"revelers" poems
Beautiful summer day. You know you're gonna die
that's why you know no joy
unless religion, tv, stories, sports matter.
For men like us dying's easy, it's living that's hard.
And since dying's much like living, that's hard too.
There's some contentment in letting community decide
your place in it. A good day to die, the Apaches say.
Can't stop the quince from blossoming
or my sons from smoking, speeding.
The best that can be done or said's a blessing.
Less tv, less guessing about the effects of your anger
unless you want to be an angry man forever.
Becoming knowledgeable is the best defense
against your insignificance. OK about being alone.
Alive, almost sure of it. Whether I'm a visitor
to my life or the actual owner.
Mature poets steal, most are masturbators.
There are a million poets, I'm poet #500K.
Plenty of mysteries, infinite philosophies,
prayers, laws and unwritten rules.
That's why we go to school, life's complicated.
All I do not know: ATP, probabilities,
the glorious revolution, meiosis and mitosis
and all I'll never see, the bottom of the ocean,
the palm at the end of the mind, a wolverine.
Forget-me-not, is that all I want?
To get lucky, you gotta be careful first.
To be great, you gotta be willing to sound BAD.
In last night’s movie, a young writer
and an older, married with children French woman
fall in love. They did not meet during a village massacre
and money is no object, Manhattan.
But after everything has happened
she cannot leave her children, not even for love,
because of love, the love that brooks no serendipity.
In the subsequent late night movie, a wealthy
altruistic doctor arranges for the ******
of his neurotic concubine. His guilt
provides us with an opportunity to consider
the concepts of faith and forgiveness,
that all will be well in the end
after a period of meaningless suffering.
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 5:21 AM UTC
amidst Jeffersonian opulence
the Prez broke bread with his
GOP poker face friends
to solve government gridlock
and sequester predicament trends
citizens of the republic
hopeful for nonsense to cease
sat at the table asking
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
Obama perused the wine list
boldly choosing a luscious Merlot
senators ordered the finest hors d'oeuvres
the guests were all aglow
numerous delectable dishes
were liberally splayed on the table
revelers sipped flowing vintages
wine a surefire icebreaker
sparkling crystal Lennox flutes
tinkled with convivial release
while America’s disenfranchised
voices ask
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
chutney meat, curried hens and
sweet walnut rainbow trout
the table a horn a plenty
the guests gorged on fine cuisine
a blessed nations bounty
the feast consumed
the Senators sated
said it was some
of the finest ever served
but the taxpayers only
got a peak of the banquet
a whiff of senators nerve
and asked
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
the dessert cart was rolled in
with custards, cakes, creme brulee
cordials, cognac and VSOP tastes
rounded out the wholesome feast
when the check was presented
for payment all guests headed
for the door with haste
they told the waiter the bill of fare
was covered
by the guy asking...
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
Music Selection:
Andre Williams:
Pass The Biscuits Please
jbm
Oakland
3/7/13
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
As darkness fall, the veil thin,
The year is drawing nigh.
Shadows lengthen, gather strength,
The year is drawing nigh.
The dead they stir, and look around,
The year is drawing nigh.
Tonight they walk, tonight they dine,
The year is drawing nigh.
The sinks down, she’s dying now,
The year is drawing nigh.
Beneath the hills, the dying sun,
The year is drawing nigh.
Hollow hills, they open wide,
The year is drawing nigh.
Faerie folk, the mighty dead,
The year is drawing nigh.
Samhain’s fires, burning bright,
The year is drawing nigh.
To dance around, in death’s embrace,
The year is drawing nigh.
Ancestors dead, some long gone,
The year is drawing nigh.
We tip a glass, we place a plate,
The year is drawing nigh.
Death stands up, tonight he reigns,
The year is drawing nigh.
In darkness strong, the dying year,
The year is drawing nigh.
The revelers grow deathly quiet,
The year is drawing nigh.
All knees bend and all tongue stilled,
The year is drawing nigh.
For Death takes all and all will come,
The year is drawing nigh.
The Gates of Death, they open wide,
The year is drawing nigh.
