For you, on whose
Oil painted skin the stars did sleep
For you again,
Who wept, wept in vain

I’d tie a butterfly to the unwavering sky
If only as a frail worm to
lure the fish
But did we not swear to leave the winged
alone?

Yet, there they are
Causing a reckless havoc
Trying to tear open the blue
And I’d shoot them down
But the ground is ours you see

Wounded and bleeding
The dying, as a fish, squirms
A broken spear pinning him in place

And I will keep on burning this dirt
To bricks
One betrothed to other
With cement,
Your own strange creation
The one you pour out your flutes
And pluck out them strings
Like fresh born weeds
dried and crushed

Songs upon songs
We set free up the yonder

But here is a bubble that will not be butchered
Like our sacrificial blooms
Ripened and fat,
This untouched pomegranate
Ravages itself

Long did our labor weave tales out ruin
To build us a shell
Within which we now reside

Unhatched

How do we do? It is pretty
A sight
The sky chokes on dirt and dirt
Drowns in the blue
Time, a trapped moth, flutters about
It collides around in its blind frenzy
And will not settle

I keep on
Painting our dry clouds
Birds still peck at gleaming stars
And you
You live, live in vain

1
In petrified personal history
far back in a page, this image-
a boy, eyes shut
lays supine embraced by
mother earth.A wakeful dream.
His bare body, smells
sweat, hay, mud, pollen
and grasshopper songs,
resonating in his ears still,
the sacred morning mantras;
his Hindu mother's incessant chants-
to appease mother earth.
* Shanthi..Shanthi..Shanthi
Peace descends on magical wings.

2
He feels time standing still
like trees frozen on a windless morn,
Earth was the mother, the presence,
that poured in to consciousness
music without sound,
an warm embrace without touch,
that painted the inner world with
her myriad colors.

3
Earth where secrets spurt, spread and die down as ashes,
my windy bed, gentle balm, end of every hunger,
I've dug deep in to yielding earth,
on those days of rustic childhood,
in a frenzied exploratory spirit,
prompted by a deep primordial urge,
that kept churning my dark inner caves,
with unknown currents, perhaps a wish
to go back as far  as possible,
to the past and find the nest where memories slept,
where my history lay buried in layers,
unhatched eggs of dinosaur past,
waiting to be discovered,
by the probing hands of present and future.
Perhaps a desire to reconnect with past,
now crusted secrets of an uncertain time,
that would talk to me in cryptic codes
of life, death and transcidence
and in a flash reveal what it all means
to an intergalactic traveler on eternity's wings.

4
My eager body gets smeared with soft earth,
covered at places with sticky mud that exudes
a sensuous scent,
                           feel of a woman, that takes one
to the unreal plane of a savage urge,
that arises from depth, a yearning to melt in to her,
to give birth to a future that would bring back
in a new form, the histories of yore,
on   the starting point once again.

5
Earth, is the sensuous woman, I relentlessly seek,
the destination of my destiny in the end,
the womb, where seeds of my dreams take root,
when I come back to her, to create me all over again,
with her elements, minerals and salts.
                            

That subtle taste
of your love and affection,
was common at first,
but you've proved your possessions
through spirit and presence,
Admiring all of your visions,
missions we cater,
Like a striking viper,
you know what you wanted,
all this time,
your hair, scented.
lovely as the stars,
your eyes makes me melted
when I am wasted
you unhatched my other side
making me free
unleashed, no rules we abide.
to love one another,
is our promise to keep,
we leap, we soar,
we are what we give.
you see my soul,
while I see yours,
my dearest,
always a chase.
this is for keeps,
my one and only grace.

