Dribble Dribble Stop
The Player Takes a Jump Shot
The Ball Swishes in

“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more”
(Henry V, by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE)

Morning into Mourning

<>

I speak it softly, for though battlefield is steeped in quietude
of the lively greenery, endless lawns of healing fields
surrounded by multitudinous shades of blue waters,
my eyes piercing , joining in
as sunrising separates the veil
dividing light from dark, new from prior,
a went-before and a
soon-to-be
and a familiar-what-to-be-hereafter,
but a skyed breech it is,
with sun ray stairs inviting my
upright ascension into this newness

Welcoming the exposure of my trembling, though it is not fear that causes my shaking, but the colored warmth barely warming, yet,
stoking, stroking the drape of chill
away, away! from my night-sealed pores

the majestic surfacing of the waters peinture impasto, with its roughened but genteel thick, dabs, dots, swirls, swishes belie the overall atmosphere of calm it conveys, and Shakespeare’s rallying cry of men rises to the mind forefront, for the bay is my battlefield,
the day’s new light the breeching of the sky’s
envelopment of our world, summons to rise and
step forward intimately into the tableau of morning

into the breech, into the unknown,
to lift one more poem from breast,
shed tears of welcome, and death fears banished,
a battle to the unknown from the foretold past,
and, but

you shout
no!
<>
tis a day like all others,
of rectitude sans gratitude
another quantity of known drudgery, another,
“Woke up, fell out of bed
Dragged a comb across my head
Found my way downstairs and drank a cup”

The breach is within me,
a splitting of the head,
laid flat out upon my desk,
writing down scrupulously
officiously,
the same figures inconsequentially,
letters deranged, daily merely rearranged,
prison vista,steel and glass appearing with
the same exactitude of every day ever prior,
the sun invisible, the unceasingly unchanging
dark deep of the shadowy of manmade canyons…

speak to us no more of views, vistas,
but the fistulae, the empty places
where interconnected dots and dash’s,
light and ombre blends of dark ochre  
gradations of bland de~gray~ding
are our time’s patchworks of familiarity,
cursed with annualized daily reciprocity,
a *** for a tat,
a woolen watch cap,
a  black Balaclava,
drawn over our heads
lest the drudgery be too readily apparent!

<>
mere mortal am I,
mortal wounded by our disparate
and desperate differing points
of view,
and we split ourselves in two,
hoping for a way forward of
reconciliations,
successful hostage negotiations,
pushing these contradictions,
back inside my heads,
until confronted
once again,
and find new words coming,
to bind me of the divisions between
or even,
to blind
me to the gaps between
my left and right
brain.

for I am both men,
one and the same,
forever
battling

until the morrow, then…

Glimpsed in red,
under   dappled    shade,
a tail   swishes. A tale    sways,
safely  in that emerald    glade,
    for you,     alone,     she plays.

Painting a picture
Hi there, I wanted to try something new
I would like to paint a picture in your mind
With swift brush strokes of my words as my
Paint.

Before I start take a second and shut your
Eyes and think of something that is bright and beautiful
Something that warms your head to your toes, even
Your soul.

Take a couple of deep soothing breaths in through
Your nose, sit there and focus on that feeling you have
As the cold air rushes through you, calming the
Strom inside.  Breath out now let the dragon
Fly free, let it warm your frozen hands before
We start.

Now before we start we must choose are style
Would you like to paint with big chunky paint brushes
Using all the rich colors to engulf the paper in a fire
Consuming the tiny village as the dark sky billows with the
Black smoke of people crying and pleading for help.

Or would you like to go with some colored pencils
We could draw with all the light and soft colors
Of a cool spring breeze swishing through the
Golden locks of a young ******* a swing set with
Her mommy on tow.

We could also use water paints
Make a beautiful ocean seen  ware
The water laps up the sand, leaving
Shells and sparkly glass waiting to be
Discovered by curios eyes.

I think these all sound like great ways to paint
A picture for you, but I have another idea in mind.
What if I use the swift little  brush quick on its tip
to make a human  being on the page.  The brush would
Dance over the page painting a man tall and lean man
Standing out in the wilderness with his hands folded
Over his chest making a heart shape.  

The smile on his face is so bright and cheery it made the
Birds sing a little tune. His curly locks of Carmel shaped
His face covering one of the blue crescent moon's of an eye.
His face was chiseled perfectly.

I switch to a tiny brush adding all the details to the man
Like the missing button on his untuck red and white
Checkered shirt, just like a farmer would ware.
The tiny ripped seams on the ankle of his faded jeans.

I put down my brushes crack my hands and take out the
Pencils. My hand sways and maneuvers around the page
As if there was an actual breeze moving my hand so
I draw the grass clinging to his shoes as if never to let go
Others sway more to the left looking away from the human
In fear. Blue swirls enchant the sky ruffling the blue jays
Feathers.

