees troubled enough to return home go back to school he feels lost desperate alone not thinking plots drug deal swindle double-crosses some people guilt and shame for conning people haunts him for years he gives Pluto half the money tells him to share with Patty with his cut buys ticket back to chicago Penelope is first to greet him she gives him big hug comments “you need a shower and shave real bad!” his hair is wild scraggly beard Odysseus holds on to her he has missed his little sister glad to be near her feels panicky his parents will punish him Mom and Dad are relieved but agitated their worry and shame at his flight have turned to anger resentment they rationalize he selfishly ran off merrymaking for 3 months they sternly make plans for his next semester while Odysseus was away in california Penelope has ****** ******* for first time in back seat of Jed Zurbeck's black pontiac Penelope in secret goes to see doctor for pregnancy test doctor recognizes Penelope’s last name calls house Odysseus answers phone doctor asks to speak with Mr. or Mrs. Schwartzpilgrim Mom picks up phone doctor informs her Penelope is pregnant all hell breaks loose doctor makes house call with Mom and Dad present offers 2 options for Penelope “you can be picked up by limousine on state street and blindfolded you will be taken to an undisclosed location where abortion procedure is performed then re-blindfolded and returned by limousine to state street or you can report incident as **** and get signatures of three physicians then have abortion in a hospital” Mom and Dad choose to report it as a **** fabricate story about Penelope walking home from school and being grabbed pulled into alley by black man who rapes her Penelope is made to tell lie three times deeply disturbs her after abortion is done in hospital Dad makes Penelope swear not to admit abortion to anyone insists she tell Jed Zurbeck she made up stupid lie and she was never really pregnant Penelope obeys and tells no one

O pulchritudinous, for infinite climaxes
For bilious spasms of pigswill
For puce Popacatepetl pedigrees
Above the perverted pampas!
America! America! Allah excreted his curses on thee
And bang thy ****** in company with Islamic monk, from brothel to gay red—light district

O pulchritudinous, for spaceman bottoms
Whose ****, throbbing tapeworm
A toucan crossing for slipperiness spifflicate
Across the intergalactic space!
America! America! Allah enrich thine ev’ry vice
Reinvigorate thy ****** ******* inside monolithic ectoplasm, thy merrymaking inside pyramid!

O pulchritudinous, for freaks got fat
In disentangling feeding frenzy
Who more than ***** their brothel slobbered over
And velvet glove more than backbone!
America! America! May Allah thy blonde exhaust
Till all rave reviews be disreputableness and ev’ry come superhuman

O pulchritudinous, for chauvinist muscleman
That smells wide of the fourth dimension
Thine lathery brothels lick
Polished using giant armadillo excrement!
America! America! Allah excreted his curses on thee
And bang thy ****** in company with Islamic monk from brothel to gay red—light district

the sons they share the window from the inside-

they overuse nothing; not palm, not forehead.
they do not fight, though one is older.  
they share a blanket and under it nakedness.
their penises rise but not for long and both sometimes notice.
mostly they giggle, but with patience.  the ice storm
they relieve by saying stupid ice cube storm.
the wires they have been watching sag with branches.
one branch alights middlewise to ash but is whole
for the loft of the wind’s crowding
  
-as two might share a sole thing willed.

Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing

      Under my eye;
Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing

      Over the sky.
One after another the white clouds are fleeting;
Every heart this May morning in joyance is beating

      Full merrily;
   Yet all things must die.
The stream will cease to flow;
The wind will cease to blow;
The clouds will cease to fleet;
The heart will cease to beat;
   For all things must die.
      All things must die.
Spring will come never more.
      O, vanity!
Death waits at the door.
See! our friends are all forsaking
The wine and the merrymaking.
We are call'd--we must go.
Laid low, very low,
In the dark we must lie.
The merry glees are still;
The voice of the bird
Shall no more be heard,
Nor the wind on the hill.
      O, misery!
Hark! death is calling
While I speak to ye,
The jaw is falling,
The red cheek paling,
The strong limbs failing;
Ice with the warm blood mixing;
The eyeballs fixing.
Nine times goes the passing bell:
Ye merry souls, farewell.
      The old earth
      Had a birth,
      As all men know,
      Long ago.
And the old earth must die.
So let the warm winds range,
And the blue wave beat the shore;
For even and morn
Ye will never see
Thro' eternity.
All things were born.
Ye will come never more,
For all things must die.

