Out here in the fields of the distance
whither the wind blows the silence further afield;
roughhewn footprints show a windswept pathway  
from whence feral feet lightly trod   

Only the passing whispers chase after the gypsy wind:
that the silence be in quire, placed aloft like a sigh,
pealing through the gentle sway of sweet grass' hush

There are no walls need echo an evanescent wind-song
as each breath of earthen psalm vanishes
lilting into the crystalline quietude colour;

The callused patience still held in these hands
is frayed and tattered, but hope heals stronger
than a ream of paper wings to fly away

And I'm mindful I'm not alone again, lost in
a lingering silent storm — pensively listening —
enraptured aneath all the big skies hold
 

                    Jesse Stillwater

in the midst of an emerald slumbering forest
laced with pungent scents of jaded wood
a burgundy blushed tail
of a chestnut hued fox
scurries as copper sunbeams part the day

a hospital lumes starkly nearby
its aura exudes hints of melancholy
commingled with faint impressions
of halcyon futures
not yet lived

at neighboring dartmouth
a student sprinting to class
drops his crimson colored backpack
the prospect of cancer
far from his budding consciousness

my beloved sits patiently
pondering pensively
his last chemo treatment
elusion of death
not far from his mind

i feign to fend off future catastrophes
watching letters scramble across my screen
earnestly writing
in a desperate attempt
to be with him forevermore

an aquamarine hummingbird drenched in tranquility
senses the inverse
its amber tipped wings stand seemingly stationary
while it steals a quick glance through the window
curious at chemical infusions meant to heal

my beloved walks out
of the austere building
with rose colored glasses i feel
that we’ll whirl on the tips of gilded stardust
dancing with another chance to fly


©2016janetaylor

Glades and Creeks.

One day in a journey far far away,  the forest was speaking to a lone wanderer.
"I am quite the clean forest, am I not?." The forest whispered soothingly.
"Mmhm." Spoke the wanderer, passive by such an interjection.
"Of course. Thousands of forests have wilted and died under the hand of man. I remain lush and brimming to the birch with life."
"Where is my way out of here?" The wanderer asked, becoming quite needy at the thought of having to spend the night in that dung-infested greenhouse.

The forests name was Evergreen. Allot of forests were named Evergreen. This forest had just been sold cheaply to a large logging firm who would come and tear the ugly trees down. The proprietors of that sale was a tribe of Indians. The specific agent who devised and contracted the sale was named Nahiko. An Indian tribesmen who, like his ancestors could speak to the forest.

Indians were what Europeans called people from India and natives of America. Allot of Indians in America were killed for being Indian. When an Indian boy came of age, they would be thrown into a jungle and starve until they saw an animal spirit. This was probably prelude to eating said spirit animal while thanking it for helping him live on.

"I, Evergreen implore you to stay within my womb of plant and fauna."
"Hm." replied the wanderer. Not wanting to argue.
The wanderer took a seat beside a flowing creek on a rock. The creek lead up to waterfall, which in turn lead through a river that spanned for miles. The river did not speak as it was an extension of the forest, Evergreen. Down the creek was the old homes of the Indian tribe.
"Have you ever saved someone else?" The wanderer asked.
"My yes, of course. Everyone who is to enter without water or food is rescued by my charming animals! And luxurious streams. I am quite hospitable you see. There was a tribe who lived within me, they were by name called the Perchil tribe. But they had to leave for more. Hmph. As if anything up in that ****** town is worth more then me."

Further up the river, away from the forest was a town named "Milan". It was named after a kingdom of the same name in Italy. People in Milan spoke German. This was odd given Milan lay in south America, but not unusual given its history of being a port to German slave traders who came from a German colony called "Tanganyika" in Africa. The town was named Milan because the Germans wanted to appear more Italian. This desire was apparent in their most famous dishes "schnitzel Pizza" and "Pasta Salsiccia". Pasta Salsiccia was pasta in a sausage casing often served with tomato sauce and mashed potatoes.