His face you meet, at Death’s great doors,
The year is drawing nigh.
A friend, a judge, a lover, a blade,
The year is drawing nigh.
His embrace is sweet, but deathly cold,
The year is drawing nigh.
In love he strips you, bone from bone,
The year is drawing nigh.
Nothing left, you pass beyond,
The year is drawing nigh.
The veil it parts, the doors swing wide,
The year is drawing nigh.
Your last strong breath, last ******
The year is drawing nigh.
And through you go, to what’s beyond,
The year is drawing nigh.
But Death’s great doors and Life’s fair doors,
The year is drawing nigh.
What’s dead and gone, will be reborn,
The year is drawing nigh.
A new breath breathed, a new day dawns,
The year is drawing nigh.
Death to Life, he takes your hand,
The year is drawing nigh.
All is gone, but all in new,
The year is drawing nigh.
The new dawn’s sun, in the east,
The year is drawing nigh.
The cold it flees, the shadows hide,
The year is drawing nigh.
Dark Samhain’s night to new year’s light,
The year is drawing nigh.
What was dead has come again.
Oct 31, 2011
Oct 31, 2011 at 2:01 PM UTC
the tides swell
and hearts quell
my body shakes in anticipation
of profund ecstasy of liberation
and not the emptiness of libations
the bright moon light keeps the revelers out
thirsting for soemthing they cannot name
in a drunken fanatic frenzy they shout
claiming a new change in life when they remain the same
the ocean waves crash
and so do my thoughts
an uncontrollable maelstrom that spreads like a rash
only to find peace in the still silence I've always sought
Finally I am home and I bask in the light of the full moon
I too was a reveled once howling at the moon
but now instead I drink in the spirit of life
I might have spoke too soon
because my heart still feels stife
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 12:03 AM UTC
Awake to a slowly beating drum
morning meditation drifting up the hill
in the garden, tiny birds add sweet highs
tuneless ravens, the bass undertone
trees whisper ancient lyrics
on the passing breeze.
We stroll the Path of Philosophy
through massive wooden gates
into carefully sculpted gardens
exploring the endless number
of temples dotting Kyoto
each more lovely than the last.
Quiet Nanzen-Ji
is where I feel the most
following worship worn
steps to a cave-shrine
heady with wet
and incense
we are purified
by waterfall spray
before returning
the way we came
voices hushed
buoyed by eternity’s hand.
The hotel lobby is filled
with crimson and saffron
glistening heads and broad smiles
from monks gathered there
we bow to each other and are one
may it never be forgotten
revelers arrive by busload
for hanami, cherry blossom viewing
beneath a revered tree
decked out in pink splendor
lit from below to radiate
surreal, internal light
we sample Kobe yakitori
soba and corn
grilled over open flame
as we flow
through the smiling
celebratory crowd
we savor
what is transitory
as sparks
and blossoms whirl
settling on
our hair and skin.
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 12:15 PM UTC
In to the mystery of the night, i wander
the tangled tarantula garden
canopied with prophesies of light,
Lit windows are making
overtures to desires
night unleashes at these hours,
hear the buzz in the air
its time to make love,
darkness forgets hurt and embraces light.
i walk alone,
but an enchanting witch wait
for me somewhere in a garden bench,
to take me by my hand to her secret haunt
filled with thick smoke of ****
where she will remove the drapes
to let me see the truth.
On her quill and cactus bed,
she would make me understand,
how far is pleasure from pain
why darkness stalks light,
a jilted lover, walking a few steps behind,
I've heard her, once whisper
to wind in her husky voice
"A life written off by those
who measure out life with coffee spoons,
as spent in vein; this life of mine,
could have its secret treasures,
no charlatan could ever guess about
a serpent's diamonds
very few get to see,
its dangerous to pry, i forgive their ignorance"
Words induced by her dark power
has layers of meaning
but to many it was just meaningless jabbering,
just magic mushroom blabber
She nibbled and nicked my earlobes,
in between intoxicating purrs,
told me the meaning of caterwauls,
**"Its not pain, its not pain,
once you get in to the stream
you only want to drain,
in to the vast blue ocean"**
I recognize now, it's Walpurgis night,
as i walk in search of my witch,
i see dancers around bonfire,
revelers totally out of their minds,
carouse at the heart of the night.