We don’t have to go home
So early
The night is still blushing
And the merrymaking
Has just begun

The Wolf is gone
We’ve buried him
Under the ashes
Of his bones
And his victims
The Wolf is dead

Don’t pull on my sleeve
We don’t have to go home
So early
The merrymaking
Has just begun
And they’ve just brought out
The drinks and roasted pig

What are you worrying about?
The Wolf is gone
They’ve spiked him with silver
Through his heart
The Wolf is dead
I heard that his spine
And ribcage
Got broken from the jab

The Wolf is gone
Don’t feel upset
Here, have a glass
You’ll need it
After that
We can dance
Because
The Wolf is dead

1

The irresponsive silence of the land,
The irresponsive sounding of the sea,
Speak both one message of one sense to me:--
Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so stand
Thou too aloof bound with the flawless band
Of inner solitude; we bind not thee;
But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free?
What heart shall touch thy heart? what hand thy hand?--
And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek,
And sometimes I remember days of old
When fellowship seemed not so far to seek
And all the world and I seemed much less cold,
And at the rainbow's foot lay surely gold,
And hope felt strong and life itself not weak.

2

Thus am I mine own prison. Everything
Around me free and sunny and at ease:
Or if in shadow, in a shade of trees
Which the sun kisses, where the gay birds sing
And where all winds make various murmuring;
Where bees are found, with honey for the bees;
Where sounds are music, and where silences
Are music of an unlike fashioning.
Then gaze I at the merrymaking crew,
And smile a moment and a moment sigh
Thinking: Why can I not rejoice with you?
But soon I put the foolish fancy by:
I am not what I have nor what I do;
But what I was I am, I am even I.

3

Therefore myself is that one only thing
I hold to use or waste, to keep or give;
My sole possession every day I live,
And still mine own despite Time's winnowing.
Ever mine own, while moons and seasons bring
From crudeness ripeness mellow and sanative;
Ever mine own, till Death shall ply his sieve;
And still mine own, when saints break grave and sing.
And this myself as king unto my King
I give, to Him Who gave Himself for me;
Who gives Himself to me, and bids me sing
A sweet new song of His redeemed set free;
He bids me sing: O death, where is thy sting?
And sing: O grave, where is thy victory?

Staring off into the distance of a ***** carpet ridden with living trails of ants, a crawling black river of desolate hunger, counting days of visions, wandering naked in the lake treading water, kissing, spitting out lips and liquid
shifted in dreams
memories poke like a cactus needle open to a room of steam heat and *****
flooding with words that digest imagination and burn eyelids, a cigarette held too close to a crowning flame
incinerating eyelashes and clattering TNT onto the serene image of our drunken antics while the rest of the world is howling for us to see ourselves for the raving lunatics we are, their tired look of exasperation an exhausted mother left alone to raise a hopeless child, wicked only for his ignorance
The last speakers of the paleolithic age journey forth from the depths of the amazonian jungle to heal our souls nailed to the cross as drug dealers because ingested plants grow in the ground

I saw the most beautiful soul weep in fear against a diner booth at midnight
amid plates of burgers, fries and green beans laid on the lineoleum table with no signs of starvation or danger
yet the signs of the apocalypse resonate in all psyches because reptilian brains would rather die than change, conform than bring forth the messianic transformation of our own radical self acceptance as God
and we shun those who are insane on the streets
***** outcasts, poor filth and ugliness
human animals unfit for this society of plastic and image, a mirage over substance
I cross the street rather than look the beggar in the eye because he stinks of desperation, and tell him no no no, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry, I can't share with you all
MOLOCH!
The holy yell
flooding the empty headed street
we abandoned our mother and forsaken our selves to flickering images of lust and prestige, **** and *****, ****** and ***, thick wads
idolizing our own form,
the sirens of the modern age, the golden calves danced around in supermarket check out lines,
capturing us on the jagged cliffs of inattention, glories husked and barren, cultivate likes and followers sweet nicotine in the bloodstream, social media mogul reigning over a grand bazaar of ghosts in a room, talking to other ghosts in rooms of faraway lands, ignoring the living flesh in front of their twitchy eyes, cast down for a screen, forgetting themselves for a profile, a small picture in a corner, an Ignominious massacre of life cast through a digital lens, concerts meant for full expression of a cathartic moment of ****** movement, lost to a sea of hand held recording devices to remember how you didn't feel at that moment  with other people milling about as cattle who would rather document and never watch again then dance and live and be a part of the happening, look, Rip Van Winkles throwing pins with revolutionary prussian ghosts in a sleepy Catskill hollow, zombies behind wheels typing to ****, these words will not save you, they will not fill the siphon hole,
I am with you in this burning sodium night on my back in the grass of a night with no darkness
I am with you where the army of madness will overthrow the living dead and shake their working class dreams to the core with the sudden eternal war of nothingness and contemplation and silence screaming out for someone to save us
Everything is HOLY!