Perchil was also a member of that Indian tribe. He was Nahiko's brother and had a family of his own. Perchil was born in Evergreen and educated in Milan. He had been fighting with Nahiko over the terms of sale of the forest. Nahiko had wanted to preserve the land of old tribe. Perchil was already drawing up plans to sell it to an oil foundry. Their land happened to be on top of a great oil reserve. That means allot of animals lived and died on that land millions or thousands of years ago. There body would dissolve into a black gooey liquid used to fuel heavy machinery. This machinery is used by logging firms to cut down not exclusively, forests named Evergreen.

The wanderer, feeling awkward asked. "So, you'd rather not want to be destroyed?"
"Oh, I am a forest and I do maintain a will of my own and wants. But I cannot rather things should be anything other than what they are. The world is a destructive place. It is disrespectful of its former home and ancestry. I know this. I have tried however, to ward off the workmen by scaring them with my animals. In the end I shall become a town or a shopping mall."
In 3 years time, the deed to "Evergreen plains, Milan" would be sold and used to build a shopping mall named aptly "Evergreen Mall". And the forests voice would be spoke out of loudspeakers, but in the form of either a pre-recorded message or announcement about a lost child. Nahiko and Perchil would be married in Evergreen Mall. Nahiko three times.

"Oh woe is me, I lament my lost brothers and sister forests who are no longer beaming and prideful of their enormous trees and crested riverbanks."
"Maybe they should have defended themselves better." The wanderer spoke, trying unsuccessfully to show concern.
"Well, I for one will never give up fighting the man!"
"Good for you." The wanderer then ate his lunch.

Three days from now, the forest would stop speaking to anyone who arrived within its borders and see the lone wanderer again. But this time, he would be protected by four glass windows inside a piece of machinery powered by black gooey liquid called a "harvester" which lifted up wood and cut it into easily transportable pieces.

"Do you, believe in god wanderer?" The forest asked, to strike up some conversation.
"I do believe in god. He's the reason I get up in the morning and assists me in supporting my family."
"I don't. I don't think I believe in god, wanderer. If he exists, how could he let something so beautiful as I and my brother and sister forests be turned into shopping malls and townships like Milan."
The evergreen forest had seen the name "Milan" as a city nearby on a poster which flew into the twig of its tree. The poster was now lying on smooth ground weighted down by a root, as so the forest can read it over and over again. The poster advertised Pasta Salsiccia at a local restaurant in Milan. It had appetizing pictures of Pizza with crumbed steak on it and Pasta filled Sausages.
"God once flooded the earth, destroying all forests and people for their misgivings. Maybe you misgave and people are your divine punishment."
The forest grew silent and whispered soft hymns of wind against the leaves and overgrown shrubbery.

The edge of the creek, where the wanderer sat on a rock had a hard sand that stretched out a few meters disappeared into the dirt. It was unusual to see a small bed of sand without any other visible placements of sand. The wanderer had been dumping it there, with permission from the forest so he could form a base to store his harvester. The forest did not know of the sands purpose, she thought it looked pretty.
"If I were god, the world would be nothing but forests!" Evergreen stated. The gentle words turning a harsher coarse crackling of branches.
"The world seems to be nothing but people right now. Maybe gods a man."
"Unlikely! If god was a man, he would certainly love forests enough to never cut them down."
"Hm." The wanderer was dissatisfied with this explanation, but didn't want to argue.

"Would you **** anyone who came into your forest, just to prove a point?" The wanderer asked, waiting pensively.
"Oh no, as I said. I cannot change what already is and certainly would not bloom the effort to try. Besides. I also know about those people and their weapons. When it comes to human beings, no matter how hard I fight they will always win. How they ever came to develop boom guns and ratatatat chainsaws I have no idea. If they came from my forest, people would certainly have never developed tools so cruel and menacing. But, I suppose Eden had her way for you. Even if it was, at the cost of all our kind."
"Yeah. No matter forest or person, people always win. I'll always be below some rich powerful man too." The wanderer felt melancholy for feeling unimportant. The forest felt the same melancholy for her life and the world.