I sought signs both poorly and all too well,

Temporal desecration, deceived amid allies in a chemical orbit

My eyes, coal-black freezing eggs shivering in the expansive contract

To remain unhatched, their interior activity unnoticed, casings devoid of fissures

They deemed this New World for the whole Indian Ocean, whilst bobbing in a tidal pool

Lonely flotsam, overbargained destination, peered the cobalt with sunburnt backs

Washed in seawater, mistaking the mast on the horizon for the splinter in my cornea

I sought signs both poorly and all too well,

Cornered by God, pushed through into the ethereal,

Found the pattern, heard its airy whisper coat my thought,

Gave in at the threshold, suffered fealty to this breached actuality,

My fey qualities shining, I could glimpse the moon at midday,

Sense the aroma of heartache; savor the essence of autumn’s submission to winter

during awarenesses of spectral subtleties, the heretic’s hints, that waning occidental divination.

no use using your energy just to pretend
i hate to bring this up again and again
if things were different, if we could figure it out
the pace of our lives, feelings i'd rather live without
maybe it would be easier, maybe it would be better
if we could forget about each other
but there's no use in using your energy just to pretend
because we still lose our cool again and again
if we were older, maybe we would figure it out
our feelings remain inseparable from our doubt
i've been trying to come to the rescue of what we want to trust
while you cross your arms and mutter, "if you must."
i don't know how to be honest with you
and you don't want me to tell you the truth
there's no way to float alone with such weights attached
i placed all my eggs in one unreliable basket
and you think it's best to leave them unhatched

I am going
to disappear--
stay awake
until 6 am
when everyone
begins.

They will
look for me
under the
covers, but I
will not be
there.

I will evaporate
into the secret
air of all the
people who
cannot sleep
at night--we
fly into darkness,
because it does
not hurt our
eyes and all
our dreams
cannot die while
they are still
unhatched eggs.

We do not
have to love
anyone, except
from a
distance--they
are perfect there,
held in time
as all the good
things and good
smiles we remember
them as.

No one has
to love us.

I wonder what the hell the world sees
when they look in my direction.
I mean, sure I have a bright personality
but some have seen me fiery and smoldering
and I burn those who stand too close.

I wonder what the hell the world sees
when they look in my direction.
They certainly don’t realize I hide
a much softer side behind each rant.
The fluff and feathers go unhatched in my shell.

I wonder what the hell the world sees
when they look in my direction.
My laugh certainly can draw a stare
as it rumbles up out of my chest
and tinkles to the ground like crystal.

I wonder what the hell the world sees
when they look in my direction
and the rage from forever-hurts flare.
My fire lashes out and tears betray me
as I hope to be secretly strong.

I wonder what the hell the world sees
when they look in my direction
and realize I know I’m not much to look at, at all.

Our fragile expanding Vision,
Our harsh gripping realities
Our futuristic elusive Ideals
Tremble,Vibrate Quiver within
our intrinsic consciousness and
we keep knocking at their doors
Unperturbed
and
World roars in harmony
Calling us cowards, even sun moon
and invisible wind mock us with laughter.
Damaged a single I might have perished
But we Unperturbed we ponder about
things we have never felt seen or want to see.

Wishing under the dark sky
that maybe magically we could
sprout wings or become birds or at least butterflies.
Twinkling stars wink, inviting us to join them.

We smile back, scared in calculated impulses
for sunlight and the perfect time.
World accused us of running away,
accused us of being spineless cowards.

We laugh to endure
the long bitter night
staring at the sky
hoping to fly
Not knowing how to?
we outstretch our arms
Our imaginary invisible wings
towards the heavens
Flapping flapping flapping
hard

Now the world calls us Immature
a child and sun moon and the invisible winds
join in.
And
this time a sparkle glides
through our eyes
To the constant truth
through built up lies.
A tree of passion grows within our hearts
fruits of adventure ripen
and compassion sprouts new wings
and we in unison
soar into clear blue heaven

And
Now world sun moon
sing praises
Unperturbed
We just smile, flying
flying towards unhatched fledglings
to show them the journey, this flight
The flight of hope