And i see them all, witches in marine blue dresses,
enchantresses in blackly black,
coquettish red or groovy green,
I wait for her to appear,
the only one in resplendent white.
May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 9:49 AM UTC
one
by
one
they
came
no
light
no
candle
to
smudge
the
pure
darkness
children
of
the
shade
revelers
of
midnight
there
to
view
the
event
in
the
womb
of
blackness
moons
were
cocooned
awaiting
the
push
of
labor
~ stars ~
spent
with
their
urgency
await
the
impetus
that
will
send
them
spiraling
out
into
blue
and
gold
galaxies
to
scintillation
with
nebulae
and
so
the
event
the
faces
of
the
creatures
of
the
crepuscule
evaporate
the
moons
are
birthed
into
fire
the
stars
are
scattered
like
a
billion
billiard
*****
the
fabrication
that
was
matter
energy
space
and
time
is
no
more
^
< >
\/
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 11:26 PM UTC
There should be wings of a hundred birds
to churn this scorch with breeze
to dry sweat
shade glare
to soothe the ache
of a post-noon day
There should be varied
and a thousand greens
with all betweens
of innumerable trees
till the blue of sky
blends their deference
And the river heaves its way along
ever on
eternal mission of earth
and...
...Heaven-- sure misses so much some days
Cool remote
Transcended as it be
Replete with rains
and relief of clouds
The Angelus in the distance....
with its affluent affinity for air
Revelers leave their party debris
for those making sure
not a sign is left....
We sort and fold, collapse and pack
Somehow between chairs, tables
cans and bottles, assorted trash
They come--
crouch on the levee
wander and stare
aimless amid tall dry weeds
Inhabit a bench, a moment--
Wild
filtering through our fabrication
Wind to dissipate our purpose
Trees invading abandoned fields
“The poor you have with you always”
“I'm not drunk,”
she drunkenly proclaims
to no one
except maybe….
Leaning over her opened beer
seated on bench adorably painted
with joyful hands
Who fondly held or hoped for her?
Before....
days of dirt troweled a shadow
in the sweat between her *******
Filthy tank that barely covers
derelict denial
How they find themselves established
as we make to leave
WE, of our homes and cars and jobs
and plans of escape
They--
of always
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 11:28 PM UTC
In the depths of my dark side
Their is another me that worships you.
Mad priest, in black and ****** robes
Devotee of ****** satisfaction
Legate of the armies of conquest of the flesh.
This touch will paralyze your will,
If applied inside, you will see soon you,
Slowly you slip down in surrender,
And render yourself unto me,
So I can see how long I can hold my breath
Between your thighs, inhaling the perfume of you,
Unwilling to exhale.
Sacrifices are made to your majesty
In the temple of your body,
On the alter of your creations
The black and white blood is spilt from my soul,
I lose all control, in a head on collision
Of ****** perversions,
Limitless position and orifice combinations,
My balance overthrow in a coup of your moans
I descend into your dark side,
And liberate the screams hidden inside you.
Saliva slick lips spread spit, that mixes with sweat
Muscles taught, working in time with each motion,
Each withdrawal and insertion,
Tender ***** throbbing, pulsing, clenching,
Moving at multiple angles,
pressing the right buttons,
To start the crescendo,
Of scratching, maddening ******
In the presence of a hoard of revelers
Sharing *** with strange people
On a strange stage.
Your bust displayed,
And ten thousand fanatics slit their own throats
In tribute to your infinite ways
Of delivering pleasures through the pleasures I wish to deliver unto you
Incessantly.
Unlocking chakra with tantric secrets uncovered
In the forbidden texts of ****** servitude to you.
I would service you endlessly,
With fanatic glee, but that me I set free to purge my desire,
Fades away an is replaced with the bland, but no less passionate
Love I feel for you.