Suddenly and finally, a noise came from the wanderers pants. He then picked out his phone, clicked it and took it to his ear. After two hours, the wanderer walked east and out of Evergreen forest. He visited her three days later in his noisy harvester. made to cut wood. He parked on his sand bed. The wanderer left his harvester and locked the door without a word. Evergreen forest was properly harvested of its trees in 3 years time. Never uttering a word or complaint. The painted marking on the harvester she saw everyday however, was her last thought as she disappeared. The word painted onto the door of the harvester, its operator. "Perchil."

Sapphire drops of moonlight bounced off her umbrella and a cool, smoky mist escaped her crimson lips every once and so often.There she stood alone, on a loud, bright and miserable winters’ night. Pensively gazing over the glistening city streets before her.

Echoes of light gleamed from the windows of bars and cafes. Reflections of lover’s kisses melted in a cold November rain. Live music, laughter, conversation! O what a cheerful sight is the city at night, for all but one this evening.

Such striking acts of delight and love did nothing but depress her.

This loner longs to stand with the pack and live her life, instead of merely existing. She is the Steppenwolf of her time. Unwanted and alone. And much like the original Steppenwolf, she gives and cares for others very much like family. Alas, despite her best efforts, she could never fit in.

And perhaps, never will.

I'm glad he left me
in a Window by the Sea
See I had forgotten
to Be
Truer to Myself than he.

And now, drowning in misery,
I never seem to feel happy.
So it's a relief to stare pensively
Through this Window by the Sea,
and observe how mesmerizing
and brighter my reflection is,
Without He who stood beside Me.

(From a Persian Carpet)


Ash and strewments, the first moth-wings, pale
Ardour of brief evenings, on the fecund wind;
Or all a wing, less than wind,
Breath of low herbs upfloats, petal or wing,
Haunting the musk precincts of burial.
For the season of newer riches moves triumphing,
Of the evanescence of deaths. These potpourris
Earth-tinctured, jet insect-bead, cinder of bloom—
How weigh while a great summer knows increase,
Ceaselessly risen, what there entombs?—
Of candour fallen from the slight stems of Mays,
Corrupt of the rim a blue shades, pensively:
So a fatigue of wishes will young eyes.
And brightened, unpurged eyes of revery, now
Not to glance to fabulous groves again!
For now deep presence is, and binds its close,
And closes down the wreathed alleys escape of sighs.
And now rich time is weaving, hidden tree,
The fable of orient threads from bough to bough.
Old rinded wood, whose lissomeness within
Has reached from nothing to its covering
These many corymbs’ flourish!—And the green
Shells which wait amber, breathing, wrought
Towards the still trance of summer’s centering,
Motives by ravished humble fingers set,
Each in a noon of its own infinite.
And here is leant the branch and its repose
of the deep leaf to the pilgrim plume. Repose,
Inflections brilliant and mute of the voyager, light!
And here the nests, and freshet throats resume
Notes over and over found, names
For the silvery ascensions of joy. Nothing is here
But moss and its bells now of the root’s night;
But the beetle’s bower, and arc from grass to grass
For the flight in gauze. Now its fresh lair,
Grass-deep, nestles the cool eft to stir
Vague newborn limbs, and the bud’s dark winding has
Access of day. Now on the subtle noon
Time’s image, at pause with being, labours free
Of all its charge, for each in coverts laid,
Of clement kind; and everlastingly,
In some elision of bright moments is known,
Changed wide as Eden, the branch whose silence sways
Dazzle of the murmurous leaves to continual tone;
Its separations, sighing to own again
Being of the ignorant wish; and sways to sight,
Waked from it nighted, the marvelous foundlings of light;
Risen and weaving from the ceaseless root
A divine ease whispers toward fruitfulness,
While all a summer’s conscience tempts the fruit.