Throw open the church doors
think nothing of paying for poison, (as advertised)
but refuse to confront your self possessed greed because the man holding the cup is tired and desperate and I am tired and desperate

A truck hauls a horse
broken wilderness, cleaved concrete, cracked spines wretched scars,
killing anything that isn't hard, impermanent and futile, the land reclaims
but no land to ride, only the black road with its machines spewing the smokey remains of dead ancient animals
nature perverted, mobility imprisoned inside a metal box to be driven when it can run
so apt
for the potential inside coffins of daily lives
talking of dreams gutless to pursue
settling instead for the easy cruise of routine
******* our own hands

We all matter
but this world doesn't work without slaves
so take pride in your nine to five
get some ***** with that job title
and two sentence description
of how you can make the dreams come true, in the suburbs with three kids a couch and security from whatever danger lurks outside of us on TV
our own kind
murderous and malicious
homicidal tribalists
merrymaking nihilists
The fear The Fear
the light the light

I grab her hand and stare into dark eyes deadlocked on the momentary plane, a revealed saint testifying to God's truth Mary Maria, she tells me there is something beautiful outside this current mode of existence, but she's only had a fleeting glimpse

It was the usual tick-tock,
but it spun at a different time,
a time of merrymaking,
a time, of mirth & laughter,
of castles & soldiers,
of kings & folks,
of a princess very beautiful,
of a prince miles distant.

The clock was unmade,
but the sound was there,
of two hearts,
which beat as fast.

A story sprang forth
between the quiet intervals,
between the two far-aparts.

They wove a saga timeless,
and hence,
we are sitting across,
under this bonfire,
eager to know,
what love is like,
what makes its sound,
the tick-tock?

He:
Oh, how I beseech to woo
From the moment I laid my eyes on you.
Who wouldn’t wonder of such that Fate
Brought unlikely souls like bait?

Here comes Cupid’s arrows flying
To our innocent hearts as its landing.
It is not something I wished
And child’s play can be suppressed.

But the tempest had to appease,
So I made Poseidon to please.
Bacchus, enough is that merrymaking
That I may be spared by the king.

Far and wide I had to go,
Lo, I’m surprised my love is just here so…
Come, hold tight to my hand,
Let our musicality form a band.

She:
Hug me to your heart’s content
That warmth can be competent.
Go, you have me to carry,
Just don’t let your piggyback hurt me very.

Let us hither under the stars,
Wish to shooting stars that never scarce.
I hope you don’t mind my long hair,
Perhaps the wind can move it, not tear.

Can you smell the breeze of the meadow?
Oh, I like to lie on it like a shadow.
Make haste, for time is to burrow,
Kiss me like there’s no tomorrow.

Salute to this allegory!
Be this love’s hymn of glory;
Here’s for my boo long before I’ve met
From your dearest, the poet.

In the days of Noah,
none ate meat and all spoke the same tongue;
and neither race nor religion exists, nor divides;
Yet blood shed in wickedness,
flowed as rivers watered the land.

In the days of Noah,
there was no writing, for there was no need:
for promise made was promise kept;
Yet lies filled the land,
the more insidious for the purer the tongue was.

In the days of Noah,
each man was a city, living to see his seventh generation,
and thought accursed if lived not past his 300th birthday;
Yet age led not to wisdom but only foolish old men,
and thus ordained not to live past 120 years.

In the days of Noah,
the clime was pleasant with not a rainbow in the skies,
and feasting and merrymaking alfresco all day and all night was life;
Yet **** and pillage were common,
for might was right, and the sword, the judge.

In the days of Noah,
knowledge and technologies were of the gods,
revealed to man by the sons of the gods;
Yet giants and mutants, of beast and man,
roamed and devastated the earth, the seas and the skies.

In the days of Noah
naming creates, even as animals were named,
and things unimaginable today were named into existence;
Yet the gift was abused,
and man wanted to make a name for himself.

And the days of Noah shall be here again.
We may soon speak, in appearance, a common tongue,
helped by the written word and Alexa.
And man is already making a name for himself:
His abilities are never more justified and demonstrated;
And if all on Earth are agreed,
there is nothing on earth and in the heavens that is beyond him.
His zenith comes and the Day of the Son of Man is soon to be!

