Perhaps, We have a worldview, that has turned a bit myopic.
Perhaps, We need a checkup from a doctor for Our optics,
Perhaps, We need for them to write Us out a new prescription, then
Perhaps, We'd see the truth in life that's written in inscription,

Perhaps, the Earth is weeping somberly, but We don't care to listen,
Perhaps, it warns us of Our doom when global profits are our mission
Perhaps, the World is run by men, whose only drive is for themselves
Perhaps, the few will **** the many, just for monetary wealth,

Perhaps, We're all too blind to understand the implications,
Perhaps, a future fraught with poverty and war is what We're facing
Perhaps, a different train of thought, is faintly running by adjacent,
Perhaps, it's one that wrests its life from the stagnation of complacence

Perhaps, We're living forms of life that have been cast inside a mold
Perhaps, estrangement from each other causes Our Hearts to grow cold
Perhaps, all concentrated power's an illusion, We behold,
Perhaps, We all could take it back, if We'd stop doing what We're told

Perhaps, Our Being is unique, and isn't something predefined,
Perhaps, Our priorities in life should they themselves be redefined,
Perhaps, Our voices are of import, and should not be undermined,
Perhaps, We all should organize, and build a world of new design

Perhaps, it is the Media that keeps Us all divided,
Perhaps, We should act neighborly and strive to be united,
Perhaps, in living as a People, We would find Ourselves delighted, and
Perhaps, We'd change the status quo, if We would only try to fight it.

The color of  lost time

The color of white on  an horizon

The color of midnight in the garden of words

The color of sound pealing in a vast sea of bluebells

The color of thought indentured to compelling

Imunities that complain of authenticities so intence

There are cloistered calls for an incantatory language

of soft colored vowels a,e,i,o,u

In an enigmatic language of legitimacy

That wrests the color of colors from themselves

And provides a history of the world in 13 tweets

(Commemoration of Earth-Day, 22nd-04-09)

Earth hath
Been Weeping!
Nature lacerated & pleading?
Extinct species beseeching;
Antarctica mercilessly melting,
Noxious gaseous emissions heating.
Have you ever wondered?
“Of the Greek mythology!”
women warriors of Scythia astray burned off the
Right ***** to try
to habituate the bow and arrow in sly,
arsenals of terror abound harsh shear ploy!
Hitherto, the atrocious force upon Nature ne'er stops.
Wherefore-now the lost leaf of the conifers?
Searching for the nearest route to the Savannah Plains,
Waiting pro the long anticipated cascades of the tropical rains. Babylon wrests & clinches intimately thy adored hanging gardens that black slaves tend no more hasten. Euphrates in the Persian Gulf wanders uncertain; Everest looks down in pitiful scorn…
As it wobbly looses its molecular activity in pain.
Humanity squirms in an enamored Trance
to heave a foundation Of conscious Purpose
That Earth day waits Upon us
To elucidate a divine Hypothesis.



~~/|\~~

Namaste'

~~\|/~~

HEART-SHIP

About me, I swear down.
I'll tell thee of treks – how I in radged-days
put up with fretted-time,
sought abode and still do, get bitter ***-care,
in us heart-ship, scary waves’ rolling,
where narrow neet-ogle
often kept us at heart-ship’s stem
when it scurries by cliffs.

Us feet clammed by cold,
bound by frost’s frozen cold steel,
where those frets sighed
marfin about heart;
clemmed within ripped
mind of sea-knackered.

2.  CARE-BEGGARED

Town lads have it soft, dunt know nowt
as how us, care-beggared, ice-scratched sea dwellers wintered in exile,
swayed from mates and kin,
rigged with rime-crystals.
Hail stones bounced off our decks.
I heard nowt there but sea’s groan,
ice-flecked seas furrow. Heard at times summat like swan’s. And made glad by gannet’s and curlew's clamour,
for homely laughter,
gull-shriek for bitter ale.
Hail beat up stone-cliffs, where feathered
spray nattered to them; often eagles dew-feathered screamed.
No mates sheltered us,
or made us feel minded.

Town folk dunt credit it,
complacent with blessings
and few baleful journeys –
proud and wine-sozzled, how I, knackered,
often on sea-snickets had to abide.
Night-shadow snuffed us out;
snow fell from the north;
rime bound soil; hail felled earth
coldest of corns. So, now, thoughts
mither my heart, that I the deep sea,
salt-waves, should fetch myself on.

3. NOR

Salt yearn moves us gently.
Desire is a gust catcher.
Heart-ship bobs in its harbour,
as it pitches and yaws
to stranger islands.
Refugees homeland seek.
Though embarking, the reckless, skilful, youthful, brave,
do not know what life has in store.
Nor my hands on harp or on coin,
on lasses limbs delight,
nor on owt save wayward water.


4. UNWINTER

These woodlands unwinter too much with blossom,
give too much gold to villages, overbrighten meadows. World pushes on, all this urges us,
doom minded spirits to leave on flood-ways.
Heart-ship tugs at moorings.
Summer cuckoo's mournful call urges,
bodes sorrow, bitter in breast-hoard.
If tha blessed with comfort, how does tha know what some endure on tracks of exile?


