your name echoes in my mind,
dancing-
on the windowpanes
where the rain falls,
drips down the cold glass,
making the world so bleary
-like waking up in the morning,
to the soft smell of warm chocolate.

the warm sweaters you wear,
they’re so unlike you-
-you, the girl who tells me three words when she’s afraid,
for me, the girl who can’t seem to float
and yet somehow i fly.
you’re all dark and softly-bright,
like cotton candy wisps and dark velvet necklace’s,
not warm burgundy and spiced hot chocolate.

one night, one fall night where the leaves were barely red,
i was afraid of you,
the way my skin turned to embers,
our shadows waving and flickering in the moonlight
yet now i cannot stop to wonder why the fire
turned to stone.

now i look into those eyes,
i see the sky laid about bare,
and my soul hanging by a thread in wonder,
hands touching.
you are the moon -going down in the sky,
giving birth to an easy morning in the country summers.
you are the stars, far points on light that call me home,
reach out to touch me from my place under you,
calling me to my dreams.

soft breaths against a soft cheek,
a warm head, with soft hairs mingling in your sweaters
-the way you lean over, no, not over,
but as if to cover mine keep it safe from the darkening sky and whirling leaves.
i am the lone girl under rattling metal rafters,
when they’ve all gone home,
and i,
standing alone in the dark wondering about you
am still under the rafters of a place that isn’t home.

******* at tickling the ivories,
at inducing the jet buttons
to chortle, say, in a concerto ;
but I do strum and flirt
with those amazing royal,
88 unrepentant loyal
keys for Jupiter and Saturn,
for Mars and Neptune,
making a blank bland tune
for extraterrestrial beings for fun.

On the cosmic moors
the moon's whirling feet
cease for my discordance.
What a slurred entrance
by F in D major!

Only a novice--an amateur.
I'm no magnificent pianist,
O majestic Mercury.

Summon the stars the search
to lead for a supreme virtuoso,
one of  no incongruent ingenuity
like this dilettante--a pseudo
music polymath, counsels Thebe.

A Mozart, Beethoven, or Bach?

Any of the greats scored above, as well
as geniuses like David and Handel.

Impressario fly! Flee thou away
and go get a classic maven.
Otherwise sleep there forever at Erebus,
never dream of waking up in Eden.

Circuitous world stops: strings break off
at the Earth's axis--
the Sun's panels pause

and darkness' movement begins
its own obscure notes to improvise:

apace demented melody
is released,-- bathos of symphony:
tinny wine of concord
settles on the lees of discord.

Asteroids hooting some ***** calls
when into the grand chrysolite chamber--
in her tailor-made blistering gown--
strolls in the coruscating Venus
in the sturdy arm of jaundiced Uranus,
garbed in his glistening stomacher.

Like a ball, all eyes are bouncing
hither and thither, up and down,

googling and ogling,
once more at them leering,

gaping at the irreplaceable paintings of
da Vinci, Picasso, and Van Gogh
cavorting  upon the weightless walls

to the romantic performance of Strauss
in the palace orchestral of Bacchus.

It is within an unusually warm and early spring night,
Here, where I begin to feel something ever so unusual while looking deeply into this goddess' eyes,

With her eyes like a pair of diamonds sparkling in the sky,
It's at this moment–in this part of the night–
Love simply didn't need a reply,

With candles lit,
As it's surely to her delight,
And with rose petals all over the bed–
That, surely, was to her surprise,

Though, right now,
Can you really blame me for having this nervous butterfly-feeling whirling around inside?

For this will be the first-ever night that I'll get to hold this beauty tight,

And for such a divine beauty,
Surely I'd make any sacrifice to make sure her every whim and need is perfectly sufficed,

Yes, with our feelings for each other that couldn't be more pure or refined,
I already know, without hesitance, our love would satisfy any god's most delicate appetite inside,

And although, this world may never know how I truly feel inside,
I, myself, know with certainty that I love this woman more than anything I've ever loved in my whole life,

Yet, with nothing more than the sound of crickets chirping within the night,
I proceed to lay this beauty down–
Here, pulling her close to my side (where I tell her)
"I love you, angel, good night",

And even though our love never did need a reply,
She said
"I love you too, sweet dreams baby, don't forget to hold me ever so tight",

And thus with this crazy, whirling, butterfly-feeling, again, that I begin to feel take over inside,
She rolls over unexpectedly and surprises me with a kiss to seal any other reply–
To only roll back over and close her eyes,

Oh, and in the midst of her every action–every move leaving me mesmerized,
She decides to move an inch closer to me,
(Where I wrap my arm around her thighs)
As it's also nearly simultaneously that I hear the clock's stride finally hit midnight,

With a chime that struck once–
Then struck twice,
I begin to hear a set of chimes strike–and strike until they chime twelve times,  
(As these chimes come from this evilly wicked, horrid and heinous clock of mine)

Yes!–with this clock being a clock that through time I have come to slowly hate and despise!

