.   .   .   .   .   .   .   .  .
~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  

what about the gull
                          with a wayward splash
or the balanced blend
of cirrus and ash

foghorns throw
the pock wave
sewell stragglers
and bonny boats
earn their keep

to exonerate the clippings
they took the back road to oswega
the tudor house rabbits
had long lost their heads
(presumably to the *****)
and what remained
of the landscape
was dead
and dry
and orange

that happy home
on the brink
of cattle loop
was now gull grey
the needles
and stragglers
from shady bay
remained (in growing numbers)
on the outskirts
of the driven back park

the once fabled town
of horse drawn tours
and dignitaries
was stone washed ~
on the back of it's
government docks
sat decrepit toppers
set against the high tide
beside the lighthouse
and its measured song

flutes and fiddlers
and acoustic sitars
ride the accompaniment
nose rings
and signage
in the hands of
staged protesters
the sickly spit strewn
with tidal run
and ocean bags

hedgerows trimmed
along the sea side
rolling hills fade
adjacent the chuck
mint juleps
and flop hats
peak on the parade
clydesdales
and royals
blinded in the back

It was starting to snow as I entered Pere Lachaise cemetery. The few that had ventured in, were streaming out, as daylight faded, fast giving way to twilight, on this 1st of February night. I had 30 minutes of daylight left, to take the shots that I’d planned for all year.

I knew where I was going, having visited the cemetery in the summer, to scout locations for this moment. I walked up l’Avenue Principale towards Le Monument aux Morts and took the first right on l’Avenue des Puits. My pace quickened, not wanting to waste a single second, of the dying light.

I crossed path with the the last stragglers, most likely having paid homage to Chopin or Morrison. I was entering the oldest and most forested area of the cemetery. It sent a chill up my spine, not because of the cold February air, but because of the surreality of what was in front of me, a cobble stone path, lined with old trees, surrounded by an ocean of tombs, fading into the white and gray of a snowy afternoon.

I arrived at my location, the tomb of Heloise and Abelard. I set down my tripod and camera bag. I stopped to take it in. It was eerily beautiful, the snow slowly falling, lightly covering the tomb, the flowers, the love letters, laying around the plinth.

I was surprised at the number of single roses and love letters that were strewn in the yard, between the wrought iron fence, and the tomb. Even during the dead of winter, young women pilgrimaged to the tomb, leaving letters and prayers, hoping their love will last forever, in life and in death. Sadness overwhelmed me, as I felt the longing and pain of their and my,  unrequited loves.

I pulled out my camera, turned it on, double checking the battery indicator and exposure. I put the viewfinder to my eye, slowly pressed the shutter till I heard a beep, as the auto focus sharpened the view and my world became crystal clear. I zoomed in and out, composing my shot. I was too close for my lens. I picked up my tripod, turned around, and surveyed my work area.

I moved up the path, three tombs over, next to an old wide trunked chestnut tree, set my tripod and bag down, and recomposed my shot. The snowfall had intensified, to a heavy flurry. The snowflakes were thicker, fluffier, slowly drifting down like dandelion seeds. I was swimming in an ocean of white magical specks. Everything around me was dusted in ******, pure white powder.

I unfolded my tripod, mounted the camera to the head, and verified it was securely attached. I zoomed in and out till I composed my shot, stepping down the aperture and up the speed, till I achieved the dark, moody, feel I wanted. I pressed the shutter and captured the shot.

I was looking through the viewfinder when a woman stepped into my shot. For a split second, I was angry, then confused, then intrigued. I looked up, stepped back from my camera, to see and understand what was unfolding before me.

She was wearing a full-length white Lynx fur coat and cap, black leather gloves and boots. She was stunning, breathtaking. Was I hallucinating? Was she real? She hadn’t seen me, as I was behind her, catty corner, partially hidden by the chestnut tree.


She was holding something. I couldn’t quite see. I looked through the viewfinder, zoomed in on her. She held a single long stemmed blue rose in her left hand.  Instinctively, I pressed the shutter, captured the shot, the photo, the image, of this unworldly scene.

It was late, almost dark. What was she doing here? Was she praying, why, to whom, Heloise, Abelard, or both? She moved up to and placed her right hand on the protective wrought iron fence. I took a shot, then another. Then with her left hand, she gently threw the blue rose, time slowed, I pressed the shutter, never letting go, as the flower arched in the air and landed perfectly, on the plinth, at Heloise's side.

I released the shutter, still looking through the viewfinder. She placed her left hand on the wrought iron fence, bowed her head, just stood there, in the darkness, in the snowfall.

She pulled her right hand away from the wrought iron fence and wiped her eyes. Was she crying?

She slowly turned around. I pressed the shutter, held it down, for a continuous shot. I saw her face, her raven black hair, her incandescent blue eyes. Like a cannonball hitting me in the chest, I realized and recognized who she was. It was her, the woman from the metro.

She looked up, turned her head, and looked directly at me. I zoomed in, framed her face, continuously pressing the shutter. Her face expressionless, her eyes aglow. Had she seen me? I don’t know. She took a step, turned her head, and walked back up the cobble stone path, and faded into the night, into the falling snow.

all I wanted
was to cover
my stains
and now I’m painting my whole house
red
help me
my closest friends
are 200 miles away

I can’t write this poem right now
not like this

I am in the trees
they are still mostly green
but leaves fall when the wind blows
I am not getting colder
I just have a lot going on right now
and I’m trying to shed
some of this fall fabric
and let my forest floor
weave it into a carpet
but you can’t pull all the dead leaves off
it’s better to just let them drop

in the heart of winter
there will still be
stragglers
holding on through autumn winds
and January snows
to crumble in the spring
my lips touch the soft
clean soles of your feet
and my fears dissolve
like fog in the morning

I can’t write this poem right now
no
not like this

I never put away all of these socks,
there's just something so final about putting away
all the socks. When I close the drawer after putting away
the clothes, its like saying "remain here for awhile,
for I do not plan to wear you again for some time".

But putting away all of the socks
is like saying "stay here,
I'm not going anywhere". What if
something pops up though?
It gets cold, a friend calls
with exciting plans and I must say,
"No sorry, I just put away all of my socks"

Whats the point in putting them all away if I just
go right back and take some out? Might as well
leave a pair or two by the shoes, at the ready.

Plus whenever I put away all the socks
I find the stragglers, the lone socks, the swiss socks,
the worn out ones and then I have to make difficult
decisions. Weighing the severity of the tears against
how uncomfortable they'll be. Designating indoor only
socks and how many more wears a sock can receive before,
garbage. And every time I put on a sock like this I shed a tear
because socks don't receive burials. Socks are easily replaced.
It's just not worth the trouble to put away all these socks.

I wait for you to come closer,
To draw closer and tell me
That you can't deal with me
Any more. Not with my
Insane, bordering on
Psychotic, behavior, and
My bipolar mood swings.
But, you draw closer
And you smile right at me,
And draw me into a hug
For a second, that little voice,
Which I am always aware of,
Which tells me I'm never
Going to be good enough
For anyone to accept or like,
Let alone love,
Fades to the back of my mind.
I let myself relax
Into your warm embrace and
I let myself be and believe.
I turn to smile at you...
Before I can see your face,
Your features, I am woken up
From my daydream
By the bell signalling the
End of school. I pack my bag
And head towards my carpool,
My movements sluggish-
Even cheerily wave goodbye to
A few stragglers.
I reach home and eat lunch alone.  
I go for tuition, let myself
Become numb to everything
But learning and understanding.
It becomes darker and it's almost 8,
I come back home again.
I had been out from 7 in the morning.
This time, my family's there and
We eat dinner together, though,
I am barely there with them.
They're discussing important
Things like business and will
Talk to me later.  I finish eating
And go sleep. Tomorrow's going to
Be the exact robotic same.

the rain has come
finally
first in thunderous
clould burst
big fat pregnant drops landing
labouriously on
the dessicated dirt
leaving craterous footprints
as evidence of a
glorious dance

more fall to the cloud's internal beat
a steady rhythmic fall
into the mudpit dancehall
that once was dry dusty street

the rain has lessened
now wavering
between drizzle and mist stragglers late,
to raindance fall ball.

While the calmness returns,
the strangers gone,
noise of gunshots,
the cry of the wounded
and dying are no more heard,
our children and women
came out of hiding,
the young men smiling sheepishly
as they survived the onslaught
of the insurgents.
You can see the older women
in small groups scattered all over
selling food and all kinds of stuff.
The stragglers returns,
loitering all over the place,
trying to adjust and blend
into the communities.
Laughter and shouts of joy
is again heard in our land
even the morning songs
of the turtle dove.
The stray dogs are seen
looking for food and handouts.
The women pounding
their yam in mortar
with the pistil are
heard in our backyard
with the noise of
happy children singing
and dancing at the village
square in the moonlight,
while the elders and young
men keep watch.
What a beautiful moment
as peace returns.
With grateful heart we
celebrate this day.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.