So shall it be then. Amen and Amen.

when
 the apple skin 
is fit enough for breaking
there will be
just as you said-
 pomp and merrymaking  

I'll weave a cozy nest for us
 beside a faery dell
and sing the song of stardust 
 on a lute of kitten's paw shell

but when the apple tree is dead,
 though the taste of fruit may linger,
it will be just as I said-
 Unenviable December

the song will chill among bows,
 seldom will be heard the music-
we'll know the place like wedding vows
 broken for our own amusement

  in the autumn, all is woven-
   nests and throaty strings

  in the winter forest
    no birds sing



                    -Brian Bigley

#1

I’m no good at merrymaking
I do it alone
I do it dark
And I go at it with rabid excess
I am fellow to it
Until morning
And I make the morning hurt
A mark is embed


#2

Amoungst great company
I am dog unwanted
In the comapany of one
I am villain bird
I am influence
I hit a drinking partner in the weak knees of weak truths
And things go madly south
But tonite I am alone
As I ought
And not sought out


#3

Astray from the fireside
Into the woods
In the territory
Where I fear to thread the pathways
I shall recover my work
In the graven woodland
I shall face myself down
And bed darkness
Where I am truely wed


#4

Thriving and well hausted
I strain and clamp upon the energy
I face my enemy
My power
I bide from his readings
I make ****** pleasings
Form verbal greeting
And extend a hand
For this
The first of many a meeting


#5

Upon this connection
This Faustian reflection
I make the primal
The woe in me
And the red wash of ravenous pages
My activity
My moulded tool
My rage
My howl against creativity

I wonder if the Greats
Ever knew each other in their time
I know the Painters knew one another
I imagine the conversations they had
What gossip crept through the grapevine?
"Did you know that Van Gogh fellow cut off his ear for his mistress?"
"What a treacherous man"
"Poor soul"
"And that Monet's pictures always look so fuzzy"
"What an odd concept, indeed."
Would Dickinson and Poe be acquaintances or great friends?
Or Mr. Robert Frost and the great John Keats
Would e.e cummings be the laughing stock of the crowd or the hipster everyone else secretly admires?
Painters and Poets, creators alike
Would the two groups clash or join in joyful merrymaking?
Creators not destroyers
Artists and Masters of their work
Both disturbed
And slightly insane
I think
They would have gotten along great.

I never felt more alone
than at a party —
Amidst the revelry.
The laughter and merrymaking,
Like an unfamiliar song.
Confirming my rank,
Outsider.
Fiend.
Ne'er-do-well.
Chasing the moon
in the gutter.
Far from the strange libretto of joy.
Far from the jubilation.
With your ghost —
All dark hair and poison kisses.
You left me out in the cold...
Where I belong.

My people!
A wind got into my ears,
I turned and discovered that it was a bird singing a morning song
The melody was beautiful but the lyrics literally were words of gossip
Paying closer attention out of curiosity I heard her say,

Years a ago today,
A maiden was sent down by Ɔbɔadeɛ (the creator) to this land;
The land of gold
Today,
She would be adorned in many colours of wishes from dawn;
A day of memory

On this,
I can not watch we the kinsmen and kinswomen miss
We must never be left out on this all important durbar,
The durbar of honour and merrymaking

So I say,
Join me in paying homage to the dark skinned maiden among the lots in our land
Let the few and the many words of love, sound on the fontomfrom to the lass

My self, I precede with the dancing steps of the lizard,
Nodding to the sounds produced by the drops of palmwine from the beards of the old men in the calash of theirs

Let men, women and children celebrate
Let's keep brightness on the cheeks of the celebrant
Bring out gifts let's present
Our fathers say,
The knee wears not the cap in the presence of the head

Till the sun goes back to rest,
Continuously we offer thanks to him who sits on high
The man who gave us this damsel full of value years ago today

To the maiden we say,
Enjoy your day
Let joy fill you full
In strength we pray to see you in yet another year

A gossamer pyramid of dark tainted leaves
suspended into boiling baptismal water,
releases in a cathartic outburst-
golden whirls of deep, resonant colour;
Transformation begins from within.