Though, this tower of a clock reminds me of its presence with not the tics nor the tocs–
No, only when the minute hand climbs and the hour's hand meets another notch,

As only then, within that second of the minute, does my mind's thoughts get crossed and rocked–
With my thoughts that become locked within a box
(As it'll be for the next sixty minutes)
I'll just lie there and remain distraught,

Oh, and you ask why?–
Simply because of this chiming noise that won't stop!

With these reoccurring chimes that take my sleep and make most nights a loss–
I can assure you that if I don't go to bed by one or two o'clock,
Any sleep for me will become more and more implausible by every tic of the clock,

Yes, nearly impossible–
For it'll be with the next four or five hours, I'll just lie there, roll, and toss,

Though this is a different night!–
As I'm reminded with our legs crossed and with our fingers interlocked,

Yet, here as I begin to feel the warmth of her body block and fend off any kind or sorts of lingering winter's frost,
I also sense that numerous candles are still glowing bright,
(With the sight of their ambient light flickering off of the bedside's wall from abroad)

And, within this room filled with sentiment as I hear not a sound at all,
I smell the candle's aromatic scents,
With the atmosphere within the air being ever so calm,

Until that is, I hear another chime of a **–
With it sounding like a melody that's gone ever so wrong–
It's with this tower of a clock, right here, that has just let me know it's now the hour of one o'clock–
And one o'clock, right on the dot,

With only one lone chime that I heard–as everything then simply paused and stopped,

Though, within my mind and with these thoughts that refuse to stop,
I reassure myself–
Knowing that the time is only one o'clock,

For I know I still have an aplenty of time to close my eyes and make these endless lines of thoughts stop,

So to this brilliant mind of mine,
You know that it's clearly time to let these thoughts wander off,

Just close your eyes and let your mind stop–

Though, didn't I just say enough with your thoughts?

Oh, and I can see you might think a lot,
But clearly and obviously you're not thinking about squat!

So just stop or I swear to god,
If you don't stop with these god awful thoughts,
I'll have no other option than to smash and squash your head against these bricks outside of this wall and then leave you there to rot–

For if you don't stop this exact instant then I am almost certain your beautiful woman will become a loss,

And I'm sure you don't want that to happen again, now do you?

So just stop with these thoughts–
Quit fooling around and whatever you do–
Oh, and whatever you do,
Don't let this beauty see that crazed loony side inside of you,

Just fall asleep now and you both can wake up tomorrow around noon,

Yes, just close your eyes and count these sheep jumping over the moon,
And count them jumping one by one–then two by two,

Yet, between one and two,
Surely I knew I was bound to come unglued,
(With the loony that came right out of me as I hear a tune)

With a chime that struck once and then twice,
It left my mind to know not what to do,

Though, that doesn't mean I am confused,
With the duo of chimes that struck–
Only letting me know it's now into the minutes of the night that come directly after two,

And though,
As I begin feeling as if a disaster was nearing in soon,
Still, I knew not what to do–

Because I know nothing as I'm thinking of nothing and just fading away within the scents of her perfume,

(Where I begin fading away within this serenity and hearing not a tune)
I feel the weight of my eyelids begin to feel like a caving-in roof weighing at least a ton or two,

And with just one of a few wondrous thoughts still wandering on through,
I wonder
"Could this be sleep that is nearing in soon?”,

With this feeling of a wonderful tranquil sensation subduing and leaving my whole body consumed,
(As I'm weary and with clearly not a thought left in this room)
I take one last deep breath
(With my lungs swelling like a balloon)

And within a dream is where I have just entered into–:
UNTIL ABRUPTLY I HEAR A SNOOZING OF A TUNE!

Yes!–As I'm awakened and with the insanity within in me being let loose to roam throughout this room,
My mind, then, begins to shift back and forth (like something caught drifting between a typhoon and a monsoon)

Where realizing as I view that I've opened my eyes too soon–
With it being this beauty here of mine that is the one who is creating this horrendous little tune,

And feeling, as I hear–
With every single breath that she breathes rattling the room–the walls–and even the shingles upon the roof,
I feel my mind, here, completely coming all the way unglued–
For all I want to do is make everything within this room mute!