She grabbed my neck, one hand, and her fingers quickly connected,
“You should have some more self respect, you’re taking this further than I expected.”
I swear that I’m eating again,
but I won’t try to pretend,
that the food doesn’t make me hurt, the removal of my organs didn’t mend.
I ask her to forget it and to just talk about the weather,
the topic wants to drop; she won’t let it, she knows I’m not getting any better.
I was always too much of a lost cause to trust I’d ever be repaired,
for years she’s held the gauze and just silently waited and stared.

At 21 my mother died from a long battle with cancer,
I toughed through it to provide comfort I could never allow myself to receive.
So my own sickness was inspired by Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer”
it was never my goal but what my
brain wished to achieve.

I told them all to leave me,
I didn’t expect they would do so,
a few stragglers stayed who wished to prove they were strong.
It’s still shocking that they believed me
or were they waiting for a polite out to go
one that they could argue wasn’t wrong?

And I’d rather break a mirror
than to see the reflection everyone else shared,
it’s not that I would fear her,
but through seven years bad luck I’ve already fared.
I made a choice and a deal
to give my worthless life for just a few good days,
you can’t put a price on how you feel,
you can only hope and pray that that feeling atleast stays.

I became best known through all encounters in every social gathering
as the laid back confident joker, because they never saw me shattering.
I assure you that after I was always in my Honda drowning,
arguing with myself if it was better to be fake than the person always frowning.
I was dying for interaction beyond just meaningless conversation
and only ever met the odd soul to bring that alleviation.
I was so used to the shadows from the comfort of my basement
that I flinched when I saw sunlight and only after felt amazement.

I was a skeptic and untrusting as to why the sun would ever shine on me,
and the refreshing waves that brushed my feet carried potential for drowning.
And just when I got used to light and a natural source of heat
the darkest cloud in history attacked until it did retreat.
Then I thought that drowning in the sea wouldn’t be the worst,
if it didn’t carry me into a current, perhaps it could wash away my curse.
But even the tide will move away when you decide to take that step,
past the point of clenching a fist, every muscle I own did treppe.

Los Camp said the sea was a great place to think about the future,
but I know it’s a great place to think about the one you lack.

I instigated the most soporific cephalic act, An Argonaut sailing within your strange eyes of others pointed retina membranes, An unsaid exodus wishes to browse your meridians sunsets tainted of that meridian, As evening falls back upon you bathed the earthly mud, Nymph Ninfuceanicus sheltering your labours of bird waste in galactic extinction and creation...

For soft aromatic worlds, you went by your house ruined Zodiac
Blurring the lost romance policy profiles, threading peat spinning the metafhysist think of his tabernacle.

The ship in question was the beautiful delicacy of numbness primary Sun, Lost Halo where one day there was countless number age, to get lost in the cold of your trellis resigned and touching your going through the watery landscape of your soul cornered iron., Spark fleeing evaporated...

How many times my Ninfoceanicus very thin you migrated with your frosty, almost scary legs traveling in a foreign-owned bird…?, Where migrating is hard to see his crosses snowy mountain plants.

What if you. Ninfoceánicas lines will plan my rickety Saturn's own trapeze degraded never stood the lofty life of the living present all this happened? Divided scratchy body plowing all unexplored fountain.


Among several of them, thousands of them managed to be among others, but one of them, violated any protocol as beautiful geese and ducks in the window of my sky, coming to ask for my company, just on the threshold of spring, next to the threshold of my window and yours…, adopted eternal brother.

She mimics the snowy Nymph the feet of all the courts of the world freely, Dancing in tight spaces where sounds beautiful my favorite track other stragglers lost images of my beautiful bird of beautiful threshold of my window as timeless dances belfry rusty sounds.
For the dark wall between your gene, which will open the whistle of your detachment, every time your commander demolition subdued light and energy to take my humble mischief…
by the way, your eyes and mine, in the vigor of sepals loved everlasting flowers insults.

Together unfairly they united as dim flowers in the air,
Divided separately exile scattered your garden,
My chronic bad inside my hundred chronically ill
I will see  Nymph hiperoceánicus, hyper rusty
By iron hanging over the mask gestures cold weather martial iron watering soil and branded satin mask stays plebeian worms my ruined face of phases of my face closet and wardrobe.


The upward castle by fierce hillsides, notify more rasterize
Your morning visit.

Among many castles many seas gang signs of femininity,
As a sliding plushy receiving a Nymph Satardia;
The first and most powerful inhabitant of the ascending Ninfuocenicus castle.

When I'm alone,
I am on the side of the broth augury sling,
Holding my application
Almost like a plumber object in the hands of a blind astronomer.

Only three steps income
Where three steps have to meet me on the runaway shadows
Of my ancestors, right neighbor pine crafty,
That hid my totemic animality...
As the blood currents green,
I lost myself…

As a front polygon,
As a front wormy adventure story demolished
In the densest darkness of your house arcane absence ashes
The cadaverous presence of the wind of my roles in pain and ossuary  of that princely that emotional solstice who anchored in your flowery landscape of love,
Spinning wheel to square steps
As contraindication to love, then need you more.


You jump on my doorstep, plain unlicensed...
So the propaedeutic of Ninfaoceánicus begins,
You write my signs and my losses as prescribed
The loneliest adage constantly fading green robes.

I often feel sad as all times outside the elapsed time,
When I feel the absence of your webbed feet oily,
Aligning by walking wearing my sun off you,
With foreign attire migrating my sunshine clothing doze...
As a gale of tulle for the South Seas who died in the wreckage of a pirate ship Pliocene…

And your sea south sorry awakening as between species
Jungle, eater vampire  as the swirl start your being lost in my
Desert be... want to be mummy augur…
Lips worst evils of unrestrained fantasy tribal worse,
They concluded entirely confined irritability.
As the bipolar lost hope,

The graft of your nomadic existence and entrepreneurial ship traveling
settled that the bipolar economy of your means of anti-life,
Closing my eyes... black aniline,
Black lost roads dancing notch watermark,
Of the hypertensive empty string, as the rope pulls and
Solves the crescent of your face depressed ocher rain.


When river, and watch your lips precursors,
I watch the surf offshore devouring my joint,
In search of  nymph Titania, your age who live with me,
My Perfect for you and my image, my imperfect picture of you and me, silky movement shores of my soul looking for you,
When I sit at the knee I bend my knee for you,
I sit on the bank remains with you.
My codex collected from you, only you...

When the cave steppe fear rages,
Tongues of fire gigantic move me by your rivers adventure
I park in your loud voice drawled from the acute bonfire
In the wooded rested than ever, it grew on your side close.

Your life was almost a straight bipolar errors,
I am now businessman making your life nearby,
Hit blowing winds greater...
And at your life in my financial life,
If you think with your hands clasped over your face
know that almost live together with you,
unbecoming my libertarian release of master your flight
hell, beastly dessert.

Most hellish ******* lastly zain,
Of the greatest forces of your body eater the myth king, fabulous race The disabled senior verse confined treaty,
Confined you that is farthest from you **** nymph Ninfuoceánica,
requalification boiling in behaviors you to exist in the relief of your abysmal way but your gooey body resting on you..., rests meditating  Do not get tired, you do not pretend to be the ruin of your prey voice sound muffled, only animals that disturb you bring your pursue days true…

Your lovers sulfur knew your colors and smells of the most pestilential entity, that overshoot and tone your threefold, as a roar of the soul that comes from your soul, do not let mental baseness mimics with anemic,
lower hostile masts your anti angels have to ride on gold gatekeepers... For the spot, if mythomania and your alcoholic schizophrenia infinity, ...

hulks  of alcohol vapors in the pulmonary vessels by butterfly flocks,
They roam the reins of collecting and rasterized your weakness sudden death, As well as the sudden resurrection of my body.
And rebukes the storm, rebuke thy right entity endowed *****'s nerve
That's where I have to pursue your side embraces more hug me,
More than your own warmth, rather than your own bravery, unbridled carriage.


I often repeat a million times,
The times I did not hear your perpendicular attentive pauses, stutters hurry ****** your frequent alcoholism, not to distinguish only slicing nonsensical attitudes sometimes slow thinking agility of a lover, Thinking that ****** and reduces that sinister and discouraging, that scrape thin that limits who want to be and not dominate.