I poured out every thought upon the page,
Filling it up with all the rage and anger,
That you have instilled inside me.
My pen literally quivered,
As I held it in my sweaty hand,
Yet the words flowed swiftly,
As venomous as any snake,
And almost as deadly.
As I poured the last of the wine into my glass,
I reviewed my handiwork.
Three pages of anger.
Three pages of hurt.
An expression of all you’ve done to me,
As best as I possibly could.
I carefully folded the letter,
And stuffed it in the envelope.
And with quivering pen,
I wrote out your address.
It was late, and I’d post it in the morning.
I went off to bed that night.
The next day I spent quietly around the house.
It was cold outside,
And it was warm by the fire.
In the afternoon,
I opened another bottle of wine.
I sat pensively for some time,
Just watching the flames dance
Upon the logs in the fireplace.
Amidst the crackling of the timbers,
I picked up the envelope.
I stare down at your name upon it.
I take another sip of wine,
And remove the letter.
As I begin to read it again,
I am reminded of everything you’ve ever done.
All the hurt you’ve caused,
To myself and my family,
Comes back again over three pages.
My blood starts to boil again,
And my palms start to sweat.
There is a damp thumbprint on the page,
And the edges of the letter are damp and frayed,
From holding it tightly in my hands.
I lean back in my chair.
I know I am not ready to forgive.
I don’t know that I ever will be.
And God knows I will never forget.
In fact, I hope you rot in Hell,
And if I could deliver you there myself,
Lord knows, I would.
But, I can never stoop to your level.
I can never stoop to your level.
I sit for some time just watching the fire.
In a while, I pick up the letter,
And walk over to the fireplace.
I toss it upon the flames.
I sit back down and sip my wine.
And as I watch the letter burn,
The sparks crackling,
And the black soot fall upon the logs,
I know I can never stoop to your level,
But, there’s a part of me that says to myself,
“God, I wish that letter were you.”

11-07-11.

Dancing on the edge of the horizon
A sea breeze looks for love
You watch pensively,
A paintbrush in your hand
Your feet soaking in painted waters
And you,
Encapsulated by the freedom of the wind,
That you have only seen in your dreams,

you fall in love with life all over again

SHY one, Shy one,
Shy one of my heart,
She moves in the firelight
pensively apart.
She carries in the dishes,
And lays them in a row.
To an isle in the water
With her would I go.
With catries in the candles,
And lights the curtained room,
Shy in the doorway
And shy in the gloom;
And shy as a rabbit,
Helpful and shy.
To an isle in the water
With her would I fly.

Hello
It's nice to see you
Across the room with your chin on your hand
Quietly listening, pensively waiting
For the time to end
On my end no thought is given
Ok, Maybe a glance from time to time, I must admit
"What do you know about him?
He doesn't seem too bad."

Hello
Its nice to meet you
This time in a different way
I make jokes and laugh it off
But I'm starting to notice more and more often
That I'm asking questions and talking more than I'd like
Just so you can look up and see me
Just see me, that's all I want
I haven't been like this in over four years
I forgot how this felt
and why I waited so long to feel like this again

Hello
It's nice to speak to you
for the first time since I first saw you
I pick up my spilled bag early so I can run out with the bell
Through the hallway on the opposite of my next class
like I do everyday
And everyday I wonder if I should say something;
"Did we have any homework?"
And you would answer
But I say nothing
And I always wish I did

Hello
I'd like to tell you
So many things that I know I never will
I never thought I'd pray for small talk
Yet here I am being put on hold
One conversation, one laugh that I produced is all I want!
I just don't know how to get it

Hello
If it's okay with you
Let's go somewhere alone
and pretend to be people we're not

Hello hello
If she's the one for you
That's fine but let the verdict be close
Second place is fine
But I'd like to be in the running

Hello hello hello
The things I thought were true
Don't hold up like they used to
You don't have to play guitar
Your job doesn't have to be a dream
Everything new I learn is suddenly fine by me

Hello hello hello hello
I'd like to be to you
A classmate
A partner
A colleague
An old friend
If that's what you need me to be
Just please
Don't let me be a stranger

April this year, not otherwise
  Than April of a year ago,
Is full of whispers, full of sighs,
  Of dazzling mud and dingy snow;
  Hepaticas that pleased you so
Are here again, and butterflies.

There rings a hammering all day,
  And shingles lie about the doors;
In orchards near and far away
  The grey wood-pecker taps and bores;
  The men are merry at their chores,
And children earnest at their play.

The larger streams run still and deep,
  Noisy and swift the small brooks run
Among the mullein stalks the sheep
  Go up the hillside in the sun,
  Pensively,—only you are gone,
You that alone I cared to keep.