Yes, that's all I want to do!–

For I’m sure I wouldn't even be in such a foul mood if I wasn’t sleep deprived,
And if this beauty here of mine and her snoring roar weren’t the main culprits of keeping me, my mind, and this night alive,

Though, hearing with her roaring of a snore that is beginning to drive me crazy inside–
Yes, as she snores, there!–just an inch or two away from my side–
I hear with her snore only growing more and more–

As I, then, within this second, try to ignore a chord of chimes striking once, and then striking twice,
(With this clock striking three times to remind me once again of the time)

–With this night now being at least 3:03, 3:04, and could possibly even be 3:05,
I know this night is at the most three or four hours away from seeing the sun shine bright through my window blinds,

Oh, and surely I already know I probably would just close my eyes–
Yes, that's probably what I would do!
But this little beauty here of mine is worse than any set of chimes,

And surely indecisive,
(As I move the pillow over my ears while I'm consumed by an irritating form of fright)
I move my body a little to the left and then a few inches to the right,
Where I hear her demon's rumbling from inside,
And screaming as if they're trying to come out and fight–

(Which is where I begin thinking)
“Is waking her up really that much of a crime?”

For if she knew she was snoring at such a high decibel level,
Then I'm sure she wouldn't even mind,

And thus with my decisions that couldn't agree more with my mind,
I decide to slightly lift her head and wiggle her,
(As I nearly tickle her left side)

Whispering to her as I say,
"Baby, wake up, I just had the worst dream of my life!
Oh, baby, wake up, I just need to see those sweet little angel eyes!",

Though motionless–
There, as I try to keep my insane and crazy side inside,
My whisper begins to intensify to a scream
(As she refuses to open her eyes or give me a reply)

I continued to scream–SCREAMED!

"Oh, why, oh, why won't you open your eyes!",

And with her snore being the only reply that she could give me,
It literally drove me crazy inside–
Thus driving me as it drove me to climb on top of her body,
(Where I grab her nose and squeeze)

As it's within the silence and in this exact instant,
Instantly and unbelievably, I see I've hit a stride that I couldn't believe,

Yes, mesmerized!
And content beyond belief–
With her snoring, here, that has finally ceased–

–Casually, I proceed to climb off of her body
(Wherein realization I finally can go back to sleep)

And in the silence, again, as I hear not a peep,
I roll over, close my eyes, and before I could even count one jumping sheep,
I hear a roar once more coming from this treacherous little beast,

And surely with not a second more could I go without sleep,
(As this pillow, right here, has just become my best friend, and the most plausible way to get any sleep)
I decide to move this pillow over her face–with my exertion at first lacking any tenacity,

But what I'd end up hearing would be like a growl or a roar of a wicked beast,

With this sinister snore of hers only increasing more and more with every tic of my heart's beat,
I begin to feel my thoughts shift toward the sentiment of either insane or crazy,

(As my hands push with more and more of an intensity)
I begin sweating–feeling the smothering warmth of her body's heat,

Though, simultaneously as I hear her heart throb and knock an unstoppable and irregular beat,
I begin putting even more weight upon this pillowcase
(With a galore of my sweat dripping upon these sheets)

And surely I have to know,
(For it should be as obvious as could be)
That if I put any more weight upon this pillowcase,
I'd likely break through the toughest of the most unbreakable concretes,

And thus coming to the realization–
With this crazy side of me that has taken over and been unleashed surely not being me,

It's here, against the greatest of restraints
(As I'm barely able to climb off of her body)
I climb off and begin waiting within the silence–

Waiting and hearing not a peep,
Where seemingly prompting myself to say,
Here, as I speak!
"Good night baby–sweet dreams",

Though, I'd hear not a reply–
As a reply was something our love never did need,

Yet, as I roll over to climb under these sheets and close my eyes
(Where simultaneously it all has seemed)
I have fallen fast asleep within a dream while holding my sleeping beauty tight–

Holding her as I squeeze–
Holding her!–
With her heart that holds not a beat–.

i can't see past sanity

    ...tick tock

    the door
    lights out
    creaking floorboards
    of dreams striped and contorted
    you, whirling away
    the night
    calling the cuckold clock

    ...tick tock

    the forest of eyes
    that winter in me
    the tracks in the snow
    bitten off by white waters

    ...tick tock

    i can't see past ignorance

    ...tick tock

    the open blindness to chances
    unrelenting sparks
    of hope faded in memory

    ...tick tock

    in distance
    torn away
    claws scratching canvas
    screeching blackboards
    hands over my ears
    to make it through
    to make it

    ...tick tock

    stop.