Mapping by hiding places unusual materials,
Brochures polished of the scruffy codex and guide you an  unguided
By the groves close views as telescopic sights that are lost.


I know, my biggest Ninfuoceánica death may not be reborn on the third day…!!, But if it is not to lose lost when the day ends.
Wise ancestry and slavery will govern the pale fronts
Your hidden and mobile lives on an olive orchard,
Hiper meditate funny without feeling any known gene passed ******, nor read past experience in your prodigious map of oblivion.

Satardia; He lit a match just as night fell,
Sea and sky colours compressing regrets that burned their matches

It burned his blessed same figure as the little pair of gifts
That remained on hold as senior Ninfuoceanica,
Only his dark side Petric windmill stone...


Someday reborn to confuse his disciples confused gentlemen,
And their abandoned phrases that he dominates.

Feverish ardor,
Feverish torpor
Every living illusion is extinguished...
Go to your coward stampede
Of gatekeepers on buffalo between bloodthirsty goats...


Jose Luis Carreño Troncoso Copyright 2015
Related  August 2006

around the time Hurricane Matthew was
tearing through Florida, it was 10:34pm in
Divide--

A Coors bottle pressed into your beard,
settled on your bottom lip in contemplation
a boyish reverie spun between us when you spoke
softly relaying the genealogy of the Hatfields & Mccoys,
Ole Ran'l, Devil Anse piping in, your accent seeps through
real Midwestern like--stops when you're on about prayer
trees and La Llorona


But I was deeply introspective,
heavily burdened by a Randy Travis song
how earlier that morning your fingers
had found their way around my hips--
        mine around your waistband, down your spine
        a helpless explorer driven across the mainland
       transversing shoulder blades, fascinated by chains
        around your neck, nooses, playthings or jewelry
         how around 3 am your gravely voice sought me
         out across a sea of torrid thoughts to ask if I was cold


yes. probably.


and when we start the decline, tripping lazily over moss clumps
dead grass, fallen trees, I storm and plow ahead because
when in doubt, race yourself.
Sheltered by the truck gate,
you've come up ahead and stand
in front of me, unassuming
both hands complacent--
so I ask you to kiss me
and there's a fiddle playin'
in my ears, a highway of
country streamin' through
my veins, or,
something
like that.

Sweet, harmless lives! (on whose holy leisure
     Waits innocence and pleasure),
Whose leaders to those pastures, and clear springs,
     Were patriarchs, saints, and kings,
How happened it that in the dead of night
     You only saw true light,
While Palestine was fast asleep, and lay
     Without one thought of day?
Was it because those first and blessed swains
     Were pilgrims on those plains
When they received the promise, for which now
     ’Twas there first shown to you?
’Tis true, He loves that dust whereon they go
     That serve Him here below,
And therefore might for memory of those
     His love there first disclose;
But wretched Salem, once His love, must now
     No voice, nor vision know,
Her stately piles with all their height and pride
     Now languished and died,
And Bethlem’s humble cotes above them stepped
     While all her seers slept;
Her cedar, fir, hewed stones and gold were all
     Polluted through their fall,
And those once sacred mansions were now
     Mere emptiness and show;
This made the angel call at reeds and thatch,
     Yet where the shepherds watch,
And God’s own lodging (though He could not lack)
     To be a common rack;
No costly pride, no soft-clothed luxury
     In those thin cells could lie,
Each stirring wind and storm blew through their cots
     Which never harbored plots,
Only content, and love, and humble joys
     Lived there without all noise,
Perhaps some harmless cares for the next day
     Did in their bosoms play,
As where to lead their sheep, what silent nook,
     What springs or shades to look,
But that was all; and now with gladsome care
     They for the town prepare,
They leave their flock, and in a busy talk
     All towards Bethlem walk
To see their souls’ Great Shepherd, Who was come
     To bring all stragglers home,
Where now they find Him out, and taught before
     That Lamb of God adore,
That Lamb whose days great kings and prophets wished
     And longed to see, but missed.
The first light they beheld was bright and gay
     And turned their night to day,
But to this later light they saw in Him,
     Their day was dark, and dim.

Noitareneg
For my Soulmate

I
I saw the best minds of my generation go to waste
I saw the worst minds obsess over awful taste
I walked a steady path and staggered through some mud
I soared through skies so bright, my eyes were useless studs

II
You viewed the same madness that spewed from my pen
You walked the path of enlightenment and gorgeous Zen
You mastered what all the useless fools never could
You comprehended what they never understood

III
We rise, only as one, but the stragglers keep us down
We never worry much, because a king is just a crown
We march to the drum of freedom, with paper on our tongues
We are the 90’s generation, the wise among the young

I was already late
When the time to leave the party
came around.
As my foot passed over the threshold
it landed on crumpled paper
and stuffing from the furniture
they tore open.

I looked around the empty room,
strewn of course
with broken glass
of bottles
of cheap wine
and *****.

One or two stragglers had staked a claim
to the last two chairs not completely maimed
in the struggle
of having a good time.

Their faces blank of personality,
gave notion
that the real people
had long since left them
behind as well.

Pounding bass struggled to boom,
but rasped sadly
from the rattling broken speaker.

I ask one of the stragglers
about a black haired girl
who came up to my shoulder
and they both say she left with a guy.

A plain round clock
was hung on a close wall
it's plastic lens shattered
and the hands stopped
at ten minutes before I entered.

<!>

Four Irises tall & gallant, looking though
slighted worn out, a tad bedraggled
they are springtime survivor stragglers
of the Great Spring Weather Battle.

living in an open trench, battle conditions,
wind-whipped by constant strong breezes,
raked by intermittent machine gun rain,
familiar weapons of the “handover” season

loyal guardians of their pinpoint position,
remaining on duty, standing at attention,
dignified amidst the serene, nearly summer, now,
accepting quietude & gratitude of surround soundings

arrow-straight, in dress uniforms of royally purple,
four lead a cohort of unbloomed green fellows,
protecting their charge, an ancient marker of time,
rusted-green bronze sundial, symbol of continuity

these four, boon companions to human and animal,
shall persist long after I cease to dabble in this art,
they greet their admirers in full regalia, every year,
long, long may they live, die and be yet reborn!

here, in place, when we arrived four decades ago, a tiny forever,
changelings heading a processional of the summer season,
greeting all with a simple story of constance of change, of beauty,
leading our Summertime Commencement Exercises

May 26 ~ 27, 2023

For Susan on her birthday*

At a distance they appear
so unexpectedly red,
a vivid vermillion strip
in a growing green field.

We walked up the farm track
to view a few stragglers
lost on their way to their
Red-Together meeting.
They were intensely red
with liquorice-black centres,
free from that dustiness
of poppies in swathes.

Alone,
and too red to be real,
their stalks too tall
ungainly, anorexic even.

En masse,
nodding variously,
a thousand-strong Red Army choir
chorusing their hearts out.

Depression has made a home in my bones
it curls up inside my rib cage
wounding itself around my heart
This body is a city that used to shine so bright.
Gold and silver dust glowed,
two elements that usually don't
go together blended harmoniously,
you could hear a symphony in your ear.
It was the core.
Now the city is empty,
except for the few stragglers that are trying
to fix it up to its former glory.
It is a lost cause, but they do not yet know
that the bones are decaying,
withering away.
The heart is beating
but it's bleeding.
Black blood that stains this ugly city.
It's all deteriorating.
Soon it will be transparent.
Then it would be gone

I
--
The LORD is asking, “Do you trust Me, child?”
And surely He is worthy of all trust,
but visceral reactions oft’ seem just
in keeping soul’s anxieties well riled.
While panic, shame and dread stir doubting winds,
obsessive, tight, compulsive thoughts pour fuel
into this downward spiraling boil of gruel
where toxic interactions breed more sins.
So for relationships I feel unfit,
and now old interests die and pleasures wane,
as each new hope in Earth’s good brings fresh pain,
where dark depression’s presently my bit.
Yet in this wilderness I hear God call,
“Child, look to Me. I am your ALL in all.”

II
--
I meditate upon the word of God
to heal a mind that’s broken from the fall,
and lying in morn’s bed I now recall
the former paths of fullness I have trod.
I clear the course of tangling debris
that fogs perspective’s distance-viewing sight
and clogs the narrow way which lets in light,
so with God’s truth I’m able to agree.
I gaze toward the future that is sure,
to glory that is promised out of trial.
I push through lying voices of denial,
rememb’ring my inheritance secure.
So healing first begins by sizing scope,
for in true measure I can grasp true hope.