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 7:33 AM UTC
I wake in this city
This city that didn't bear me
This city that didn't raise me
And yet it's this city that i seek to find something of me
Not in the pubs or the clubs or the karaoke bars
Where revelers conspire to dream and drink to the stars
Nor the cafes where poets and artists in a foreign language create.
Pass the market stalls where secondhand books and vinyls are stacked like freight
It is to the quietened streets of the old town I go
Where i long for the walls to speak once more
To reveal their hidden histories
To help fashion some sense of a man
One unknownst to me, my fathers father whose name I share
A fine skilled seamster, thus a tailor by trade
Not arriving to this city for work on fabrics of nylon and silk
But to stitch and sew the flesh of limbs in a paramedic corps
Another pawn of the Great War under King George's command
Driven only by economic necessity from a penal homeland
Not of conscription, politics or some moral conviction at play
For the price of neutrality is one that poverty simply refuses to pay
Returning home to an Ireland of hostility or silence at best
Medals now lying deep in pockets not proudly pinned to chests
Irish heroes don't fight in a British war for a King's crown
No such stories from father to son shall ever pass down
And now, a grainy photograph, three medals for a sons son to take
A dog tag that bears my name, a number and RC to depict a faith
From a man exiled in his home as a forgotten prisoner of war
To honour a legacy i find myself in this city afar
Asking the same questions of him as to me
Is this city the last place he truly felt free?
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 7:37 AM UTC
When I die,
bury me under a tree,
large and spreading,
so that I may give again to life
and be a home for breezes
and whatever birds
may please to make their home there.
Then climb the battlements
of my old and crumbling castle
in the air
and appreciate the spectacle
of a speck against infinity.
Go to my oak desk
and burn all love letters,
pure and singing though they are.
Let others learn love for themselves,
as I did. It is best.
Then celebrate, inebriate.
Divide up my possessions
and sell a few to buy fireworks that burn
brilliantly and fast.
Raid my cellar, eat, drink, make merry and enjoy,
for tomorrow is unknown.
And when the revelers stagger home,
remember only that I loved incandescently and enjoyed.
Yes, there were futile crusades, furious fusillades and
wild charges against the windmills,
but I did love. Yes, desperately.
That's all.
So goodbye, my friends. Don't grieve.
Please believe that
the gift of love and
this scatter of words
is all I want to leave behind.
See - they flutter from that great tree
that stands against the blustering sky
out there, beyond the mist,
along the pathway to
forever.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 7:24 AM UTC
(10/6/11) Halloween
Let me give an update of Halloween night
When Freddie Krueger and Jason got into a fight.
Blood was flying all around
Yet not one of them made a sound.
Their instruments of death as sharp as can be
And the ending - no one could foresee.
They were joining forces for Halloween night
Since all the Halloween crowd would be waiting for them
Because at midnight the scaring would end.
Now that all the revelers were here
They would plan their rants and jeers.
FREDDIE would pull them out of bed
Then the GRIM REAPER would cut off their heads
Then DRACULA would **** them dry
And their bodies the goblins would hide.
The GHOSTS and WITCHES decided to do their thing
And the frightened victims they would bring.
The GHOULS and WEREWOLF would roam the alleyways
To ensure those that were hidden would not stay.
Now there was FRANKIE, the MUMMY , JASON ,
and the GOBLINS too
They’d hide in the shadows waiting for you.
FRANKIE ,the MUMMY, and JASON were all slow walkers
But they was great as shadow stalkers.
The GOBLINS would trip them to the ground
And jump on them before they could make a sound.
To the graveyard at midnight they would go
Man oh man ! What a wonderful show.
To their places of eternal rest, till next year
When they’ll do their best.
Look at that cemetery and you will see
That this is where they have to be.