"to be alone with you"
i hum that thought
to myself
on a nightly basis

what would i say
if you and i were alone
with hours to dwell
with words unsaid

i guess i would start with
a heavy sigh
and a head full of "why's?"
but I would keep those to myself
I would shake my head
place my hand to my heart
and like a chain to my chest
the silence would be enough
with you,
it would always be enough

i wouldn't yell
i wouldn't ask
i would simply acknowledge
and tell you "i am sorry"
and that I know how hard life is
sometimes
well, most times
it can go so slow
learning can go so slow
mistakes are hard to swallow
especially when nothing is saved
at the end of it all
we were a plan, unhatched
unmet
i n s a n e
weathered
before we started
a quiet lull from the norm
but we started
and it was full
it was fire
it was beautiful
and despite the outcome
now
looking back at it
while i'm in my bed
alone
it would be so easy to dismiss
but i'm not a liar
it was something
i could never forget
it was something
I could never forgive
it was something
that cannot
be taken
only stored
for memory lapses
and nostalgia's **** hour
you, my lull

~I look at the buds still wrapped
on the ripening kernels. I want
to be in there, unhatched and unpolished.
—Shirley Kaufman, "Poem in November", Gift of Tongues

Death's wings
written January 10th, 2021

The Angel Death
wraps his wings around me
I feel him there
when I stop suddenly
Death's wings
jostling around me
settling into place.

He holds his breath
so I won't have that proof
of his presence
or any other
reassurance in this life.

Are his wings protection?
or curse?
Their silence wrapped around
is my well known company
these many years
Death's wings my comfort in life.

The woodcarver
Chips away at his creation
The old, steady hands
Crafting something of perfection
Each wood shaving falling away,
piece by piece,
gives way to a more and more beautiful masterpiece.
But halfway through,
he sits, and he rests.
The creation still stands on the workbench, incomplete.
Time goes on,
and on, and on…. yet the unhatched egg of a figurine still remains.
And one day, the carver again takes it into his hands.
“Finally, your time has come”
He sits back, and he widdles, and widdles….and widdles.
The wooden sculpture at last takes its final form.
And although it was finished last,
and he had made hundreds of items in the past,
the piece that took the longest,
was much more precious than any other piece he had ever made before.

The nest, half a walnut, about;
two tiny, unhatched eggs,

and this, November, cold after
a rare storm spun off a rare named one,
back east,
brought rain, right between the harvest
and the harvest festival,
as far as city folk imagine… I must assume,
no, allow,
no, imagine, I must
as far as I might say I know,
say these'll never hatch.

The flax will be just fine, though the
wheat will just be fodder.

Could she be among the fallen angels?
A young lady, likely to be a girl,
That which I can not qualify,
Away and beyond all because of her.

She is an epitome of beauty,
A very good source of writing in literature,
That which could face reality,
Adorable, even to the immature.

I had a clear chance, so I moved close,
And the more fascinating,
It was unhatched egg, my heart being enclose,
Her smile very charming,

My heart now skips to beat,
My eye couldn’t see,
I couldn’t move my feet,
Cause her eye has blinded mine

TASTE IT

Like your first fat BlackBerry plucked from the hanging vine.

Sweet juicy juice
black diamonds of summer
Swallowing boyhood whole
Plugging along my Florida trail
Light shows twinkling on both lakes. Sun waves wanting to dance with rippling water.

Let it dance.

Feel it
Come bouncing through your playground ready for a game of dodge ball to teach or show you something cruel or miraculous.

One moment to be seen like this, to be rinsed clean by a new dew starlight.

Wise and profound opportunities rise up and blossom.

At night, years ago as you lay on your pillow, your thoughts became a homeless city, their hungry hearts beating for meals and drinks, their ***** hands reaching up and toward  the Immaculate Island of peace.

At night hinting through window cracks with possible discoveries waiting to be made- someone is running,
You don't know who ???

But he is running blind through fields of landmines,
holding up a torch trying to call down for more starlight,  trying to dig out all knives, trying to remember who he is- beyond this earth bound wreckage.

Trying to ignore all cruel voices reaching out to smash him to pieces.

Daniel is thrown down into the lion's den.

At night on a pillow, sleepless love dancing between clouds
Their guns have missed their target.

Hurry.
Taste it now.
It's becoming.
A crunching field of snow.
Kneel down to kiss it.
A torch burning strong in the heaven of your heart.
Rise up to seize it.