The Violin’s azure strings wept softly,
from inside of a mind made cell;
musical echoes lamenting,
a poignant abyss too vast to fill
each and all silenced reverie,
leaving the philosopher’s stone
                                          unthrown

Blue guitar minor chord changes,
bent notes phrasing sharps and flats;
memories ―      gently weeping confirmation
as a repressed flow of soul
pensively leaks out

The spirit's currents eddy
suffused within written verve;
silently purging the soul's fountains ―

                                    musical rivulets swell
                                     quietly overflowing
                              an alchemist’s soul unfurled...


        © harlon rivers ... all rights reserved

She was always the other woman, flowers in her hair, cascading down her back
freckles covering, porcelain skin, cupids bow, painted dark red, hair strawberry blonde
vintage fashion of Henry a la Pensée, envelope chemise, peignoir, blue iris mink fur
shoulders forward, rain splintering, bare legs, André Perugia shoe, one lost amidst the cobbles
favourite novel in arm, to read, as she contemplates her choice, Gertrude Stein; Fernhurst
oh how can one author write ones heart so articulately she thought so pensively, the other women
spring blossom blown away as a puff of pink smoke, a thief in the night, racing past the library
the winding stair case, the oh so fabulous and opulent parties, laughter and cocktails
the tower in sight, a beating of an empty heart, lovers lost, a baby once nurtured
taken, those back street black market abortion clinics, she'd never recovered
she shivered, the time was now, black streaks of mascara, tragedy, loss, pain
the tower was in reach, she gazed upwards, it was near to midnight,
perfect, she thought, the exact time she lost her sister off this same tower,
both plunging to their deaths, love broken, hearts kidnapped nowhere in sight
the game was about to begin, her happiness quashed, every hour, the motions run
dreaming of the afterlife, sedated by drink, she waited it out, effortlessly thinking,
what now,
with a kick of the last shoe, a stumble to the edge, she fell, like a graced angel in flight
devoured by the night.

© Sia Jane
--

“I too am convinced that life is dark, and at the same time I love life.”
Simone de Beauvoir

Time...a puzzle
   to realists and surrealists alike

Time...a puzzle
   of grand pieces
    obvious if obtuse
     obtrusive and obstructive
   laboriously laid to waste
    constructing a picture of existence
     solid yet stolid

Time...a puzzle
   of fine pieces
    subtle if sharp
     spacious and serene
   pensively placed at random
    culminating in a mosaic of life
      fragmented yet feeling

Time...a puzzle of pieces
   contained within a box
   ...or...
   in a different dimension altogether...

I

Mr. and Mrs. Discobbolos
    Lived on the top of the wall,
  For twenty years, a month and a day,
  Till their hair had grown all pearly gray,
    And their teeth began to fall.
They never were ill, or at all dejected,
By all admired, and by some respected,
      Till Mrs. Discobbolos said,
      'Oh! W! X! Y! Z!
      'It has just come into my head,
'We have no more room at all--
        'Darling Mr. Discobbolos

II

'Look at our six fine boys!
    'And our six sweet girls so fair!
  'Upon this wall they have all been born,
  'And not one of the twelve has happened to fall
    'Through my maternal care!
'Surely they should not pass their lives
'Without any chance of husbands or wives!'
      And Mrs. Discobbolos said,
      'Oh! W! X! Y! Z!
      'Did it never come into your head
'That our lives must be lived elsewhere,
        'Dearest Mr. Discobbolos?

III

'They have never been at a ball,
    'Nor have ever seen a bazaar!
  'Nor have heard folks say in a tone all hearty
  "What loves of girls (at a garden party)
    Those Misses Discobbolos are!"
'Morning and night it drives me wild
'To think of the fate of each darling child!'
      But Mr. Discobbolos said,
      'Oh! W! X! Y! Z!
      'What has come to your fiddledum head!
'What a runcible goose you are!
        'Octopod Mrs. Discobbolos!'