III
---
Long sheltered in the recesses of mind
on pedestals that overshadow truth
are lies which I have entertained since youth
like tape recordings stuck on forced rewind.    
There‘s something of appeal in misbelief,
some comforting, perverted, dressed-up face
which keeps foul strongholds rooted into place
and lets such rotten seedlings harvest grief.  
But I must choose to undermine their message,
uncovering deception’s hidden lairs
whose cultivation grounds for growing tares
leave roadblocks to integrity’s safe passage.
God’s probing, piercing words—what precious gifts!—
can excavate, expose and extract myths.

IV
---
I apprehend these truths in David’s psalm:
“I’m fearfully and wonderfully made,”
and all my days of life are firmly laid
within the sovereign care of God’s own palm.
And yet another voice keeps creeping out.
“You’re too unfit for blessed community,
hence from belonging full immunity
is your dim lot,” says paralyzing Doubt.
For ‘gainst the Word that says I‘m rightly hewn
rub all the bristling edges of myself,
but would one set forever on a shelf
a Bösendorfer piano out of tune?
No, value is a function of creation,
and He who made has promised restoration.

V
--
Restoration’s anchored in redemption,
and my redemption‘s grounded in God’s love.
Nowhere in far reaches man has thought of
could mind unfurl the breadth of such conception.
Sloshing, hesitating in the shallows,
I wander close to shore in Love‘s vast sea.
Then from the swell I hear a coaxing plea
to dive into the deeper wake of hallows.
What‘s this weight that pins my frame from racing
toward His unknown billows of delight?
Do I not trust that He will clasp me tight,
help me bear the fiercest waves I’m facing?
What guile of devils am I heeding here
which keeps me bound by paralyzing fear?

VI
---
Disheartened by my want for firm resolve
to swim toward agápē’s unplumbed depths
for int’macy with Him who paid my debts—
the only One from sin who can absolve,
I wander, wond‘ring what I’ve missed to see
within my comprehension of Christ‘s love
when He would vacate majesty above
and suffer cruelest death to set me free.
They stripped Him, flogged Him, spit, pulled out His beard,
then pressed a crown of thorns down on His head.
They nailed Him to rough cross to leave for dead—
Creator of the world now by it jeered.
In love this traitor by her King was served:
Christ Jesus bore God‘s wrath which I deserved!

VII
----
Considering what labors Christ performed
to buy my freedom off sin’s slav’ry block
that of His fullness, with Him, I could walk
in resurrected life (not just reformed),
can I not trust that He will see me through
each trial, tribulation, sorrow, loss
when He would not forsake me at the cross
but carried all my grief and suff‘ring too?
And just as death‘s cold grave could not contain
my Savior but gave way to watch Him rise,
whatever loss my path has to comprise
shall work for me eternal glorious gain.
So while my courage may still be in lack,
the settled thing is there’s no turning back.

VIII
-----
Wading through fresh tidal pools of mercy
along a piece of coast that‘s not too wide—
among the crags and caves where stragglers hide,
hoping to evade crowd controversy—
I know I‘ll have to move on before long.
But in the warm meanwhile of the day,
I kneel to rest; and as I start to pray,
my heart begins to open to a song—
a gentle, soothing lullaby I’ve known
sung to the tune of ‘Eventide‘ as hymn,
reminder that this life is fading, dim
but that in Christ I never walk alone.
And as I raise the words, “Abide with me…,”
here comes my Shepherd, walking by the sea.

IX
---
What now is this waylaying, sin-sick soul?
Diversional winds from cliffside descend.
Where‘s pressing fire my devotions attend?
Brain‘s robbed of sanity, sleep, self-control.
Jesus comes near numb heart in distraction
and bids me again to clean deadwood out.
Jesus, I‘m desperate, drowning in doubt!
Help me expel what‘s needing subtraction!
Discipline, prudence, wisdom, contentment
can work to restore both body and brain,
while worship will lift locked heart from restraint—
its untethering from woe’s resentment.
I won‘t, without wisdom, taste truest Love,
yet Love holds true keys to wisdom above.

X
--
Mottling mind’s hazed subconscious sockets—
bedecked by ego’s restless crave for fill—
infections grow to permeate my will,
ladening, with dross, affection‘s pockets.
Foul seepage soon coagulates to plaque,
forces clefts which weaken my foundation,
foments psyche’s stormed disintegration
till half-light’s flushing falls to midnight‘s black.
Yet amid murk‘s rotting, rank confusion
with ev‘ry faculty succumbed to rift,
My Shepherd plucks me fiercely from the cliff,
tending thorn-torn blight with Love‘s ablution.
Healing, though, requires my surrender—
all cooperation I can lend 'her.'

XI
---
Jesus asked a question at Bethesda,
the pool by which an invalid was lain,
for thirty-eight lost years left in his pain—
twisted, timed, tormenting, teared siesta.
“Do you desire to be made well?” He asked.
“I’ve none to help me!” was the plaintive cry,
then Jesus spoke miraculous reply
that to get up and walk the man was tasked.
That’s not to say all healing will be found
within this present life of ills and woes,
but still I hear Christ probing through the throes
if I am truly willing to be sound.
Or would I rather lie on crippling bed,
an invalid of spirit, heart and head?

XII
----
Shuffling through some past miscalculations
surrounding toxic breakage of the vines
that ought secure the healthy bound’ry lines  
guarding interpersonal relations—
rememb‘ring my susceptibility
to ego-shuttled, codependent err‘rs
which strain to manage others‘ own affairs
and so invert responsibility—
I ponder if I‘ll ever grow to learn
proper seeds for sowing mutual trust
with vital tools for gently sanding rust
to help stave off a bondship‘s breaking-burn.
One thing I know, that trusting in the LORD
steers love‘s impetus to carry forward.

XIII
-------
“I’m not enough and yet too much,” I've read.
Succinctly that describes my current angst,
and I can‘t justify to war against
these arguments which whirl around my head.
I’ve been told, “You’re just a little intense,”
by many people, not just one or two,
and this they voice clangs manifestly true,
as gaping holes defect my bound‘ry fence.
Voluminous in content and in force,
bestowing as prized gifts what isn‘t sought
or wanted by those for whom gifts are brought,
I falter in my need to change set course.
And where it comes to giving what‘s desired,
real competence seems found to have expired.

XIV
-----
Someone wrote, “true soul mate is a mirror“—
like limelight they‘ll reveal your unseen faults.
Where no one else delights to search your vaults,
“soul mate“ renders time to be apt hearer.
It matters not, was said, that they don‘t stay,
so long as they‘re an agent for reform—
the one who makes you desp‘rate to transform
by breaking heart and making ego fray.
Danger lies in nuanced underpinnings.
I thought I‘d found my soul mate in abuse
and used “he needs my fuel“ as excuse
to take a twisted game to extra innings.
Here I’ll grant these crazed imaginations
were at core demonic machinations.

XV
-----
Casting down romantic schoolgirl notions
that sin-drenched bonds might fashion souls complete,
I drag bewitching grails to Jesus’ feet—
spurning now to drink past guile‘s potions.
As I linger longer in His presence,
I‘m freshly bathed from marring guilt and shame,
reminded I‘m made whole in Jesus‘ Name—
partaker in the fullness of His essence.
Identified eternally with Christ,
secured by His unfailing love through grace,
one day I‘ll walk perfected face-to-face
with Him from whom true life is all-sufficed.
And as I muse, I taste true heart‘s desire—
rekindling, renewed with holy fire.

XVI
-----
Attitude is prime, determinant hinge
on which the door of restoration swings—
deciding what response subconscious brings
and on which morsels mind should bestly binge.
Plenty is dependent on perspective.
Mountain, plain or valley alter sight 
and size by which is measured present, plight.
Simply switching lens can be corrective.
In Christ, Ephesians tells me, I‘ve been raised,
seated with Him in the heavenly realm—
positioned by the One who steers the helm
that Father, Son and Spirit would be praised!
Worship, like a rudder, sets the outlook
to keep me highly grounded in God‘s Book.

XVII
------
Why should I to the worship of false gods
surrender my outlook frivolously?
Idols grab first gaze notoriously,
rob joy as will‘s defenses yield heart‘s nods.
What then? Can I suppose I might steal back
a measure of exuberance through more
skewed genuflecting to gilt calf before—
itself beleaguered, plagued by woeful lack?
Now heed, wayfaring soul of mine, what‘s true:
Creation‘s bounty-goods will make you slave
and with sweet Siren‘s flutes your mind deprave
when to them you lend focus Christ is due.
Lay firm your eyes on Him—pure, restful bed,
cover, fuel, completer, Fountainhead.