Something incredible shines and leaks out from her eyes,
Her cursive poetry dared to threaten perfection.
You can breathe again but now you must bear down and also endure it.

Feel it.

Sharp and full of arrow fire.

Now nobody can sleep again.
Out the door. You run away.

Who cares where?

One suit case filled with only a black jacket, three ripped journals, a pen, and a battlefield full of wounds hoping for repair.

When will the Lion lay down with the Lamb?

Taste it.
Flowers in the air.
Her eyes singing love.
My heart has no bounds now.
One wing on the moon.
One wing somewhere else.

Night angels sensed but not seen. Shhhhh. We have a great plan. Keep becoming.

Yesterday you were the wound trying to fill in the blanks.

Today You are healed because you know the answers to your own questions, because the grass accepts rain fall, because the search for something greater lies in every human heart awaiting to be found.

It is an unhatched egg hiding in a 1000 miles of blackberries.
Feet stained purple from walking, sometimes dancing.

Always on the look out for a sign or miracle, but then you look around you and you realize it's all a miracle.

Even with the heavy shadow following you behind sly whispers of denial.

A monster is blowing up the world.

It follows for your soul.

Taste it.

A crafted potion for submission.

Taste it.

A mailed out priority, delivered rejection letter screaming between both ears promising fatalities.

It's knocking me down and around the mud pits of desire.

Someone is calling to me through wave after wave of fire.

I gotta tell ya one day you'll be strong.

Feel it.

A quest for light. Breaking out upon cold surface.

Hair raised up on neck.
The suitcase torn open.
The jacket torn and ragged.
The pen bled dry.
The journals filled up.

Sometimes every word gets eaten up by lions.

Still,
A deep longing stirs and calls you from some animated world out there. Sometimes it's loud and clear,  other times like a last wave from a dying ocean.

Sometimes every word gets eaten up by Lions.

Are you real?
Am I a lost travelor?

What ***** beast has emerged from all these tests of strength for wings.

Daniel climbs out of the lion's den.

Taste it.

Victory parading down a once homeless city. Now everyone can sleep sound in their own houses.

Taste it.

This hatching egg of peace
That holds the love for the entire universe.

Feel it.

A mighty Lion laying down with the Lamb-

In a precious field spread out inside
Your own
star dripping heart.

Taste it now.
Weary desert travelor-
A black diamond BlackBerry
Singing summer from her eyes. Taste it

Sweetest water from this heaven.

This will not be the final, dying wave crashing in your ocean.

I see a shape walking from the waves.

Who emerges?

A future child to lead us all.

Jaw dropping was the sight that came before the tide.
On a river that flows with a brush of dandelions right beside.
Marching down from the distance in a long and winding path.
A curious beholder emerging from a well shrouded shaft.
Resting his feet while holding a scripture on his lap.

And with a tree that he found in the open field.
Beneath its shadows and the shade it wields.
Reading a lovely story while he holds its scroll.
Off he went and his imaginative mind goes for a stroll.
Jacked into the realm of novel and the world of fiction.
Entangled to a different space and reality of conviction.
Nested  as a bird in a perfect ly written conclusion.
And was deeply submerged in an endless fictional delusion.

Blown by every word in structure.
Admiring the rythmic strings of a vocabulary that seemed different in its own feature.
Yearning to attain the same prowess and skill.
Oddly thinking of words within the thoughts that makes him still.
Trapped in his mentality is a knowledge still unscratched.
A wee bit more of hidden capacity that is still unhatched

Never understood the power of subtlety,
Like a chicken is only a chicken outside its shells,
But I watched people encased themselves in shells,
Just to shield themselves in this living hell,
But I for one, could never really tell.
Confusing words like depression with swell,
But the only thing that was swollen,
Was the black coated hearts become sullen,
And out of everything I have gotten,
Is that humans will never show their weaker sides,
To afraid to leave a bad light,
When their inevitable time comes and they die.
Always never trusting the hearts they confide,
So they say 'I'm happy', but they simply lie.
Humans are in a way like unhatched chickens and turtles,
Holding onto their shells until they hang themselves and become purple,
As though listeners will only ever be hurtful.