5. WHALE-WEND

Heart-ship tugs at its harbour.
My imagination in mere-flood,
in whale plunge, wide in its turns
eager for seas vastness. Gannet yells
as whale-wends, spirit quickens over holm’s deep, irresistible delights of life are more
than this life that flits on land.
Illness, old age and aggression
wrests life away, bests breath.

6. PRAISE OF LIFE

Praise life. Before tha death
tha must climb mast against malice,
shun dodgy devils. Days stale,
earth’s grandeur beggared,
now no bosses, gold-givers gone,
glorious deeds done,
live out their doom.
Joys stale, weak rule this world,
live here afflicted. Glory humbled,
earth grows old, withers this November.
Old age fares over thee; tha bright face pale;
gray-haired, tha grieves over tha mates
given to the sod. Homeless tha flesh, then, when life is lost to thee, tha cannot sweet swallow nor sore feel, hand stir nor mind think.
Tha gold means nowt beside graves of tha mates, that proud deed will not go with thee,
gold is no help to a self full of itself.

7.   THE MEASURER

The world's craftsman is a Measurer
that turns the earth. Founder of fields
and sky. Only the foolish mess with it
and die unexpected. Tha must be humble.
The Measurer helps them be strong
as is minded in steer of their heart-ship
wise in tha decisions, clean in tha ways.
Anchor tha fire or be burned.
  Fate is stronger Measurer than any a tha thought.
Harbour is a life long in love of Earth,
hope int skies. Through all rough tides
and smooth trust in water and the sod.

The intonation and vibration of these steel strings
Resonates through my lungs making it easier to breathe,
Resonates through my blood so I can see the unseen.
All I have are these songs of sweet melody,
Of clamoring hardship,
Of cold steel tearing open my heart
With terrible and beautiful violence,
Of warm lips pressing against my ear
Singing me to sleep,
Of beats that drop like bombs in an empty desert,
And of cool water that flows over my feet
Resting these two weary wanderers so tired of the gravity
That wrests them to the coarse earth.
More beautiful than the notes and words,
The space between,
The vacuum of silence
Where one can digest what has been heard,
The freedom of silence
And the restfulness of infinity in one single moment.
The stillness between the movements is where I yearn to be,
But I must create the movements for this stillness to be reached.
The composition evolves from dissonant to harmonious,
From chaotic to orderly,
From nothing to nothing with everything in between.
The spine splitting wars of notes out of tune
Are corrected by the Wise Composer;
Not a single chord contains a weak link
When the Work is perfected.
All I have is this music.
All I need is this music.

who, by first light is fingers
each deeper fingers than last
through grass rushing fingers
pressed (and wet of tawny
dew cut 'pon the softest pebble
howl) a very straight forest
from where darkness easily
wrests (its thigh open

                                        its petals tousled


                                                                               )more

next 2 straightdullsilver
                                              (shafting from concreteish
                                               landscape)
wrests a swollen *****

corpulence molds in cylindric fashion
to attain the shape of comfort
as repose consumes her physicality

a man chirps in iridescence tones
to gather her heed on his beckoning

she shatters the womb of stillness
bulging in animation
step
    step
        step
           step
barter at windows sill

(she:)
just a vehicle of pleasure

No picket fences. No hunting license. He has no culture
To his name. No children nor partner to carry; he’ll love
The forest floor just the same. Chickadees chattered as he muttered his marriage
Vows to the land between his toes. Rich in all but money,
He aims to accomplish what his forefathers could not: Forgive
Himself for human’s toll on nature. Their roads of death.  

For hickory trees and zipping flies only understand death
As biological drivers of fear. He has seen the culture.
Slash and burn, Gnash and chop, mine and take, forgive
And forget the consequences. They manufacture love
On a rainy day to deceive people into funding destruction with the money
From the nature they claim to protect. A push-and-pull marriage.

He set aside his business coat as he set foot into the forest, divorcing the marriage
Of care and corporation. His only hope is that the rabbit cannot smell death
Still leaking from his pores like toxic radiation nor the stench of money
Recklessly thrown to culling the land mere miles away. More culture
Here than in thousands of skylines. More compassion among animals than any “love”
A vest-and-tie, bright-eyed smile grants in marketing. Corporate does not forgive.

He climbs atop the highest canopy and calms his quaking arms. If no one can forgive
His erratic exercise routine, the breeze can. All is still. The marriage
Has begun to provide. The priest above will join them in the morning; he’ll prove his love.
Tomorrow, the men with machines and sticks of death
Will come barreling through the sanctuary, claiming from destruction comes culture
And resources, but behind their faces of concern is always money, money, money.

From the first rabbit he slaughtered to the devastating loss of money
He incurred for not staying silent, the corruption he witnessed set a fire he would not forgive
His heart for feeding. The disillusionment he kept spread faster than a bacterial culture
Under perfect conditions. The merriment in progress was null, the marriage
Bands thrown into polluted rivers. He would slow the unnatural cycle of death,
One by one rooted tree. Though he does not believe it is enough, it is love.