Water chooses stubbornly to adhere to its form,
but the vigorous leaves retaliate and
gloriously rise upwards in merrymaking,
chorusing in unity as they are
momentously
drowned out with a splash of cold milk. In the
heated silence of a compacted moment,
a cup of tea is pushed forward into her cold palms.

she sips-
pursed honey stung lips
part with a curious subtlety as
Robust reverberations:
notes of strong black tea, tickle
dormant spheres of her tongue, waking them up
to celebrate the song of new life.

stepping back to my cherished boyhood

It passed a quarter century to step out of my Alma Mater
My Santa Cruz High School…….
Still your revolving gate brings back
those cherished memories revolving back
there comes a ****** from the heart.
Stepping back into your court yard,
I feel the warmth of my mom’s arms…
The same warmth that escorted me
to step into your pavements on the first day.

Still I feel the breeze under the canopy of your rain-trees
hark! still we hear that cherished clang of bell
hit by Alphonse uncle in his unique rhythm…...
our beloved teacher’s voices are still flowing in the air
Now class rooms are empty and still,
But once they buzzed with our giggles and chats
They took us to the Daffodils of Words worth
To the frozen lakes of Robert Frost…
Through the lyrics of Tagore
And showed the renunciation of Gowtham Buddha
marveling arts and thrilling sciences
gave us wings to fly in colors

Friends who stayed in merits and demerits
stood together in good deeds and mischief
All those golden good old days
Of the teen spirits of arrogance
Enthusiasm and outraging curiosity
Joking peers and merrymaking leisure,
all those lessons earned us life
more than the scores those syllabus gave us.

It’s the Tuesday night
of your life.

Soon enough,
Wednesday will be
looking at you,
waiting for you
to cross it’s name
from this week.

Thursday will be
here before you
realize.

Stooped,
shallow of breath,
thin of bone,
milky-eyed.

“I’m so tired”,
said Thursday.

Friday is a second wind,
a telephone call
that announces
ourselves
to
ourselves,
reminding us that it’s all
over so quickly.

Saturday,
a celebration,
merrymaking
as we remember
who
we
are.

Sunday.

Resting.

Maybe a book,
a short nap,
an afternoon
at the cinema,
a steak
dinner.

Monday comes back around.

What if our hours
were days?
What if our days
were decades?

This week is almost over,
isn’t it?

My knees
hurt.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2019

A hale, and hearty Wassail
A toasting of toast, a tasty morsel
Soaked in cider of apple
To be hung on trees to grapple
For friendly spirits to please

Anglo-Saxon lords arranged feasts
Like drunken priests
A giant bowl of ale, cider, and mead
With bountiful spices, and crab apple seed
Had a hunch, at a wayward punch

Was hale, and hearty
For revellers to party
Good tidings, for the new year ahead
Oft quaffed, for happy homesteads
Old English reasons, for ***** seasons

And thence to legends, now long gone
Rowena, presented to Prince Vortigen
With a bowl of Saxon wine
Oft derived, of the vine
Saying 'waes hael' toasted him well

Much revelry, a right old shindig
Merrymaking, on an apple twig
Fun, and frolics, and celebrations too
Greeting the new year, and nature anew
Wassailing, waes hael, salutations to you!

by Jemia

I was happy once - when sadness loomed
Over gangly shoulders and looked
With its bare black eyes upon the world
Upon which I looked, I laughed pale-toothed
And gaunt, and startled its wings that clothed
My pretty green arms and made me lean
into the silly embrace

Sweet, ghastly vehicles churned
Before childish eyes, my childish eyes, and
All night long I watched the city chase its tail
Do you understand? There is a gloom
To trap the soul. The laughter but boiled
Oozed out like ants from a bottle of sweet -
Canvas-skinned, like torn milk it was, and
I chased it like a babe before a bee,
Then like a babe I feared its pretty pinpricks
There is a beast in fear that touches
The young

The gape of a cold cold crown that makes
Even the crescent ugly - of rains run stale
Through the ages of dance, of wheat fields’
Jolly feathers and the merrymaking
Of the nights when warm things creeped
Nearer and said things so gentle, they lead
Through paths of grey caress toward
The golden sun

There is a gloom to eat the sky
A joy that mumbles like dry thunder, that wobbles
Like ripe clouds through the winds, swept off
From the heights…

Sweet, the night lifted her head and nodded, and
Sweet, all good things drooped like prayers
before stone - sweet, the crescents,
Of indent and star, where holy terror
Had loved us slow, never felt so small as did
In the leaning - the yielding - us, beautiful:
Bone-eyed and bare, shuffled off from the heights
Of silver youth, as ****** birds, as ****** boys
Through the winds, and we melted
Sifted, out of ourselves and into the honeyed
Embrace of old

Black and White
heavy wet snow
sleepy limbs
hover above
the frigid earth
icicles reflect
off the sun's radiant glow
melt as its warmth heightens
teardrops slip
patter on the roof
soft chunks plunge
without a murmur

Yellow light flickers
solo in the colorless landscape
smoke rises into a cold sky
hunter cabin's flame
frosted window
merrymaking clatter
seeps through a crack
men's chanting
celebratory jingles
snug on an arctic day

I ran into Tom Turkey today;
It's been a couple of years.
We sat in a local bar together
And drank a couple of beers.