We keep our hearts locked up and hidden,
To avoid disturbing or even troubling others,
As though an expressive heart is forbidden,
Even when we treat one another like brothers.

my dreams are
marzipan
almond paste and
powdered sugar
egg whites beaten
kneaded
wrapped in
cling film and frozen
i took them out
to thaw last month

my dreams are
chickens
unhatched
i’ve counted
done the math and put
all of my eggs
into a single
provincial french basket

my dreams are
castles
in the air
or castles
in spain
depending on how
far back you want
to take the saying

either way
their spires are
dark toned
bordeaux bottles
narrow and
full of deep
burgundy
nero d'avola
and beaujolais nouveau
those fit into the
hamper with
my eggs

pinotage
zinfindel
shiraz
malbec
cab franc
take me around
the world
and back again

swooping past
the buttresses
i built of
carmenere
monastrell
grenache

deep and
treacherous moats
filled with every
kind of filler
red that pads out
your favorite blend

(some day i hope
to go to spain
to see my ambitions
in person)

my dreams are
highly breakable
when dropped
on concrete
and notoriously difficult
to clean up

my dreams are
clouds of
small batch
irish cream
swirling around
in espresso ***

my dreams are
right in front of me
and yet i can’t quite
reach them unless i
lean forward
knock over some
neatly arranged plans
spill out school
let it pool and
run off the edge
of the table
and onto the floor

my dreams
are spite
shards of
broken glass
a fallen shelf
astringent
eighty dollar whiskey
wafting through the air

my dreams
are for the future
but are somehow
impossibly
inseparable from
the past

(i always tell myself
if i could live through
a pandemic i can
do anything
including making this
phone call)

my dreams are
motivational
hobby lobby signs
strung up with
fairy lights in my head
“the difference between
a dream and a goal
is a plan”
“just busy building
my empire”
“hustle and heart
will set you apart”
but the signs don’t mention
the heavy feeling of
dread in my gut

don’t tell me
what it’s like to carry
a dream
tell me what it’s like
to carry
aspirations of
something
better for myself
while schlepping
along an intense
fear of failure and
the itching dread
that i’m making the
wrong decision

my dreams are
olive drab and
dried out californa
soundstage brown
a younger me
who could never
foresee who i
am today

my dreams are
the skeleton
hanging in the corner
of henry blake’s office

my dreams are
99 cent
shots of blue liqueur
on my 21st birthday
burning
the back of my throat

my dreams are
lit candles
on the cluttered
coffee table
greenery and
light florals
wafting
into the night

my dreams are
chronic
the thing my parents
warned me about
a genetic predisposition
to addiction

my dream is not
to be rich
my dream is to
afford therapy

We were so happy
She and I

Spent all our time together
Flew together
Looked after each other

And then
She fell sick and died

She lay there
In our nest
With eggs unhatched

She wanted a family
But time ran out

So still and lifeless
I watched helplessly
Unable to help

I called to her
There was no reply

Just silence in death
No more happiness
No more flights together

We were so happy
She and I

All is gone
So now I will wait
For the day I die

You’ve tormented my taste-buds for way too long
And i am stronger now than ever
Like unhatched eggs born without nests to catch them
Or online influencers who resent their followers
We are artifacts of impregnation
Being imprisoned in our heads for so many hours a day
Creates stagnation and mental *******
We face the estrangement of our bodies
In mental institutions the solutions are still waiting
To be discovered in the ovens of our saviors
Do we bake bread or attest to our failures
Salivating women make me envision
That discipline and discernment are not easily corrupted
I am equipped with innumerable capabilities
Swift and full of inhibitions we are suddenly tripping
Walking on balance beams down halls of stereophonic wisdom

like an unhatched egg
pushed out of the nest
to make room for the rest
of the birds
the ones that can't fly
die

like the little runt
that can't catch up
with the rest of the bunch
so he is lost
chasing his tail
in the snow and the frost

like a lover
thrown out the door
for the body of another
with more ******* to explore

like the chubby girl in school
sitting quietly and following the rules
wearing glasses and braces
with greasy hair and acne
tripping over her shoelaces