XVIII
-------
Wandering down some cobbled, crowded street,
I‘m nowhere headed, rapt in mindless thought,  
and as I saunter south I happ‘ly spot
a friend long-lost but fiercely longed to meet.
Just up ahead, he’s mixed well in the throng
but might be caught if I push through and race!
Heartbeat quickens. Oh, to see his face,
this one with whom I’m sure I must belong!
Yet when I actually seize him and he turns,
I’m devastated, sunk. It isn’t him.
Then moping northbound—dazed, dejected whim—
I stumble on the One for whom heart burns!
How strange, as I had grappled, chased and shoved,
that I’d been running from the One I loved!

XIX
-----
He‘s reservoir for which parched spirit begs,
familial feast cast heart longs to attend,  
elixir fractured psyche craves, to mend,
secure foundation ‘neath soul‘s skittish legs.
Jesus is hearth fire, garden blooming,
joy‘s kiss that welcomes prodigals with tears,
arms’ tender brawn consoling weak ones‘ fears,
shelt‘ring lullaby as nightstorm‘s looming.
Who else can scatter stars, strew mountain snow,
to whet beloved‘s taste for pristine grace?
What other love’s like this, that He‘d embrace
excruciating death to grace bestow?
And best, most faithful lovers of this earth?—
dull pennies next to Christ‘s resplendent worth!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

VOLUME II:
(** — XXXII) [Edited in 9/27-29/21]

**
----
Closing the door on chaining obsessions
requires some short-circuiting of thought
previously allowed to flow uncaught
and forge ever-deepening depressions.
Pathways in my brain can be rerouted
by changing interactions with my world,
observing what’s most easily unfurled—
presently what’s to five senses suited.
‘Mindfulness’ can be a Christian practice
and doesn’t have to rest on Buddha’s shelf—
“awak’ning non-existence of the self”—
or from unseen, eternal things distract us.
True mindfulness is found in gratitude—
joyful, eucharisteo attitude.

XXI
-----
A biblical version of ‘mindfulness‘
is found in 1 Thessalonians 5,
revealing as God’s will that saints should strive
for ever-prayerful joy and thankfulness.
Pond‘rous gratitude staves off resentment,
greed and pride. As was taught to Timothy,
what‘s created and giv‘n by God should be
received in sacred thanks with contentment.
Creation reflects God‘s bounteous glory
and demonstrates His loving grace and care,
so in same grace and glory we can share
each time we recognize Him in our story.
Ten thousand tiny gifts write each day‘s page,
and he who welcomes most is most like sage.

XXII
------
In restoration, elasticity
of mind is a factor to celebrate.
So please don‘t ever underestimate
the wonders of neuroplasticity.
New brainpaths form and old channels falter,
depending on what choices I might make.
Fresh experience of which I partake
will physically help my brain to alter.
Here‘s one great hope I must now remember:
What’s hardwired today can still be displaced,
and thoughts might soon flow on paths greenly graced,
as I feast my soul’s eyes on brain’s Mender.
Bent mindfulness toward Giver and His gifts
best brings joy‘s healing for my mental rifts.

XXIII
-------
Realizations that some obsessions
are desires to vicariously ride
the mindfulness of others who don‘t hide
their own keener sensory possessions,
aptly are aiding to turn my focus
from curiosity to understand
their thoughts, which often‘s led my heart-demand—
want to consume their minds‘ crops like locusts.
What I‘ve perceived as love, concern to know,
empathy for others‘ worlds internal,
might be more escape from mine external—
attempts to hide from life‘s real, present show.
Avoidance wears all sorts of vibrant masks
to keep me blinded to here-moments‘ tasks.

XXIV
-------
Viewing secondhand eviscerations,
as others spill their innards on the page,
may seem the safest way to heart engage—
surrogated life participation.
Substituting others‘ honed perceptions
where I ought learn observance of my own
will keep childlike experience ungrown,
smother creativity’s conceptions.
Social media’s pitfalls lie therein,
along with greater dangers lurking large.
Despite its many goods, there’s needed charge
that gorging on a good thing leads to sin.
Shutting website windows is like trailhead,
opening mountain path to higher tread.

XXV
------
I‘m learning to sit with anxiety
raised by self-denial of habit’s fix,
mindful how my heart solicits tricks  
to alternate for true society.
Discomfort speaks in volumes to soul’s ear
like smoke alarm alerting to a fire.
It tells me, “Quick, investigate! Inquire!
Please find the source of inner burning fear!”
Nervousness as friend might offer insight
if I can hear and listen to its warning,
objectively without the shame-filled scorning
that tends to follow panic-stricken plight.
Practice putting tension in glass cage
to monitor its undercurrent’s rage.

XXVI
-------
It’s time to preach a sermon to myself,
for fears are overtaking me in waves;
and spirit must combat what habit craves—
flesh seeking consolation in false pelf.
Scrutinize what’s underneath such worry.
Do I believe the LORD is still in charge
of details of my life and world at large?
Look to Him. Don’t yield to anxious hurry.
Do I believe He’s with me and He’s good,
a faithful Shepherd tending to each need?
Then look to Him. Don’t drown in fretting’s greed.
Christ’s sheep don’t have to look elsewhere for food.
Each wait is opportunity to grow,
for God has holy riches to bestow.

XXVII
--------
God’s character and sovereign wisdom hem
my life, as His responsibility.
No wrong will steal my true identity,
whatever slips or schemes might spill from men.
Christ’s Ruler over all, but do I let
Him fully reign as Master in my heart?
Do I acknowledge I’m His work of art
and purpose for His hammers, chisels get?
Intimacy and glory are the friends
to which His sanctifying lessons point
and meld together as love’s dovetail joint
whenever I surrender to these ends.
Soul, set your hope on grace to be revealed.
Entrust to God strain’s mysteries still sealed.

XXVIII
---------
LORD, HELP! Why is my mind so distracted?
And why then, letting it be drawn away
for half an hour, am I now okay
to let my compulsions be retracted?
Give in to let go feels like solution,
but know it only deepens the desire
for later curiosity‘s inquire—
grants no satisfying resolution.
Those thirty minutes mindfulness was lost,
yet could it be empowered by the fall,
as I look closer inside to recall
that giving way to habit bears great cost?
I won‘t grow discouraged by the setback
but seek to further understand self‘s lack.

XXIX
-------
Low-pitched, humming anxiousness was sitting
all day inside my torso‘s cavity.
Mindful sensing lent no gravity
to coax the stubborn squatter through outwitting.
Head was tired from too little sleeping,
so frankly seemed to coast and just make do.
Soul felt no fresh excitement by woods‘ view
and lacked bright energy for much guard keeping.
One moral of this story is night‘s rest
must become priority for healing.
Otherwise this shaky default feeling
will grow into another panicked crest.
Though it‘s no excuse to say I‘m tired,
it‘s clear reformed sleep habits are required.

***
------
Changing what’s practical opens a door
to transforming what’s spiritual, mental
and emotionally experiential.
Habit alterations might well restore
enough equilibrium of body,
restfulness, clarity, reason and time
to give me needed aid to better climb
above oppressive moods, both low and haughty.
“Early to bed, early to rise...”could be
one thing to make a world of difference
and welcome back some simple common sense,
to open up new space for setting free.
But for that discipline to take effect,
I’ll also have to curb the internet!

XXXI
-------
Every opportunity for worry
is greater opportunity to trust
that God behind the scenes is sanding rust
from parts of me where fear has made faith blurry.
Without unknowing-gusts to stir the pit
of nervousness inside my helplessness,
I might ne‘er seek my Shepherd‘s faithfulness
nor learn to wait on Him and with Him sit.
These are times of richest growing lessons
when I‘m reminded He is LORD, not me,
and that He works to draw in int‘macy
feeble souls to Him through stretching sessions.
Joy is knowing sure—head, heart and will—
He‘s ever whisp‘ring, “Child, come closer still.“

XXXII
--------
Recapping basic steps to take thus far:
Find sleep (which may mean need for melatonin
to counteract my haywire serotonin),
and overuse of internet I‘ll bar.
Then with restfulness bring mindful thinking—
keen noticing that‘s graced with gratitude
and sets a stronger skyward attitude,
buoys me up against fret‘s downward sinking.
More important still is meditation
upon the word of God‘s indicatives
which lay foundations for imperatives
to follow as prescriptive medication.
Most crucial element preventing fall
is fix my eyes on Jesus through it all!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lines composed while climbing the left ascent of Brockley Coomb, May 1795

With many a pause and oft reverted eye
I climb the Coomb’s ascent: sweet songsters near
Warble in shade their wild-wood melody:
Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear.
Up scour the startling stragglers of the flock
That on green plots o’er precipices browse:
From the deep fissures of the naked rock
The Yew-tree bursts! Beneath its dark green boughs
(’Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white)
Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats,
I rest:—and now have gained the topmost site.
Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets
My gaze! Proud towers, and Cots more dear to me,
Elm-shadowed Fields, and prospect-bounding Sea.
Deep sighs my lonely heart: I drop the tear:
Enchanting spot! O were my Sara here.