Oct 6, 2011
Oct 6, 2011 at 7:27 PM UTC
our part of Guintarcan
where family and relatives resided
was called, Li-og Li-og 1
a very large boulder at area’s end
resembled a disembodied head
lending the name, “small neck” 1
before the war
a peaceful private paradise
miles from town
beautiful birds
coconut trees
all sorts of seaside foliage
young married women
walked barefoot and *******
wearing only a sarong
wound at the waist
they carried round, flat baskets
atop their heads
full of food and other things
early morning, noon or just before dusk
men would be out fishing with nets
sometimes signaling each other
by blowing into conch shells
Father would come home with large conch
baby conch called bucawil
scallops and oysters in their season
he kept a jar of large black pearls
and small white ones
harvest time gathered us all together
Father would go fishing
to bring home a good catch
Mother, aunts and Grandmother
would prepare the treats
sweet potato, cassava and other goodies
men would bring chicken
and pigs to roast
and plenty of tuba to drink
they would build a big bonfire
by the shore
to light up the festivities
women would roast newly harvested palay 2
men would take turns pounding it
in a large mortar and pestal
starting slow then faster and faster
till they had to rest
and let someone else take over
onlookers cheered them
hooting and clapping
it would get so noisy
as the children watched in awe
after the pounding the women took over
shaking and shaking palay in flat oval baskets
tossing husks to wind with movements like artwork
what remained was placed in earthenware bowls
for all to enjoy this delicious 'pilipig'
singing and dancing into night
revelers went home drunk and happy
supporting each other as they staggered
waving goodbye to host and hostess
with a heartfelt and hardy
“Salamat!”
2 - rice with husks
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 2:46 PM UTC
Broken girl
Folded over the curb
Neon pink wig
Halo on her head
Vomiting in the street
"Lose a contact?"
A smart *** says
Lost
She has lost more than that
Vodkas, beers, lemon drops
Spin her head
Completely around
Sea salt spray
Mists on her lips
Clears her mind
For a brief moment
Memories try to sneak back in
But the liquor swirls them away
********* on unsteady feet
Jostles her way
Back into the Riptide
Crowded with Halloween revelers
Sits, then slips off the
Retro bar stool
Asks for more punishment in a glass
Anything to make the pain push away
Even if just for a few hours
She's now had her fill
Halo a bit askew
Pink wig in place
Friends gather 'round
She's incapable of walking
Arms around each other
They make the long journey home
She gratefully passes out
On the cool, crisp sheets
Oblivious to the pain for several more hours
Avoided until she wakes up
To the cold, hard truth
There's no escaping it now
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 1:40 AM UTC
The Street is pretty empty
Just the locals out tonight
It's New Year's Eve and chilly
Seems this time, that all is right
No drunken revelers on the Street
All the buildings are shut tight
Except the bar and Gianni's place
On the Street, that's just alright
The Blues Man sits out back right now
And he's looking at the moon
No fireworks, or crystal *****
Say the New Year's coming soon
He coughs a bit, a little harsh
Grabs his medcin, and guitar
then he gently starts to playing
Looking at a single star
There's a few folks in Giannis
Watching the ball drop on tv
The bar is full of locals
Where the New Year's shots are free
But out back of Gianni's
The Blues Man sits in peace
Singing gently to the midnight sky
Sitting besides the drums of grease
This year he found his daughter
Memories of years gone by
And he sings tales of their meeting
To the chilly, midnight sky
His daughter is his lodestone
She keeps him grounded, always did
No matter where he ventured
He always loved his missing kid
She's drinking at the bar now
While The Blues Man sits out back
Singing tunes in Winter Darkness
He lets us in...but just a crack
The door behind Gianni's
Is open, just a bit
It's open for the Blues Man
To go get warm and sit
But, for now, he sits here playing
As the New Year ventures in
He sings songs about redemption
And he drinks his medcin
An hour in and locals
Leave Gianni's and the bar
They venture to the alley
Where he's playing to that star
They join him in silence
Hear his prayer for the year new
They are swept up in his magic
And let him do what he must do
He smiles and keeps on singing
Fills the night air with his voice
For no matter how his life is
He only had one choice
He's the Blues Man, always will be
He's the teller of the tales
He sings songs out in the alley
He's the wind in the Street's sails
He finishes his last song
His daughter standing, smiling wide
She gives him a kiss upon his forehead
And she ushers him aside
He'll wake up again tomorrow
In the alley, cold but free
That's the life of The Street Blues Man
And that's the way ...that it should be.