Yours truly not necessarily
romantic fellow at heart
more accurately methinks myself
lame and inadequate sorry excuse
for reasonably rhyming spouse,
but courtesy after sipping

(née - chugging away
like snorting caboose)
Welch's sparkling white grape juice
maybe accompanied with entree couscous
generic and garden variety
run of the mill by the floss husband
ordinarily fancy free and footloose

feigned being inebriated
noisily squawking - imitating
deafening honking lunging goose
creating ruckus whereby resultant outcome
whereby wife playfully threatened me
to hang me (all choking aside) with noose,

(I needed to gibbet a chance)
as ye can accurately dead deuce
nearly turning unnatural shade of chartreuse,
thus I immediately called truce
after hiring team of animated experts
Rocky the squirrel
and Bullwinkle the moose.

Once upon a time I
bouncing up and down
analogous to yoyo
rode proud on his high horse whoa
considered himself, albeit kiddingly

as pure as the driven though
fell prey to basic proto
human barking animal propensity
desire under the Elm you know
all to well that biological urge

goading species to reproduce
when consummated minus
utilization of prophylactics
to aid and abet begetting embryo
unborn or unhatched offspring
in process of development,
particularly human offspring during
period from approximately
second to eighth week after fertilization
(subsequently termed a fetus).

Back in the day
gathering rosebuds while I may
thy pure motive to lay
me down with barenaked lady
futile (yet Prince Valiant) attempt
to placate seething hormonal secretion
surging testosterone seemingly went away
(I strongly suspect absent libinal longing
courtesy side effect half dozen medications)
bodes ill with spouse
marriage doth severely fray.

toward me as the down of a duckling
laying softly by its mother, ensconced
only in its dreams and the warmth
of the afternoon sun that shone upon

it to coat its little fuzziness. It’s been
a fourteen-year journey breaking out of
that tough shell. There were times we both
thought we’d never make it. You left to

gather yourself. And I felt unprotected
by the elements, unhatched with no blanket
and just the memory of what covered me.  And I
stopped growing inside. Days into nights, and

nights turned into years. And somehow or
other you kept coming back to the nest, not leaving
it for the turtle’s dinner or to rot on its own and
become deformed, or freeze under the December

snow or get crushed by a passerby if it rolled
off, taken by the wind. We looked at each other
as if this was the beginning. What a strange feeling
for the both of us.

Yours truly not necessarily
romantic fellow at heart
more accurately methinks myself
lame and inadequate sorry excuse
for reasonably rhyming spouse,
but courtesy after sipping

(née - chugging away
like snorting caboose)
Welch's sparkling white grape juice
maybe accompanied with entree couscous
generic and garden variety
run of the mill by the floss husband
ordinarily fancy free and footloose

feigned being inebriated
noisily squawking - imitating
deafening honking lunging goose
creating ruckus whereby resultant outcome
whereby wife playfully threatened me
to hang me (all choking aside) with noose,

(I needed to gibbet a chance)
as ye can accurately dead deuce
nearly turning unnatural shade of chartreuse,
thus I immediately called truce
after hiring team of animated experts
Rocky the squirrel
and Bullwinkle the moose.

Once upon a time I
bouncing up and down
analogous to yoyo
rode proud on his high horse whoa
considered himself, albeit kiddingly

as pure as the driven though
fell prey to basic proto
human barking animal propensity
desire under the Elm you know
all to well that biological urge

goading species to reproduce
when consummated minus
utilization of prophylactics
to aid and abet begetting embryo
unborn or unhatched offspring
in process of development,
particularly human offspring during
period from approximately
second to eighth week after fertilization
(subsequently termed a fetus).

Back in the day
gathering rosebuds while I may
thy pure motive to lay
me down with barenaked lady
futile (yet Prince Valiant) attempt
to placate seething hormonal secretion
surging testosterone seemingly went away
(I strongly suspect absent libinal longing)
bodes ill with spouse
marriage doth severely fray.