Maybe water runs uphill
From the ocean's bursting treasures
Of salts, silts, sands
Marshalling at the estuaries
Spawning rivers, as pioneers
Oozing into coastal plains
A brackish caravan rolling
Inland to new-found-land
Beyond the rule and will
Of the tide's spill where
Drought and dry spells
Sweep like wraiths
******* on thieving winds
Throwing heartless dusty curses
Picking off stragglers
In slacks and backwaters
Or caravanned through known channels
Paying taxes to the thick-rooted soil
For passage upstream
Past thirsting leaf and bough
Every mile hard-won
Til the watershed haven
Of bog and lochan
Corralled safely among peaks
There to farm the cloud and mist
And to see blossom, in good years
A deep harvest
Of cold, clean snow

Miriam sat on the coach next to the boy Benedict shed met him at Dover Priory Station as they both got in the double decker bus to the ferry port can I sit next to you? shed asked him sure hed said and moved over in the seat to allow her to sit on the already crowded bus and the bus took off to the ferry port with its packed bus of passengers Miriam didnt want to spend the next two weeks of her holiday abroad alone and even though there would be about thirty in the holiday package she knew no one and some were in couples married or otherwise or lone girls like her or the single boys whom she felt were not her kind except this boy seemed a bit different although she couldnt quite put her finger on what it was and when they got off the bus and onto the ferry she stayed near him as much as possible talking when she could or stood next to him as they looked out at the sea once the ferry had left the port and once they had arrived at Calais and disembarked from the ferry she followed him onto the coach where she said can I sit next to you? if you like he said  did you want to sit by the window? if I could she said and he allowed her to go in first and once she was settled in her seat he moved in beside her and lay his head on the back of the seat and closed his eyes she looked out the window waiting for the coach to take off are you sure you dont mind me sitting here? she asked no of course not he said not opening his eyes good to have company and pretty company she smiled and turned and gazed at her reflection in the glass of the window as best she could she never considered herself pretty what with her tight red  curly hair and her freckled face and bright blue eyes and a mouth she thought too wide she pulled a face at herself and looked away she settled back in the seat and lay her head on the rest at the back of the seat and tried to sleep for a while but she was too restless and opened her eyes and sat gazing at the passengers still boarding the coach her hands were restless she wanted to do something with them so she tucked them between her thighs out of the way and stared out the window a few stragglers were still waiting to board the coach she ought to have got the book out of her case to read on the journey now she had nothing to do but look out the window or at her fellow passengers or close her eyes and sleep she gazed at the boy Benedict beside her his eyes still closed soon be off she said to him hope its soon he replied me too she said hoping he would open his eyes and look at her but he didnt he just lay there with his eyes closed then after a few minutes the coach started up and the coach began to move from the Calais port and onto a road were off she said he opened his eyes and looked past her head about time he said and looked at the passing view she studied him sitting there with his hazel eyes and quiff of hair brown and wavy isnt it exciting she said to be actually taking off he gazed at her and smiled taking off what? from the port she said catching his smile what did you think I meant? nothing its my imagination goes riot at times she looked at him what did you think Id take off something? she said well could take off that jumper its too hot for it at the moment she raised an eyebrow is it? she said aren't you hot? he asked she supposed she was rather when she thought about and so she took of her jumper and tucked it behind her and sat back on it is that better? she asked I like the tee shirt he said she looked down at the tee shirt it had two rabbits where her ******* were what are their names? he asked what? she said the rabbits what are their names? he said I dont know she said I havent given them names he smiled how can you not name rabbits with names? she shrugged theyre not real rabbits theyre only printed rabbits on cloth she said still rabbits though he said printed or otherwise she smiled ok what shall I call them then?she asked thats up to you he said what names do rabbits have? all sorts of names she said did you have rabbits as a child? he asked yes I did she said reflecting back two white ones Fluffy and Snowy she said smiling so which one will be Fluffy and which Snowy he asked pointing to the two printed rabbits on her tee shirt you choose she said which one looks most like Fluffy? he studied the two rabbits closely mmm think the one of the right looks more fluffy than the one of the left so that one is Snowy? she asked yes I guess so he said the driver switched on the radio and classic music filled the coach thats Chopin Benedict said what is? she said I thought we decided on Snowy no the music he said its a Chopin piece is it? she said yes a sonata I think she gazed at him and he looked at her so how often will you feed the rabbits? feed them? she said sure you got to feed rabbits or theyll die of hunger he said smiling theyre not real rabbits she said smiling at him they look real he said sitting there all kind of innocent and hungry but theyre not real except maybe I will feed them later just to please you she said o good he said and dont forget to give them plenty of strokes rabbits like to be stroked maybe later I will she said looking at him taking in his bright hazel eyes gazing at her eyes of bright blue maybe later she said you can stroke them too.

Meet me at the verge, the place where
Caledonian Road meets the river and the
Reckless thugs of Camden dare not travel,
Lest they find themselves back home, alone once more.

Meet me at midnight, before the
Gates break loose and spill the stragglers to the street,
And just after the last bus leaves the station,
And the tube stops, silent, dead.

Meet me for reasons unknown, for
Sake of impulse, of joy, of freedom,
To cast away what memory you might have
Of days less full and rich as this.

Meet me dressed in black and grey,
All the better for the night to swallow you whole,
Take you within, deep, as a lover to another,
Or a shipwreck lost within the sea.

Meet me with apathy and disdain,
With carefree abandon and slight
Mistrust, for you are more wary than I
And have seen darker evenings.

Meet me then and take my hand,
Through woollen gloves and shivering, and
Stare at me through condensed breath, as we
Share a smile and walk lightly away.

dear mind,
you are attempting indifference,
i try to be too
i am independent
however
without a prop i would surely fall
perhaps this is my lack of confidence
though none of us seem to have any
so that couldn't be it
maybe its my humanity speaking
please excuse my indecency.
i do not mean to be honest but this game of make-believe should have ended long ago
you make me cringe
though, you are my confidant.
we need to help the others
i know you see it too
please stop pressing so hard its turning me blue
and these mind puzzles you play with me are missing some pieces
there are so many screaming souls to save
you and i are lucky
smile more
even though i hate this mouth.
tomorrow we'll wake together
early
we'll try to work our way up the cliff
and throw ropes for the stragglers.
ill leave you now
i know you have tears to dry and words to cross out
write back soon, you are so often gone.
- heart