Behind the man the sky becomes a beautiful pink and red
The clouds get in the way of the sunset and become giant
***** of cotton candy lazily floating across the sky waiting
To be eaten by a hungry rainbow.

My markers etch out a beautiful sunset as the rays
Reach across the earth hugging the boy in warmth
From behind. I switch back and forth from pencil to marker
Adding in the details of the swishes and twirls of the flame
Coming off the ball of the sun minting in to the earth atmosphere.

To finish of the picture I go back to ware the delicate hands
Of the man make a heart shape over his chest. I take the chunky
Brush from before and make swift but bold marks
Of red, orange, purple, gold, pink, yellow, blue, green,
the colors of a  Rainbow. All inside of his hand, forming a heart.
It leaks down out spreading in to the world around him.
His soul is to big to stay trapped in his heart anymore.

As it gushes out it paints the sunshine in vibrant colors of
Warmth, and cools down the air to make a gentle breeze, which provokes
The soft grass to hug his feet, and makes the blue jay sing its beautiful
Tune and causes him to smile so deeply. Because he is free.

Love i wish i can see  you .
love my only one love .
if i can see you .
as you leave .
your spirit is whirling .
through trees and leaves .
your soul is fluttering ,
about river and sea surface .
l know it ,when i open the door in morning .
the light blow that sweeps my feature .
and runs through my mind and heart .
is the dulcet melody of your greeting voice .
that wind 's  sweep about tree and undergrowth .
is the murmur of your parole to me .
you meant  you missed me  .
i so missed you and dearly .
as you gone your place is left empty .
upon my heart and is deepening sore .
but for our meeting that cant be encore .
i think i should tend my ear and hear .
your murmur through the grass at my front or rear .
i can hear you washing ashore and rush in a sorrow .
for the sea that hold your soul prisoner .
and the wind that pent your spirit forever .
i cant anything against them but only weep .
i can only  weep - weep a blood .
where are you now ,oh my memory for you .
till i touch my sepulcher - my heart will always bleed .
for your dulcet voice that sings through tree .
and your soul swimming about deep abyss .
l understand ,yes i understand ; you no more .
deep in the night when the sea moans .
and the sweeping breeze when i open my window in the morning .
remember me your hoof thud .
about the the carpet ,in  the living  room  all through .
the light blowing upon my face .
you want to talk to me , l know .
through the tree and along the river surface .
are the sign of your living .
i know that you still be here but afar .
i know that you never gone .
l know that the dead still living .
the dead are not dead .
their soul is inside the water that flows .
their soul is inside the sea that washes ashore and moans .
their spirit is in the stealing wind that swishes along sorrowfully .
in tree and bushes .
love i wish i can see you .
love my only beloved one .
but the breeze swishes about so sweet .
and o believe you say you are near .

Voices rang throughout the willow,
Symphonic, Angelic, free...
They defined this lovely tree.

Its own heart be,
as wise and true as the forest that surrounds it,
both old and new.

The Willow swishes its branches that gracefully dance,
moving to the beat of the music.
which hath put it in this trance.

The Willow is old,
The Willow is wise,
It knoweth thy soul,
behind your very eyes.

Its beauty is undefined,
Mythical and refined.
It sings along in kind.

You know your soul when it sings with thee,
The heart and soul of a tree.
They move, sing and cry.
Even within the darkest night.

The Willow is archaic,
as the earth it grows upon,
Renewed and restored,
by its mother above.

Pray for thee,
for it knoweth the end be soon,
When one day it may die,
Along with the forest too.

Thy soul of the Willow will live on,
It may also speak to thee,
within spirit...
of song.

For all--the hunger wishes,
Launched from sky lilies
We lead them to descend.

And I guide your soul-swishes
Upon-a-dance of moon sprinkles,
Time keepers laugh in pretend.


Interlocked hearts causing--

It's
       Myriad of rotations.
Candles sing beyond our ponders,
And pedestal gazes.


Take with you my meadows
Mellowing tears.


We
      Us
           (You and I)


Seek patient sparrows...
As they squawk; silently,
With words, fragments

These love-abyes.


Kept constant awakenings
Watching, thoughts of you,
Strengthen...


My thimble of complete.

Yearning--

I await...

I knew a girl who was as highly strung
as Blanche Dubois
She had a sweet soul,
one of the last real ones perhaps:
vibrant and compassionate, any time of day.
I offered her the cure
to her constant plight
and once she let it in,
it eased her zapping mind.
But the brain still relentlessly
swishes
and
swallows
every good thought in her domain,
until it’s coated
in an atrocious slime.
‘Anxiety,
go for a holiday’
I heard her chanting one afternoon
from mid-battle ground...

You got wheels
Come pick up the cure
Feel the peace beneath your feet
It’s always been there honey,
You just gotta let it
paint your landscape: bright.