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 6:10 PM UTC
Spread the word , the Machine is coming. A circus of steel springs and combustion all grinding to the drums. Watch them waiting, every color, every clan; all wanting to be part of the system as it begins with a roar like a turbo charged engine they rush the door.
Inside, heads swim in a new found sea, unconscious are the dancing sparks and gay revelers in their glitter coated world. Limbs pumping, pounding pistons running full blast through the night. Up creaking stairs into the radiator, cooling chamber, thick green haze passes over innumerable points of light; oxygen restriction. Drums persist pouring down white rain on melting minds. Thrilling, rushing euphoric rhythms flow like wine from fine crystal. Speak and you will not be heard, listen and you will hear no voice, for the machine stops for no one until morn.
Wasting away in the exhaust of a comatose state are some, eyes open seeing new worlds in clarity are others, while a select few crawl through Hell blinded by visions of terror. Still the electric pulses have yet to slow, numb to the deafening watts as they are now winding their way to the surface of a sleeping city. Whimsical youths will lay until afternoon, their internal timing chains hours slow, yet only eight rounds of the gauge have passed. The beating motion is still lingering as weary heads fall upon waiting pillows, headlight eyes switch off near six am. The last sounds fade for these who now dream anew, yet still worshipers of the dance rage against the coming of the light, would they be consumed in the warehouse flames before they saw the dawn?
Spread the word the machine was here and they called it the Rave.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 3:32 PM UTC
The Merry-Go-Round is stopping - I can hear the music fade.
I can't believe it's ending, that the last tune has been played.
My horse is still in prance formation - she wants to go again.
How do I say the ride is over and all good things must end.
How do I slack the tightly held rein
How do I slip from astride
How do I ease the stabbing of pains
That tell me this was my last ride.
The carnival is closing - I can see them start to pack.
I don't want it to leave us - it may never again come back.
I haven't ridden all the rides yet - I haven't played the games.
How do I turn and go forever, forgetting all their names.
How do I put the coins away
That I had planned to spend
How save for them for a rainy day
And still have some to lend.
The festival is over - all the revelers are gone.
The only sign they've been here are the footprints on the lawn.
I have not finished celebrating - I want to laugh some more
How do I know the dance has ended - it never was before.
How do I turn and head for home
This was my home, you see
How can I feel that if I roam
I'll find a place for me.
***
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 10:45 AM UTC
i find myself filled with
zealous animosity
while observing the happy go lucky
faces of holiday revelers
i'm overtaken by a jealous urge
to deflate their wonderment and joy
somehow, someway
would tripping one of them
as they walk by me
be too obvious
would swiping the candy cane
from a rosy cheek brat
give away my true state of mind
would throwing tomatoes at the parade santa
label me as a scrooge
these thoughts haunt me
i despise being eaten away by the exact frame of mind
i wouldn't tolerate from others
only the year before
hopefully this unintentional insanity
is short lived
hopefully my emotional strength of wills
will ground me...once again
for this me is not the me i want to spend
the remainder of my days with
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 8:22 PM UTC
East River’s calming ebb and flow; we stood and watched from the upper deck.
The band was playing, too loud, below; some rhapsody from Rod Stewart.
Before us the twin towers rose, majestic, on the nearer shore.
We were young, you were beautiful, who could ask for any more?
Time and tide, Love, time and tide, Do you recall the song they played?
We danced as a new year dawned, a new year that has long since strayed.
The party boats still sail those waters, other revelers have staked their claim.
The skyline is quite different now, since those twin towers died in flames.
Only in the view from memory point can I see those towers plain
And recall a love songs sad refrain.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
Alone
at the bar, in town;
down the road to the right.
I was afraid
At first
But then,
at the sight
of the warm firelight
In the hearth
thru the window pane
It seemed safe
And beckoned me
to come in, though alone
Laughter filtered
Through the night air
The camaraderie,
good cheer
(perhaps it was the beer?)
spilling over into the hearts of all
that were here, this night
Heady days of my youth
in the old neighborhood
I would never give pause
Or turn and go home
because I was alone
Those folks were family and -
Everyone knew my name.