The tapping
and rapping
of which you believe to be rain
striking your glass
belongs not to nature
but of the rocks which
my hands hurl

Drowning in rain
and thoughts of you
driving me
placing me
a few feet below you
as you dream

the shouting of mine
is lost in the whirling,
whipping rain and thunder

pronouncing and proclaiming
true feelings
i somehow seem weightless
under the window
which i hope to glimpse your face

but... asleep you stay
comfortable under sheets and covers
with eyelids tightly sealed
dreaming away
white noise the only thing
your ears pick up

After hours of waiting
throwing and screaming
i quit
not wishing to awake the unwanted
i leave a simple note
tied round your mailbox
and let the rain
push my head farther into sorrow

walking away
not even comprehending
the fact
that the same rain that
drenches me and,
falls on your window
is blurring the ink
of which i confessed

truly and completely
i love you

~~
new born coconut leaves
standing on the head of the tree
a mild north chill breeze blowing
raising sunlight reflects between the leaves

the falling light playing on the meadows
the growing day in to the fog's shadows

the new moody breeze growing a little
the cowboys wandering with the cattle
the boy is very crazy with his flying kite,
the birds are too busy within the day's light

I am wondering through the shadows
and finding my hopes within the meadows
when thousands of kites flying in the sky
there love growing on her gloomy eyes

where there a few of dreams coming
as the light falling between the leaves
where there thousands of whirling
hopes uttering in to the breeze  
~~
@Musfiq us shaleheen

It is morning-time, and I walk
meandering paths pull me, a crisp breeze pushes me
the earth supports me and falls away with each passing step
it can only hold me when I'm there

softwood trees bend around the trail, and hardwood trees enrich their denouement. A glittering canopy of dewy leaves curls atop my route, the moonbeams seeming to dawn from inside each perfect ornament. but I know the finished moon floats just above them

my steps flow in a steady rhythm, regularly broken by the passage of a memory. Sometimes it is time. Sometimes it is a dance. Once it was another Being that caught my consideration; a ghostly doe, visible just through a break in the wood, a brown and white-speckled spectre crashing through the hinterland, startled by my feet, by my breath-

the breeze is stronger now, and made anxious by the din my pace quickens. memories stream by faster, woken up by the filtered moonlight, pulled out from abeyance. leaves drifting upon a whirling river, clouds being ripped into a storm.

it is morning-time, and I walk
the sky is deepening, though the moon is descending
too much has happened, too much has passed into yore
I remember just enough, and it is mourning-time

i'm not soulless;
i actually feel like my soul is not being held by a body.
like my soul is flying around in free;
but i do not feel safety.

i'm bodyless;
whirling around in the wind,
like a particle of dust
with no weight
but still tough.

i am just a soul;
without a beating heart
with no lungs,
and no blood to be pumped.

y.m

Monday's vision's fair of face
in the evenings the plasma rays shine
bright until seen through a window at a distance
******* energy from cables to my mind
blinding into happily blinkered existence

Tuesday's vision's full of grace
guilt makes me pull the covertous shutters down
being the observer is peep peeping embarrassing
being observed pays to add overtising shows on
it's so good not stirring when it's too disturbing

Wednesday's vision's full of woe
I am wilfully weak and slack on the couch
enjoying not having to speak or think
about being set up to get upset by nothing much
the sights flow seamless except when I blink

Thursday's vision has far to go
I would be there now but for one glitch
one flaw in the network's mesmeric sell
shared channels free as birds but rich
beyond the dragnet of any script's sequel

Friday's vision's loving and giving
in the smallest way it's electric beyond measure
distractions demanding attention with a hush
willing the constant whirling on with fresh images
look-look euphoric hooks to reel me in with a rush

Saturday's vision works hard for a living
and I'm wrapped in the dream of existing
by a simple drama of a varnished toenail
extending to a click the vanish going
going the way of Ting Ting Cao
your magnetic stimulation of the transcranial
kicks in and in my scrambled vision I saw
me touch your assimilation on redial
absorbing Sunday entire and raw
footage on display a draw so real
the pay channels dropped their jaw
surreal

Dusty lies the earth,
Cracking under sin so strong,
Child don't cry for me.

Atop sleeps it still,
Whirling waters run below,
Punctured, sleeps no more.