IV

Suddenly Mr. Discobbolos
    Slid from the top of the wall;
  And beneath it he dug a dreadful trench,
  And fille it with dynamite, gunpowder gench,
    And aloud he began to call--
'Let the wild bee sing,
'And the blue bird hum!
'For the end of our lives has certainly come!'
      And Mrs. Discobbolos said,
      'Oh! W! X! Y! Z!
      'We shall presently all be dead,
'On this ancient runcible wall,
        'Terrible Mr. Discobbolos!'

V

Pensively, Mr. Discobbolos
    Sat with his back to the wall;
  He lighted a match, and fired the train,
  And the mortified mountain echoed again
    To the sound of an awful fall!
And all the Discobbolos family flew
In thousands of bits to the sky so blue,
      And no one was left to have said,
      'Oh! W! X! Y! Z!
      'Has it come into anyone's head
'That the end has happened to all
        'Of the whole of the Clan Discobbolos?'

Ruby lips etched sharply
Against a gauzy memory
Pensively floating on the hope
Of a love long lost.
She resides in a murky present
Time out of place
Creating a romance of a silky past
Delicately draped on her soft shoulders.
Locked in a whirlpool of faded emotions
She yearns for substance that is both
Supportive and translucent
Unsatisfied but not hopeless
Resting upon her reverie
Evening slips into night
Dreams envelop her.

Graceful Suffering
By Ursula D. Jones
Palindrome Poetry (Mirror Poem)
November 6, 2023

Suffering gracefully is always giving in gentleness,
Smiling cheerfully in enduring pain and grief.
Learning wisdom in silence and loneliness,
Pensively guiding and directing frivolities composed of youthfulness.
Only healing for longing, wounded, and lonesome hearts,
Friendship offered and taken. Never returned companionship.
Suffering graceful, with happiness for all, never jealous, nor spiteful.
Peacefully—
spiteful, nor jealous. Never. All for happiness with graceful suffering,
Companionship returned never. Taken and offered friendship.
Hearts, lonesome and wounded, longing for healing only.
Youthfulness of composed frivolities; directing and guiding pensively.
Loneliness and silence in wisdom learning,
Greif and pain enduring in cheerfully smiling.
Gentleness in giving always is gracefully suffering.

Underneath the pecan tree is where I'll be,
Waiting for you to come back to me
Until then the roots will cradle me tenderly
And I will bide my time patiently
The branches will envelope me as I dream of you pensively
The leaves will talk to me as I think of you ardently
The tree engulfs me the more you're not a part of me,
And I allow it
If you don't come the tree and I will become one

No one knows me, and I mean that wholeheartedly.

Any clue you think I let slip was thought about carefully.
Any sigh or smile was planned out perfectly.
My curt replies written out pensively.
My attitude delivered deliberately.
My laughs emitted purposely.
Any sign of being intrigued thought about timely.
The bounce in my step choreographed repetitively.
Any cry made Oscar-ly.
Any sign of hopelessness shown thoughtfully.

Whether my skies are gray or blue,
*You only connect the dots I give you.

You’re aged thirty-two with your own bottomless bank account.
A pocket full of cash that’s digging a deep immeasurable pit into your pocket.
Spending ridiculous amounts on ridiculous things, no matter if it costs over a million.

You’re aged thirty-two with your own supercharged automobile.
Fresh new stainless steel alloys and rubber tires to burn at the turn of the diamond studded steering wheel.
Chasing the marks on the road as you drive off into your own endless oblivion.

You’re aged thirty-two with your own house in New York.
The doors of which let hundreds of guests pass through night after night into the never-ending carnivals rides of Coney Island.

But when they leave you standing alone on your peer, pensively pondering your past,
Reaching out for her green light across the misty filled lake.
Trying to work out how to bring her back, but only this time making it last.

She’s just across on the other side of the bay,
With no idea that the hole in her back is being burned by the fires of your eyes.
As you stand disguised staring into her yellow solar flare hair in the morning sunrise.

You’re aged thirty-two with an unfilled heart.
Longing for the girl that you should have never left in the start.
But she’s with someone new and she’s probably forgotten all about that year she spent with you.