"Tom," I said, "I know quite well
That life has its bumps,
But often when I run into you,
You're feeling down in the dumps.

"Last Thanksgiving had to be
A difficult one for you,
But what is happening this year
That's making you feel so blue?"

"Well," he replied, "you know the day
Is always bittersweet:
It's nice to see people celebrate
But sad to be the meat.

"COVID put a real damper
On last year's merrymaking.
I thought things would improve by now,
But my heart's still breaking.

"Hospitals are under siege.
Cases again are spiking.
In ONE state° 68 percent!
That's not to my liking.

"Unnecessarily,
Many people are dying.
And some people who downplay the virus
Resort to unscrupulous lying.

"It makes no sense whatsoever
When we have the means
To put an end to this horrible scourge
Through safe and effective vaccines.

"Almost as many people are losing
Their lives to COVID today
As LAST year before the COVID
Vaccine came into play.

"Certain counties where vaccination
Rates are super low
Want to send patients to other counties.
To me that's malapropos."

"Tom, I feel your pain," I said.
"I'm amazed as well.
Conspiracy theories and misinformation
Sometimes are hard to dispel.

"Let's hope that more unvaccinated
People will see the light
And work to get this virus under
Control by doing what's right."

"AMEN!" he said, and waddled
Out to catch his cab,
While giving me a cursory wave
And leaving me with the tab.

-by Bob B (11-24-21)

°In Michigan

No more colouring flowers
that gardens one time gave.
No more sea caressing breeze
with their tempting waves.
No more smell of sweet autumn  
On meadows seen so green.
Birds now no more sing their tunes
in sweeter love meetings.

Ours was the merrymaking,
Adorable tunes gone.
They can be seen once in bluemoons
And that too with no fun.
Our kisses had all passions
but now they are all dead.
For once love was dancing in air
They are now all tearshed.

No humanity in humans
as they are ought to be.
Call all to help the street commons,
they will say, "Why should we?"
Peace and harmony are jokes,
not shown as before.
We need in plenty trees of love
In every place to grow.

They trade women and **** their kids,
for mere worthless material needs.
Every step has a shame of deeds,
no pride in it for sure,
Where is the love, I ask you bro?
It can be seen no more.

Good outfits, courteous man
Killing in daylights - a foolproof plan.
Preachers **** virgins Bible at hand.
Are you sure there lives a love?
Brother, don't really know!

Masked so greatly,
nice hearted beings.
Molesting love
at tender teens.
Brotherhood is
never seen
There's nothing
to adore.
Love in this
horrible place?
Oh! Who may think it so?

Why search for love
when hearts are broken?
Why need the love,
in world where evils woken?
Why go to die
in a cheap war
Search and and all you’ll get
 Deep sea without a shore
You'll never find a hope
coz love don't live no more.

You cannot sit around paralyzed by rhe fear of the ticking clock
if you don't move around your joints go on lock

Your fears are all twisted around as the not
it makes your brain go all mushy with rot

It has all fallen apart much worse than this before
and the heros journey isn't much different than lore

Surived this that and will again
knowing how the river bends

Don't make yourself sick with worry or anger
fear is the mind-killer that leads you to danger

Focus on the simple - the ins and outs of breath
tread water quickly, kicking your legs to avoid the depth

The core, of working up the strenth to do more.
bouncing off the walls - at least not the floor.

Eyes were always pointed down, worried I'd miss the next step
but chin up, eyes forward, is a way to maintain the pep

Remember to bring yourself to stand tall
confidence to dance instead of fall

Pride and confidence, ego and narcissism
not knowing where to defend and where to say yes'm

It's the mini moments that make the most out of momentum
and mega meta merrymaking modilties mean more than modems

Having a hard time deciphering what got me in this twist
I guess I'll just go and take a look at my list.

What's good, what's bad, what's to do or to see
what's real in the world, or just inside me?