Wind is screaming out,
Teasing the truth from inside,
Cover me up tight.

Ablaze be my shell,
Retching putrid flames of joy,
Shrieking in my eyes.

Trace of what once was:
Cinders bearing what will be.
Only faith is left.

The echoes from my mind could be the ringing in your ears?

Minutes of the morning turning to hours of afternoons

Carrying the weight of the day on the evening breeze

As if in spite into never ending hours of the darkest night

Hints of light despite the falling back, glancing through

The new sun is strength , needed to form even bigger shadows

One revolution almost completed ,keeping us nervous even though we have succeeded

Others scream or live for a lifetime of revolution on the whirling globe

Meager minds taking a wealth of wisdom in a simplicity of survival

Basking in splendor of surviving breakfast to breakfast or a yawn to dawn. R.C.

Outside still clouds gather
Here inside I don’t understand
What hole I am
And what it means
On the leaves and grass the mist clings
I hurt
And try to find
What reason I have
For this anger
I hold
Shaken by the breeze,
Drops of water fall
I want it to leave
And not say goodbye
I have no love for it
Here it hurts and eats away

At all I have made
Of my heart and soul
But now this anger
Deep and awful
Rumbles along
With approaching thunder
Haunts
And I try
To rid myself of the pain
Look away from the quick flashes
But without a source
A reason why
I cannot solve
This mess inside and
Lightning slashes, branches bow and
I hurt

Cause it won’t go away
And I feel as if all
I have to say is
To hell with
Everything and everyone
As precipitation swirls and clouds darken further
Because all that matters
Is the tornado that holds
All my organs and emotions
Crashing and churning
In one same whirling vortex
But I know that it’s wrong
To me so self-righteous
As wind breaks and takes

I cannot stand
The ones who seem to
Indeed share my own fault
For the ones with whom you share
Are the souls upon whom you are the harshest
And I do not like to admit
To the things that make me
Like all the rest

I am cruel
I do bad things
I am mean
I hurt
I am human
I am caring
I am soft
I hold
I break
I am ashamed

To be who I am
walking a two way street
I attempt to hold my head high
Because I know what is right
But other minds won’t agree
The trees who’s leaves the storm has taken
Yearn for them once more
My head chases me in circles
So to confuse me
And I begin to cry out
But the storm recedes
In frustration and fury
At my own head’s distaste
And demure
I am not who I want to be
This storm has changed
And I am not the perfection
That is trained into the lines
That wind and rain have worn

On my personality
Perfection for me and all is impossible
As the definition of human is
As it may be imperfection
Created as rain falls
Only to be replaced by sun
As fate would have it
And so my anger flows slower
The pound of the thunder stole my force
In naught but words
One might read
And empathize
Although I do not ask it
As this is what I have brought
Down upon the back of myself
With all the things that I have done
And through this rambling anger
And broken chaos swirling leaves, water and dirt
I find my answer
And no longer feel the sick
Stone in the pit of my soul
That a flash and rumbling boom removed
Perhaps I am no longer as angry and sick
Or perhaps I just cannot feel it as strongly
For I fear that I am angry
With myself
For my own imperfection
As I have moved from the clouds
For that is who and what I am
As fate may have it
I have been centered
In the eye
However, I am human

It seems like only yesterday
That the first lambs of spring
Were running, bleating, over the fields.
Perhaps it was. Perhaps it was.
As seasons rush relentlessly
Down tracks that may, or may not
Lead to hell, the dogs of hell
Are barking: Can you hear their demon cry?
They cry as one: wolves undone,
The hounds let down their hair.
The night turns to day and
The summer to winter. The winter to spring.
A pin drops: does a mouse
Hear it with an ear attuned to silence?
Or does it crouch oblivious,
Awaiting scraps and scrapes, cats and shapes
That shadow its every move
Along the wall? Whilst standing tall,
The ruthless dance: a dervish trance
Has them in its dreadful spell
And with its whirling wisdom
Leads them down to burning hell.
And us as well.
And us as well.

It’s a dreary day, filled with dreary weather and dreary people.
I walk to class with the same thoughts in my head
The same pathways to go
Routine

I am sitting alone in the front corner, my same seat
No one to my right, no one behind me
I look out the window
I see the same tall buildings and the grey whirling clouds ready for rain

But then i see a vase of bright purple flowers

It’s on the corner of a balcony for an apartment.
They are reaching for the sky to receive the rain promised by these grey clouds

*that’s different

A poet I know so deftly deep
in prose  so depth he breathes
cigarette ash and beer breath
buried he is already
with his yellow pad
nearly drained
skipping beat heart
and a pen dripping:
this poet
only needs tipping
from his whirling chair
into the whole he is digging
this is an epitaph?