You're just the distant memory reaching across the bay,
The one that the whisperers say was a lonely millionaire aged only thirty-two.

in hyper-tensive past-tenses of aggression
gargantuan fences and elephants pensively
define the inequality of mind
killer whales
impale the snails
upon knives that shine with yesterday's  
newest movies
new longings for leggings
more guns for the incessant
humdrum
of drums and drones
beaten down to the bone
and then boiled and burned
the broth is thick as slime
a liquid sludge you could never dine upon
unless your next wish was death
and in case her face
made you pace the halls
her breath made you face
the waterfalls of the spirit
under this scenario
we danced a living image
hurried and hunted
just as the mountains crumbled
we got ******
and stunted our growth
as furry souls with feline dreams
deliver their music
in their coats
under their armor
their is a charmer
who sings all manners of worlds into being
forming a third unity
another understanding
is standing under
her dress
he caressed her thigh and lifted
her alibis to the ski
in her eyes are comets
just passing by
in her mouth the sun
heads towards the south and orbits
her heart a thousand times
i have called you before
and no-one answered the door
i have walked your gardens
with seeds falling from my beard
cut the pieces out of leftover pockets
and raced for the fields
that allow for our rockets
to attack the moon

It’s out of my reach
There are always vultures hovering pensively above for any remains
And your sad blue eyes have seen a million disappointments
From
Sea
To
Sea
And I don’t think an
“It’ll be okay”
Will stop them from sinking

And the ****** addicts, and the prostitutes, and all those corporate men
Will live on blithely
While you slowly wither

Whatever they say
Love is never enough
It is a merely a puppet show
Colorful and loud
With a Shakespearean script

During its duration
It’s master drinks a fifth
Until his cheeks are rosy and his eyes are bullets
Until he stumbles onto the stage he built piece by piece
Filled with liquored-up animosity
He’ll rip his wooden companions apart

Wood rigid like claws
Protruding with unabashed vehemence
Paint seeping like a thousand comets gone awry
The audience erupts with laughter
Destruction being
The only logical way
Hearts are suppose to end up

I’ll pull you in until my veins scream with purple agony
But you’ll simply unhook my line and smile
Your face will dismiss me with false reassurance

You just crack open a beer

And the storm continues it’s unwavering journey
You look down at your bottle and your blue eyes fall into it
You’ll take a sip and glance up
And the sky is nothing but pestilence
Face solemn and unmoved
Eyes filled with white

You crack open another

It takes on deaths horrible form thereunto,
Breaching the seas pensively askew;
Spun brutally from troubling winds of false accord,
Ignored by expression but surely explored.

O 'tis madness, voices beat savagely in my head,
Upon quiet of night as insanely they wilfully imbed.
Through mortal fear I am awakened,
There's nowhere pleasant to run 'tis my chastened.

Of life's despairs nor demons wrathful hold,
Hast thereof nightmares foretold.
In the chilling air, killing heedful wisdoms impaired,
Had I faltered, I'd been sadly unprepared.

Pressed onwards I could only dream,
With care it'd be a future supreme.
Deep in my bleeding thoughts I tried to grasp it,
Yet every brutal bound 'twas likely unfit.

Ah, let evil echo through my disrupting mind,
The faces, that blushed mostly unkind.
A hideous desire inexplicable, entombed from within,
Hastily it beckons thereunto an original sin.

The voices, whose horrid duty I deplore,
Of the old vast despairs it will implore.
But alone I am 'tis surely surpassing a realm of rage,
And all I seen, mattered naught offstage.

Regrettably in the valley of despair I have always lived,
Therefrom I am truly a weltered child deprived.
Onto the rough cobble stones bloodied and quite torn,
That tragic wind, caught in hells uproar forlorn.

A sea of red, kept in an eternal twinge,
Through to agonies I'd impinge.
Ah how they weep, the mystic fools they weep,
In fake smiles these too rustle forth and reap.

Though I'm stirred I cannot follow,
O'er endless toil I as wallow.
Unto violent passions, soaring in tempting extremes,
Of pastures buried, a life in poor redeems.

For nothing concerted I came thereafter seeking,
Every question asked it begged a haggard beseeching.
Thus in a dim labyrinth of lies I found some solace,
Here in the direst valley of despair it's my disgrace.