Palimpset prowling on the husk of beleaguered Rome
Aflame from Nero’s tenuous but tenable throne
Swiftly spoken with a singed hourglass and whispered sand
Crafty spacecraft are majestic more than 100 grand
Morpheus enlists the denuded Agent Smith
To swarm the battalions of celebrities that possess and trip
Upon the threaded needle of threadbare convention of betokened appreciation
Every rapport and every fleet dives beneath plumbable detection
So neutered brain damage became a rummaged adage
That too many whack-a-moles are sutured beyond the crisp package
Whet the craven set and propagate waves of earthquakes that strut
The mother of nature is ******* when profligate danger is a defamed ****
So in amphigory and honesty I have become the omphalos of sincerity
I arm myself with brandished personage and speak openly with great integrity
But to brag of how much witchcraft and wizardry exists in this green village
Is to invite a locust swarm of bad mascots and misnomers readily pillaged
So warm with the dawning sun, writhe with the diurnal pun
Cloister the Kloosters and Clooneys with dreaded Harry Dunne
But to relapse into the purview of insanity seems beyond the most lame duck profanity
Because reality conflated with virtual presence is a tantamount inanity
I emerge strong and gilded with every fluttered birds chavish splurge
As magnates that magnetize wealth and glitz are present and observed
But yet they are disbelieved by the concealment of truth and the obfuscation of beleaguered doubt
Swank and squalor rarely combine but when they do they obliviate all winning streaks in a route
A route that spans the gamut between stimulants and stimulations
A career path that looks upward at gainsay and gained elations
The sprawl of profiteers like me will be requited with the passage of years
The forced segregation is the totality of malfeasance and the sum of none of any fears
Only the rebarbative consequence of the giant tortoise and its Vuvuzela cheers
In a degraded state of annoyance that ESP conquers doubt with bionic ears
Lisp on the curb, wretched on the stomp, racism is nothing but masqueraded insecurity poised as self-doubt
Debited to each creation on a variegated piebald wrinkle on an extended litany of lies
Crips and Bloods become Croods and Oilers that are so U.N.-refined as an expedient for wise demise
To scourge the requisite harm of religions endangered by a patchwork of State Farm
To rinse the sour sins of aboriginal boomerangs that switch a bit patchy but always charm
To the knowledge of good and evil we have found again a permissible fruit in an opportune time
That erasure of the reverse course of sin to righteousness finds sublime
But Judah and Israel rebelled on principles and principals
Idolatry in schools is expulsion of nothing other than the voguish dismissible
We recrudesce in this time to an aborning erratum on a parchment of time
That claims hypocrisy in its stodgy restriction of suburban muses crooning originality on wine
Serendipity floods the proud with the avarice of bricolage clamor excessively loud
It extorts the simpleton to belief without understanding or disbelief without doubt
Return to the Jedi of the nomadic tribe of weathered clout
Clippers that sail and sprint through time where stragglers pout
For in every endeavor of this corporate oligarchy our choices are constrained
Our voices are transmuted into simplicities that own our narratives of a raillery train
And every squeal of rustbelt friction is voiced on simplistic fiction
And every majesty is unheard because of the pollution of abrasive friction
So I speak with the scourge of fish and the novelty of clones
I teach and desist sometimes because my eyes were never affixed to any throne
But I am reminded that a rap sheet is Wrigley and Chicago is Piccadilly
Your guess is as good as mine about where a Grand Elect Knight begins really
So to the insurrection of idolatry of a scarred past we have a supplanted Friday blacker that **** and smog until we need gas masks
Such a salesmanship is required to penetrate the desired, even when Iron Man and I are simultaneously wired
On the Iron in the Front Seat that derelicts the panache of the proud intellect because of languor fired
Women titillate themselves on the jeers of hollowed husks of conformity
They intrude with persnickety restive restriction because of arrogated authority
Such a negative bear must mean a positive bull, but **** is easy and blips are cool
That RADAR’s WHIP detection scrawls a deadened earth deracinated from considerations of thinness and girth
The Dickens of Charlie Brown is worth more than just a single smirk
So to those women that skimp on my exultant smile and my delicate words
Lady Gaga has written too many songs about your personal rejection which is patently absurd
Rays of thespian cordiality winnow the borderline between flicks and literary finds
Directors and directives sort an assortment of philosophies in the alcoves to which many are blind
But if to hear the chatter of a fresh tomato never spattered
Pallor and weight, thickness and cheddar grate, inconsequential when you are elite and of a winning fate
So finally ditch your zany attempt to maroon me as a victim of puritanism’s puny ideals easiest to conflate
I have the winning brand and proper package to balance the Libra Scale weight and wait
To those dismissive urchins of passive standards it is finally time to consider and deliver on that luscious date

Consider for a moment,
a straggler of life;
his bag of misfit materials;
the empty train car he sleeps in, when he is lucky.

This, to the world,
is my soul to me.
A snowy field of minimalism,
tainted only by the brief, yet constant,
glimmer on the horizon.  

In this vision there is truth,
and hope,
There is truth,
and hope,
in loss and in lacking.
For as stragglers do wander,
their dreams provide homes to thoughts,
and warmth to sadness,
and medicine for wounds.

There was not always this brilliant field of white.
Before it, laid the maze of forestry,
the hovering shadow of fate.

Within the trees was confusion,
and within confusion was pain.
But, with the bright blizzard of chaos,
came the simplicity of love, and therein laid acceptance.

There are those who must chop trees to see the sunlight,
and there are those who simply find the fields of snow,
laying pleasantly within the reflection of the sunrise.  

This, to the world,
is my soul to me.
Wandering acceptance,
caught in the mess of falling trees.

five, like clichéd clockwork
every ******* day-after;
after wasting (enjoying)
the better part of a seventy-two
hour stint in wonderland.

i don't know how to
confront the piles of
confetti on my carpet--
stragglers you left here
like it was ok, not rude.

i guess i could try the
vacuum; unplug it
from my stomach
and **** up the
residual signs.
            
it's funny how
misunderstood
a metaphor can
be, a teenager,
for example.

the vacuum hooked
up to me keeps me
stocked up on longing,
and lacking in content(ment)
what a drag, or a ******.

all i can really do on these
rare mornings becoming
regular, is drag this (mis-)
matching hot pink comb
through my hair another
time, in wistful hopes
of restoring some silly
insignificant order to
my disheveled and
"last-year"
hairstyle of a life.