I remember that evening
when you were love-drunk,
freely swinging in the park.
Giddy with some fantasy
or maybe you knew
with whom you were involved.
We stayed awake all night,
just two kids with nothing going on.

I remember us sneaking out.
It was much easier for me.
My dad just didn't care.
I could come and go as I pleased.
You had to do the sneaking
through your window
when the lights went out.
There was a trailer
at the bottom of your property,
our little shelter from the world.

I remember eddies of cigar smoke
whirling in the mouth of an open cave.
We sat together at the entrance.
There was an easy tranquility
with a slightly skewed view.
You wished that we could stay forever,
but I was more concerned
with heading out anew.

You saw me change in many ways
and I wonder what that did to you.

Lust's sweet intentions
   caught up in fiery impulses
riding upon wild horses' dreams,
   relentless cravings of the soul

Unfurling in the touch of scorching heat
   desiring licentious will is never ending
satiated within intensity's finale
   luster'd in the feel of scarlet satin sheets

Breaking all the rules,
  devour'd in animalistic hunger
til breath blares an acoustic prayer
absorbing emotions through ****** intensity

tenderly your sword plung'd deep
   surrender to this wanton addiction
senses whirling in flame's yearnings
    fell under your fiery hypnotic spell

I'll gladly die a thousand little deaths
  to acquiesce with no restraint
within these all consuming confines
of this delectation's heavenly annihilation

No milquetoast kids dare summit jungle gyms
nor dream from monkey bars suspended
o’er perilous mulches, heads filled by the sanguine
rush of juvenile enthusiasm for garden hoses
bruised knees and peanut butter sandwiches;

Only august lad or lass may escape those sandboxes
to tumble into the cavernous ball pit of emancipation,
last dino bones dug up and whirling whispers
lost soon as spoken across merry-go-round envisioning
fantastic autumn nights that promised monsters

Forsaken mud pies dry and crack, no more edible
with juice box than without, hopscotching into
sportsball cartoon boom box jumprope Sunday songs
of Jesus midwest bedtime prayers, sincerest supplication
application for wellness heaven and bully protection

We seesaw through scraps of nostalgia, frolic
into slip-sliding wet hot summer drops to mask
messy tears, swimming defiantly away from repentance
but begging a little help from God to keep the rusty
swing set chains from breaking now as we push higher

Sure, it takes some work to build a playground right,
and what sign do we have it's safely been constructed?

Yawns chase each other
dancing slow dreamy steps
My mind wandered off
an hour ago
chasing after distraction
with a flash of whirling colors
like an iridescent hurricane.

My voice remembers some notes
of last night's laughter
My tongue blearily waking up,
savoring the feel of wine and smoke
Hair wondrously disheveled
Eyes with a tint of night's mantle
Lips languorous
throbs and silences
the steady pulsating beat of red

beckons me
to feel
morning gold on my skin.

I stick my tongue out
eager to take the sun in my mouth
intermingling with the smells of night on my clothes

Contentment is in the details.

You call me the one while holding a mirror
The cracks you see will always be mine

Smile or frown, not but a shallow grave,
never gave it much thought
All will be bygones soon enough

Yet at night, or at dawn, my heart softens
With wine it turns to liquid

Quicksilver love
Creatures in winter fog
And I yearn for the light touch of fingers against velvet, the curve of my back

To the right music my heart will break into
a thousand pieces of delicate porcelain

Division bell in a lighthouse at the west coast in Denmark
Oh, put me back together, you,
with golden poetry and call me art
Give me your story of choice

And did you know?

When the sun hits the snow and makes it sparkle like your warm, ice blue eyes I want to cry
Tears of unfathomable, unreasonable pain

The beauty of it all, the beauty of you,
of fireflies whirling trough cities, lost in dreams

Still

My inner life is but a daydream
Oh, words, please fail me
My smile, please betray me
I cannot live up to this oasis of emotions

The wall is too high
The wall is too thick

And honesty would break our hearts

In age of old, in time that pass like tides,
When Prometheus lived and Lo! He strived,
As thirsting for Heaven, he climbed its hills, and trees,
Clenching at the Sun, its spark he seize.