Coranalled with ruby lumanecents,
She purified her hands sanguinary,
Disdaining her heart's curt, desperate repents,
She plunged into Phlegethon pensively.

Like a mother nursing her one child,
A metal bottle played her heart's succor,
She saw the world: imperfect, defiled,
And laid herself to rest on the wood floor.

Then she prayed, "If I die before I wake,
I pray the lord my branches don't break"

I sat this evening
there beneath the swallowing trees
adjacent to the immortal stumps.
I sat
and thought.
Nothing new. Don't die.
Relax. Persevere *******!

And I happened to believe myself.
"He's wise sometimes," I said.
The passers passed me by,
averting their curious little beady eyes,
purposefully blindsiding the phantasmic figure
curled up pensively. They rush by.
I eat the dusking sky
and the squirrels and placid spiders
night down within the knowing trees.

Peaceingly, the twilight dawns anew.
Unsteady, I stride toward clumping moths with
wishful confidence. Meaning only words,
the gentle enfolding blacks behind
and the lighted moths bat my lashes
as I reach incandescent optimism.
"Well, we'll see," says he.

It's been said that
I stain the desert red.
That with my pen
I killed them.

Just like that.

But I don't feel like a monster
when the flint of her fingertips
ignites the spark in my hand.
I watch her toes kiss the floor,
breathes and sighs,
closes her eyes
while I read silently.
Sometimes,
I laugh to relieve the burden
of my decisions.
So I turn on the television.
They're saying
I stain the desert red.

Just like that.

But I don't feel like a butcher
when the soles of their shoes
tap on the bowels on the aircraft.
I watch foreign oceans change shape beneath my
as if I am sitting inside a kaleidoscope.
Over the din of my doubt
I hear them laugh and swear and jab
about their lives
their boring wives
while I sit pensively.
Sometimes, I drink to absolve the burden
of my fears.
So I cradle my vices,
suckle them,
let their fiery liquor caress my soft palate.
Somewhere,
I can hear the radio.
It says I stain the desert red.
That with my hand,
I killed them.

Just like that.

But I don't feel like a murderer
when I am being lifted onto the shoulders
of quiet, hungry adversaries.
Feet scuffling,
papers shuffling.
Sometimes ,
I sigh to relieve the burden of my duty,
if only momentarily
until I am reawakened
by the cooing mantra
that lingers like an aftertaste.
It purrs to me.
It is the voice of my daughters
and it is not about how
I stain the desert red
but how I painted their world with
color.


-for George W. Bush

It was late, of course, and the glow of the light
illuminated the dark shadows in the corner of my room.

Sitting with our limbs entwined
sipping on our second glass of wine,
we were discussing in our usual tired eye manner.
I watched as you pensively considered reincarnation.

“Maybe a blue jay or a lazy panda”, you said laughing
“or rather a busy otter or a black lab”.

I got quiet as I contemplated this idea.
Not sure whether I’d want to come back as an animal
or even another living thing.

While you raised your glass to your lips
I raised the question to myself and began to wonder
what it would be like to return as one of your ribs.

To be with you all the time,
perched quietly beneath the soft weight of your breast,
riding along under the soft fabric of your flannel shirts.

Maybe I’d return as your favourite rib,
if you even bothered to count,
which is what I did when you fell asleep that night.

The bare of your chest rising and falling,
gently firming and unfirming the shape of your cage,
hearing the slow of your breath as you relaxed.

My legs grazed the length of yours,
my fingers doing that crazy numbering thing
choosing which ribs I would like to perch
my reincarnated self between.

During the time
in between
my two most recent mosquito bites,
we had met
and you had left.
Tonight,
I pensively trace over
the brim of the
first mosquito bite of the year,
reminiscing.

pure is water
   underground
        oh la la

set in soul
   sings in tome
oh la la

still pilgrim nigh
   prayer whereabouts
       in-ground

romantically in
   that stone hall
        oh la la

there tirelessly
   ensconced hers
      with life

she pensively
   peruse her asylum  
in ecesis

when bread broken
    with wax bean
       oh la la

          and this d'art
     a priori again
her curio