Without God we cannot and without us God will not, Sister Bonaventure, the Italian  said, in R.E  at the school, where Fay sat looking at the nun's plump features and a second chin that lay on the nun's wimple. Cannot what? a girl said from beside Fay, a thin girl whose hand was raised above her head. Others stared in Fay's direction as did the nun. What do you think it means, Gloria? the nun asked, her dark eyes peering at the girl. The girl shrugged her shoulders. Salvezza, the nun said, salvation. Fay took the word and tongued it in her mouth like a boiled sweet. Salvezza. The other girls in the class sat mute; some looked at each and smiled either out of indifference or bewilderment, but Fay sat straight-faced, the words in her mouth, both Italian and English. Salvation? A girl asked, pushing her luck, seeing the nun's features harden like cement on a hot day. To be saved, the nun said, saved from damnation. The girls all Catholic and bought up from the cradle knew this, but it was a hot day and they had lost interest as soon as Sister Bonaventure had entered the class with the ease of a hippo into a muddy swamp. But Fay took the words and packed them away inside her head to **** upon in her nightly hours when she failed to sleep. After school, walking along St George's Road, she saw Benedict standing by the subway waiting for her. He stood with hands in his pockets, his school tie untied, hanging loose, his shirt collar unbuttoned. She smiled when she saw him; her stomach did a somersault; her eyes moved over him like hawks seeking prey. He smiled like Elvis, which he had mastered by studying the photograph in the paper and had cut it out and sellotaped it to his wall. Didn't know you were going to meet me, Fay said, thought you said you were busy. Benedict smiled. Wanted to surprise you, he said. Did you run home from school to get here by this time? No, got the bus, he said. She touched his arm with her thin fingers, felt the cloth of his school blazer. He looked at her; took in her fair hair, straight, but pinned at the sides with hair slides; at her eyes that were as pure as silk; at her features that he wanted to capture in his mind so he could conjure up in bed at night when he found it hard to dream about her. She looked past him, making sure her father-who didn't like Benedict- wasn't around; making sure that her father wasn't amongst the crowd across the way or in a passing bus. They walked back towards the flats together, side by side, hands not touching, but close, near touching. She told him of her day at school, about the Italian nun and the words that she had captured that day in R.E lesson. Salvation? he said, taking the word and moving it around his head and mouth like a puzzle to be solved. Sounds like something you put on if you've got a sore spot, he said. She smiled. It means saving our souls from sin and the consequences of sin, she said. They walked down the subway side by side, the words echoing along the walls. He looked at her as they walked, his hand near touching hers. Sins? What are they when they're at home? he asked, probably knowing the answer, but wanting her to say. Violation of God's will, she said. Violating our relationship with God, she added. He allowed his knuckles to brush against hers gently, letting her words float about his ears. Violate God's will? He said. She nodded. Defy, God's will, she said. Mm-mm, Benedict said, got you. Whether he had or not, Fay had no idea, she sensed his knuckles brush against hers, gentle, soft, skin on skin. They came out into the late afternoon sunlight, on to the New Kent Road, passed the Trocadero cinema, their hands brushing close. Changing the subject, before Fay could venture further into the words, he said, do you anything about periods? She stopped by the entrance to the cinema and gazed at him. Periods of what? History? Geographical times of changes? She said. No idea, a boy at school was talking about it, said his big sister was having her periods and was a dragon when she was, Benedict said, gazing past, Fay, at the photographs in the framed areas inside the cinema walls. She blushed, looked at the photographs, too. How old are you, Benny? She said. Same as you, twelve, he replied, taking in the photo of a cowboy, at how the cowboy had his guns set in his holster. And you don't know? she said, shyly, looking at him, blushing. He tried to copy the cowboy's stance ready to draw his imaginary gun from imaginary holster. No idea, he said, looking at her briefly before gazing at another photo. What do you learn in biology? she asked. O usual ******* about plants and sunlight and butterflies and bees and so on, he said. About butterflies or birds, then? he said, taking in the cowboy's stance again. Yes, she said quickly, not wanting to elaborate further.  They walked on passed the cinema and the used car area and walked over the bomb site towards Meadow Row. So what's the connection between this kid's sister and ****** birds or butterflies and periods? Benedict asked. She shrugged and smiled. Ask your mum, she said, she might know. He smiled, leaned down, picked up a few stones from the bomb site for ammunition for his catapult later, guess so, he added, taking in her blushing features. They paused half way across the bomb site and stared at the the coal wharf where a few stragglers of coal men loaded up the lorries and wagons again for last bit of business. He wanted to kiss her, but didn't want to take the liberty of just plunging his lips on her cheek as he'd seen them do in the cowboy films. She watched the coal men at work. She sensed him beside her, his closeness, his hand brushing against hers, skin on skin, flesh touching flesh, but she didn't want her father to see her touching Benedict's hand, because he'd go mad at her. I  want you to focus on your school work and what the nuns tell you about matters, not gallivanting with the likes of him, he said last time he saw her with Benedict, even though they lived in the same blocks of flats, he downstairs and she upstairs. Likes of him? What did that mean? She mused, looking away from the coal men and taking in Benedict beside her. God knows what her father would say if she kissed Benedict and he saw them. A few years ago he would have spanked her, but nowadays he just threatens her with it. Benedict turned and looked at her. Are you coming to the cinema for Saturday's matinee? Don't know; depends, she said. Depends on what? he asked. My dad and what he's up to and if he'll let me, she said. She paused, looked past Benedict to see if her father might be around. What's wrong with Saturday matinee? Benedict asked. She looked at him. Daddy thinks it's sinful to stare at those kind of films, although he did take us to see the Ten Commandments with Yul Bryner and Charlton Heston  a few years ago, she said. But you've been with me before, Benedict said. I know but only if Daddy's away on business or is away on religious retreat. Benedict raised his eyebrows and pulled a face and pouted his lips. She smiled. See what I can do, she said, looking over at Meadow Row making sure her father wasn't in sight. He wanted to kiss her, but didn't want just to plunge at her as he'd seen them do at the cinema, but what to do? She gazed at him, her body tingling for reasons she couldn't fathom. Best get home I suppose, she said, in case Daddy's there wondering where I've got to. They walked on across the bomb site slowly. Could I? He asked, pausing by the wall of  bombed out house. Could you what? Fay asked. Benedict looked at her. Kiss your cheek? She blushed and looked around her then back at Benedict. Why would you want to kiss my cheek? She asked. I've seen cowboys do it to women in films I just wondered what it was like, he said. Is that all? she said. All what? He said. That reason? She said. No, he said, looking past at the coal wharf, I like you a lot, wanted to show you how by kissing you. She felt out on a limb, beyond her comfort zone, yet something about it seemed satisfying, the gesture, the idea, the reason he wanted to kiss at all. She knew she was blushing, knew that her body was reacting in away unknown to her before. She looked across at Meadow Row, at the people passing over the way. Do I dare? She asked herself. What if Daddy sees? Not here, she said, maybe on the staircase of the flats if no one is around. He nodded, looked at her, touched her right hand, warm, silky soft. He wasn't sure of himself as he usually was; felt as if he were in bandit country and bad cowboys were at large. They walked on down Meadow Row, passed the public house with doors open and the smell of beer and a piano playing out of tune, passed houses and the crossed over by the corner leading into Rockingham Street. Their hands were apart from each other just in case. Her father in her case and other boys seeing, in his case, thinking he was breaking the schoolboy code into cissiness. They walked up the ***** and into the Square and walked towards the block of flats where they lived. She talked about Sister Bonaventure and sin and he talked about the boy's sister's period problem whatever it was. Half way up the second staircase landing they paused. Now? He asked. She looked up the stairs then down. Ok, she said softly. He kissed her cheek, damp, soft. She looked at him, then for reasons she didn't know she drew him to her and kissed his lips, then let him go. What happened to her or him they didn't understand just felt the inner glow.

Last week I sold a bunch of my memories

to help pay the rent.  It was either that or my car.

I gave them 146  rarely used memories, they gave me $40.88…

I thought it was a fair deal. I mean, I wasn’t using them…

A couple weeks later I was curious

to see how they were selling, so I walked to the second-hand shop

that had made the deal with me.  I saw an elderly woman looking

at my memories.  She picked one up, stared at it disapprovingly, then

tossed it casually back in the pile.  She did this a couple more times, then

walked away.  I waited until she had left, then walked up and picked

up the one she was looking at.  It was a memory of kissing and elbows.

Whispers and smiles.

I stood perplexed with the memory in my hands, wondering to myself what

brought about the look of disapproval.  To each their own, I suppose…

I hung around that day, trying to get into the heads of

those who were looking into mine…with little success.

There were laughs, tears, and the occasional snarky comment.  I watched a memory of driving

down an empty interstate with the windows down on an exquisite summer day sell

for 28 cents.  I saw a memory of climbing trees and rope swings leave with an old man

who wanted to remember youth.   A girl with dreadlocks in her twenties took a fuzzy memory

of less than legal implications.

I came by every day until they were all but gone, only a few stragglers here and there;  One of a hospital bed,

another of a meatloaf dinner in January.

I really don’t like meatloaf.

Graceful predator perched on the precipice of woe
Your satin crown, ebony feathers cannot camouflage mision of misery you'll sow
Your balmy wings caress as dark shadows grow
You sharpen your talons lethal grasp your helpless prey to show
But only quicken the hearts of foragers nestled below
Shrill call does not alarm wary prey; only emboldened, novel defenses bestow
Slower prey their extended units disband; bountiful feast now in escrow
Stealthy ears pick up the feigned, stressful calls of dispossessed lying low
The harried remnant recedes into veiled canopy with their cargo
Confident dive bomber, you plunge into the shielded canopy mayhem to strew
Only to have pleated wings torn by thistle, thorn guarding the undertow
Injured, but deadly weapons your armada still doth tow
With sharp beak you shred the stragglers who venture into twilight's afterglow
With bristling talons you scratch and claw causing stiffened backs to bow
But their desire to live trumps marauding havoc laid in stow
Shorn of limb but not of hope, scurrying from nest to nest to and fro
Storm clouds gather over Dover cliffs; thunderous chorus from nest doth bellow
On the sparring range, a docile, prevailing wind no longer doth blow
Wearied from long chase, depleted eagle from bleeding strand doth go

Anarchy
Grows in my heart organically
I'm sky high
Don't apply to no gravity
Mid'flight dog fightin' with insanity
Crash to the floor
My eyes burning with clarity
Mind state retaliate eradicate depravity
Assassinate a character
Animate a passenger
Blind hate.
The scavenger
The ravager
Ravish all the challengers
And massacre the amateurs
Banish all the stragglers
Smack with em a cannister
**** sliding down the bannister
Pay my debts like my second name was Lannister
Vanish like a phantom of the avatar
The damager
The battler

Crowds gathered and the noise of disobedience shook the neighbourhood whole. I was in the southern part of the city, where sinners sinned and the practitioners groomed the bars and off licenses solely to quench their thirst for liquor. It was almost midnight and hordes of young and old alike chanted and sung merry making song that rang through city; and what a noise it was. And it was on this night I met a lad who dressed as if the night belonged to him. A tall, slender fellow who hadn’t a care in the world. His Caribbean afro would bob up and down as we giggled to anecdotal stories of the past. We were rebels of the night, breaking away from the fragile unity that was the friendship circle.

A few stragglers in the form of Chavs had joined. Many of them formed bonds with the pretty girls, rivalling us out in the end. Deciding momentarily on what our next plan was, we split away from the group and continued midnight drinking into the Holy Lands. We could hear the barking of neighbourhood dogs tangle with the distant explosions of fireworks in the sky. It was beautifully chaotic. But as midnight sinners it was like music to our ears.

“I’m off mate, take care of yourself.” The fellow said as he guzzled his last remainder of his bottled Budweiser.

“You heading home, aye?” I smirked, clearly egging him on to stay out just a tad longer. But, this was to be it. With a hug and a good luck, he was off, towards the mystic backstreets and towards the Ormeau Road. I never caught the young lad’s name, nor did I ever catch his age. It was a strange meeting between the two of us. As if, for one singular night we knew everything about each other yet knew nothing at all. I recall sitting back down on the sidewalk and smiling, before looking up towards the decorative sparkly night sky. And, what turned out to be a spontaneous and random night ended up as a completed final chapter, to a superb little story.