The leaves, they warmed, turn bright and evergreen,
As Prometheus, he to fierce fire wean,
Swell lips sip lightning, of the nascent noon,
And divine heat from his hand duly shone,
To Roses, who sing, uprise and sweet rebel,
In bloom to conquer, vanquish concrete hell.

A wish for fire, fulfilled, angered Zeus,
He thought the fire be given, not to choose,
That excellence with fire, laurel his,
"A crime against the Gods Prometheus did."
For glory of the light from Heaven sent,
The hour of his favour now gone, spent.

Smite down the hero, tear ambition down,
Old Zeus, but young ambition wears your crown,
For daring, striving why not badge of God?
The Promethean vision all time hath applaud,
It art of upper world, belong in sky,
Praise Prometheus as fire goes roving by.

Mind gilded by the golden, whirling thread,
You seize from Heaven, through the Earth now spread,
Bringing hope to hearts, life to the dead,
As for forgiveness of the Gods you plead,
For an uncriminal act and sublime deed,
The arrogance of Zeus? Need not to feed.

I live in a vortex of mystery.
With shadows of the Cresent moon.
Riding my ride to an unknown tune
whirling towards sand dune.

I cover myself in the sand
Sometimes I uncover, and walk on land
I see the horrors, the soul in pain
A brother by a brother slain

I see lives ending themselves
Thinking who would hurt thyself

Was not this cruel journey enough
To trouble you, breaking the most tough.


I see greed is now a holy Creed
There's only thyself to feed
A word forgotten, good deed?
To soul, to truth they don't heed.


Questioning myself what is this place
After all the struggle, there's no happy face
They bounce they run, and die keeping up the pace
Still at the end no one wins this race


Everything will end
The strongest of prides will bend
Your money not will a hand lend
A truth, a destiny no one will wend
When death comes, and takes your hand
And you'll be a property of unvisited sand.

I live in a vortex of misery.

Poem

I watched a truck churning under a wire convergence
and the sky above doped entrails coming from Europe
Where had the turtle gone, the one puffed in the curve of the fox?

Now clambering onto the icy porch
I open the door into
smells of brass polish, wood polish
pots full of bones.

Winter’s wind rattling time holds me in
I must make marmalade with Seville oranges
with their thick rutted craters, sadly moon-like

a little sweetness of the blossom
worn on bridal veils will come back
as the flesh boils soggy with pips
and Demerara’s sweetness pummels

and I’ll be beaming ear to ear, beaming, full
of a sugar high, then fall.  I don’t think I’ll be flying
to Jamaica, but at least I have a box of jars

My house will be dressed
of stiff forsythia branches, blooming
while I pull on stupoods of wool
socks, and wax my boards

I watched whirling snow collapse, loshing
on my face, signs of a dream, unsettling
separating mills and boon from reality.

If I had cast a spell stirring boiling sugar
And whispered ancient simple words
And as spring soars from
the dirt he would say agapa me

and my house full of worms, fat as fingers would dissolve
which is why I must plant, for butterflies to flutter
O my mighty easel, you are not like nature

though you are like a highway
of roots, clamped with straps
Supported or shaded, you reveal
all that I am.

The light begins to drop out of ticking stars
onto the snow bank behind the studio
the place where crimson and ochre mate.

I am really a painter
and my brushes are words
which glaze accidentally across
vellum, spurning censure.

Memories come fluttering back like ghosts,
long after they ought to have been forgotten.
They fall like dominoes, holding hands,
set off by the gentle slush of (mostly melted) ice in a big gulp cup.

The words of the argument have faded,
like argued words are wont to do.
All that's left is a face, shout-filled, anger-contorted,
and a cup (Sonic, extra-extra ice, watered down and barely fizzing)
hitting the wall beside me, sticky sweet in my hair.
The memory of whirling, a picked up chair,
and my body throwing itself against the door, into the sun,
before a picked up chair could join the cup in the category of Thrown Things.

Like dominoes, one memory follows another,
with a million in-between.
A night-filled, shout-filled car,
a cup (moderate ice, ****** straw) sitting in the middle.
A freshly parked car, a shouting boyfriend (anger-contorted),
a door, opened (at last) with the weight of my small body
throwing itself into the night.
The cup, thrown from the window, smashed against the street's asphalt.
The air (more night-filled, less shout-filled) carrying my body
to the warm light of the front door,
the rattle of a (used/abused) cup echoing on the street.

Two memories, with a million in-between, follow each other like dominoes,
long after they ought to have been forgotten.
Color, sensation, emotion, all blurred,
two different colored strings (light-colored, night-colored) tangled together.
Ghosts haunting me with the sound of (mostly melted) ice in a Big Gulp cup.