No difference tonight
Walk in and sit down.
remember your worth!
don’t feel old!
be bold!
Look, there’s a seat
by the fire.
Instantly - I belonged!
not a solitary soul
or mere spectator.
I was the majority,
part of the sorority,
of revelers and folk,
though nobody knew my name
all the same
I wondered why:
had I hesitated at the door.
Did I think I was too old
had I lost my nerve?
To enter the frey
Because they
Were strangers?
and so was I?
Alone,nomore
at the bar, in town;
down the road to the right.
The next stranger I see
enter through the glass doors
with a hesitant stare
I will smile, I think
and offer a drink
and try to share that feeling
of belonging!
(c) Marlene Dunham 2010
Jul 21, 2010
Jul 21, 2010 at 9:08 PM UTC
Sometimes I am as eloquent
as a tomb in a merry park.
Revelers fall silent in my presence.
And when they walk away,
their footsteps on the gravel path,
dumb with forebodings!
At other times I am a wild lily
that had escaped the gardener’s notice,
waltzing with the roses and dahlias,
to the pitch and fall of the breeze.
It disconcerts...
to be thus
conspicuous.
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 7:38 PM UTC
It was a night of simple frolicking,
we ate worms & danced
Grand Funk,
choo-chooed on tequila.
The room swirled,
I was the engine,
you the coal-car
fed me the vibes,
as we circled,
spinning serpentine
through the juiced-crowd
of Don Armando revelers.
We escaped for fresh air,
stole a quick swim
under the entire universe,
embraced like drunken-lovers.
I traced your face with warm kisses,
felt your body pressed
into mine like a glove.
The stars above
twinkled brighter,
you did not fight
my entry nor your resolve,
as we evolved into a tidal wave.
I bled my soul into you,
you saved every drop.
Later, we skinny-dipped
in the shower-bank,
listening to the others
washing away their own salt,
playing & moaning,
savoring their own souls &
collecting drops.
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
Down and out, broken like so many burned out automobiles
Yet blazing infinite with immeasurable conviction &
Rapturous with the weight of destiny
Manic hysteria drove them off the overpass
Hipster Valkyries raised them to avant-garde Valhalla
And the eight o'clock news made messiahs of the lot
Nirvana sold last weeks newspapers on the side of the highway
Rolling with a sweet glimmer of a shark toothed smile
On the horizon hunting for a high that can't ever be attained
Holiest of Holies on a red lipped mountain top
Or a supermarket bathroom stall scrawled with ****** madness
The Lord's Prayer in black ink, brutal and simple
There were misty eyed girls on the morning train to some great and unenviable elsewhere
And by night the crows circled six times, once for each of the dead end dreams swallowed that day
Candid and conscious, where the wild ones roam the city
Burning the flags they wave and waving the flags they burn
America's sweethearts on the run from the police
Sawing at heartstrings like bows on a twisted violin
From the mountains to the valleys the winds screamed senseless in their joy
Liberation and the kiss of a lipstick Judas were on everyone's mind
Martyrs a mile a minute, a dime a dozen
Down the line the angels wept gloria mundi
For the sinners sung with passion, the saints stoically mourned
The revelers and the rioters and the street kids looking for a ride home
The toxic kissed stars that set the city lights the shame
And the masochists, blessed with a gypsy goddess' double edged kiss
And broken down like so many burned out automobiles
Yet blazing infinite with immeasurable conviction &
Rapturous with the weight of destiny
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 2:59 AM UTC
One nation under god
Father grasps the shoulder of the son
Who listens to American music
They're growing beets in the garden
One nation under water
Trance grabs the shoulders of the sun
Who glistens over drunk, dazed revelers
They're growing cancer in the eye
Drink a beer, wear a silk batik
Drive a truck, and keep your mystique
They're just tools to use
In the long walk of
Finding the real thing
And if you do, be sure to
Inject it intravenously
(Just kidding)
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 7:16 PM UTC