The snowflakes came down,
Frantic children
whirling around, pushed around
trying to find their way home.

The night was cold,
the type of cold that snuck under all your coats and hats and scarves
and carved you out little by little,
Slowly,
seeping into your bones.

But as he stood there, amidst
All the fury of the winds,
the mischevious tickles of the playful snow,
All he felt was warmth,
and he smiled.

Today I sat down to write a note
That turned into a novel
That morphed into a saga
That grew into a multi volume series,
And I finally lifted my pen mid word,
Done with it but
Not done.

Today I sat down to pen a single feeling,
But it metastasized into
A whirling, swirling ball of
Confused and jumbled emotions,
And I stopped mid metaphor,
Done with it but
Not done.

Today I sat down to be simple,
But I soon realized
Nothing is ever simple
Or easy,
Or single faceted,
Or straightforward,
And I halted mid thought,
Done with it but
Not done.

Today I think I'm going to step away,
And not put pen to paper for another day.
For I think, for now, I am done.

Fallen under a darkly cast spell
eerie spectral vibrations in my bones
music compos'd upon churchly organs
rushing shivers up my uncompromising spine,
demons playing charades on blacken'd keys
heart bleeds a dull beryl hue of expir'd crimson
mind whirling in gray'd remuneration tunes  
dance tracks takes fight without raven's hindsight
commission'd by devil's own apathetic self

I.

Ye winds, ye unseen currents of the air,
  Softly ye played a few brief hours ago;
Ye bore the murmuring bee; ye tossed the hair
  O'er maiden cheeks, that took a fresher glow;
Ye rolled the round white cloud through depths of blue;
Ye shook from shaded flowers the lingering dew;
Before you the catalpa's blossoms flew,
  Light blossoms, dropping on the grass like snow.

II.

How are ye changed! Ye take the cataract's sound;
  Ye take the whirlpool's fury and its might;
The mountain shudders as ye sweep the ground;
  The valley woods lie prone beneath your flight.
The clouds before you shoot like eagles past;
The homes of men are rocking in your blast;
Ye lift the roofs like autumn leaves, and cast,
  Skyward, the whirling fragments out of sight.

III.

The weary fowls of heaven make wing in vain,
  To escape your wrath; ye seize and dash them dead.
Against the earth ye drive the roaring rain;
  The harvest-field becomes a river's bed;
And torrents tumble from the hills around,
Plains turn to lakes, and villages are drowned,
And wailing voices, midst the tempest's sound,
  Rise, as the rushing waters swell and spread.

IV.

Ye dart upon the deep, and straight is heard
  A wilder roar, and men grow pale, and pray;
Ye fling its floods around you, as a bird
  Flings o'er his shivering plumes the fountain's spray.
See! to the breaking mast the sailor clings;
Ye scoop the ocean to its briny springs,
And take the mountain billow on your wings,
  And pile the wreck of navies round the bay.

V.

Why rage ye thus?--no strife for liberty
  Has made you mad; no tyrant, strong through fear,
Has chained your pinions till ye wrenched them free,
  And rushed into the unmeasured atmosphere;
For ye were born in freedom where ye blow;
Free o'er the mighty deep to come and go;
Earth's solemn woods were yours, her wastes of snow,
  Her isles where summer blossoms all the year.

VI.

O ye wild winds! a mightier Power than yours
  In chains upon the shore of Europe lies;
The sceptred throng, whose fetters he endures,
  Watch his mute throes with terror in their eyes:
And armed warriors all around him stand,
And, as he struggles, tighten every band,
And lift the heavy spear, with threatening hand,
  To pierce the victim, should he strive to rise.

VII.

Yet oh, when that wronged Spirit of our race
  Shall break, as soon he must, his long-worn chains,
And leap in freedom from his prison-place,
  Lord of his ancient hills and fruitful plains,
Let him not rise, like these mad winds of air,
To waste the loveliness that time could spare,
To fill the earth with wo, and blot her fair
  Unconscious breast with blood from human veins.

VIII.

But may he like the spring-time come abroad,
  Who crumbles winter's gyves with gentle might,
When in the genial breeze, the breath of God,
  Come spouting up the unsealed springs to light;
Flowers start from their dark prisons at his feet,
The woods, long dumb, awake to hymnings sweet,
And morn and eve, whose glimmerings almost meet,
  Crowd back to narrow bounds the ancient night.