His back aches. His eyes open with a start. His air tastes acrid. His love
Has died and fear wrests his heart. Trees around him scream for aid. All the money
In the world could not replace the thousands of years of peace they spoil with death.
He yells from his tower. A straggler rabbit screws its head to see him. Maybe it saw to forgive
Him after all this time. Rivers from his eyes and gold buried deep inside, the marriage
Between man and Mother Nature could exist. Human’s ruination isn’t nature. It is culture.

They ask him for the love of God, what is he doing up there. He smiles. I can forgive
The contractor for his need of money, but not those whose wants require a marriage
Between negligence and my planet’s death. He pleads. They stare. As is the culture.

What have I become?
Do you turn away?
Supposing it is I
Who has gone astray?

I’ve grown these horns and fangs
My claws grasp at each straw
There’s rumbling hunger pangs
Take note my gaping maw

You put me in my cage
Toss me crumbs and scraps
My hunger to assuage
More than my fill, perhaps

Now my eyes have blackened
The id wrests all control
And these constraints have slackened
Please, petition for my soul
The beast inside this hole

Poetry hunkers down behind
the freshly finished facade
of language; each link to the lexicon
lovingly chiseled into the smooth,
grey stone. Here, precision reigns over all.

Vainly held in place for the length
of a reading, the facade glides
toward a shimmering white dot
on the horizon.The perfect poem, perhaps?
Here, perspective precipitates all.

Like quicksand, a marshy morass
of words ***** at the poet's feet
as he strains to match
the facade's pace, stride for muddy stride.
If he succeeds, pride will power all.

Poetry is breath, inadequately lodged
in the poet's ever-shrinking body.
Reading wrests the silent syntax,
inhales form through its viscera, exhales
metaphor and rhyme. Like becomes like, becomes all.

Critics aside, the poem thrives as a living organism;
it breathes itself far beyond the face of the facade;
it swirls into the stratosphere, flying
straight toward the cosmos' breathless edge.
Here, the getting of wisdom is all.

Poetry hunkers down behind
the freshly finished facade
of language; each link to the lexicon
lovingly chiseled into the smooth,
grey stone. Here, precision reigns over all.

Vainly held in place for the length
of a reading, the facade glides
toward a shimmering white dot
on the horizon. The perfect poem, perhaps?
Here, perspective precipitates all.

Like quicksand, a marshy morass
of words ***** at the poet's feet
as he strains to match
the facade's pace, stride for muddy stride.
If he succeeds, pride will power all.

Poetry is breath, inadequately lodged
in the poet's ever-shrinking body.
Reading wrests the silent syntax,
inhales form through its viscera, exhales
metaphor and rhyme. Like becomes like, becomes all.

The Mahogany Ships

by Jeff Lester

1.
In the great court of King Phillip,
the brave twins put sword to the great unknown;
eloquent, they spoke of the right of passage
and the conquest of pagan tribes.
Together, they smithed such fine words
that ball shot from shipboard cannon
made no sound on flesh or chain
- though none thought to ask
of the watermarks that lay within those pages.
None save for the mariner,
who kept his mind quiet
lest they take the chance from him.

2.
In the high towers above the sea,
under lock and key, the wives met chastity
with the midnight lard
- until one of them again forced open her thighs,
this time to spill blood and soil linen.
That infant found much despair
when it met sea air at the gape
and its cry sent the mid-wives running
into the night, lanterns aloft with flames
bravely daring that foul breeze.
By morning, the twins had sent rats
from every town and city
to the mariner’s dock
with every ******* son they could find.

3.
After the Cape, what call came to the mariner
from beyond the unknown precipice?
That proof and others went asunder
with each new bearing from his sextant:
at the late hour of the watch,
the only sound that gave comfort
was the lash for the night watchmen
asleep in the ship’s tower
so that under-decks, all might dream kindly
of trade winds, not Sargasso seas.
But at the dead reckoning, when the mariner
turned hard into the wind
without instruments to guide him,
the voice of twins came uninvited
and without warning from across the seas.
Then, when he needed utmost quiet,
it was the call from within
that disturbed him most
for it was in a language
that he could not discern or decipher
as none of it was countenanced
or considered under the charter’s seal.





4.
Great ships may **** and plunder
for a time, but rocks will break hearts
and ship’s hulls without stars to guide them.
Now undersea, the mariner’s bleached log
speaks not of the long night at the Cape’s turn
nor of those that would mourn his passing.
Instead, the mariner wrote of the frailty
of pitch and mahogany – before discarding
that precious gift to begin again with words
for those sent high into the rigging
in search of the distant shore.
In rhythm with the sea, he wrote
of his fear of footmarks in the sands
and of the solace of burials at home and sea.
He wrote of the calm before the great storm;
of strange lights in the southern skies
and of the uncertain passage of travellers
that confront seas that waken in the dark of night.
All that and more he wrote:
words that might have withstood any test
but rejection – in the end, the sea took it all
in an act of preservation.

5.
On a far-flung coast in Western Australia,
a raging storm from beyond the Cape
wrests another great ship from its hiding place.
The vessel has no name carved on it
fore or aft – and no mast that a fresh sail,
filled with wind, might again take it
to another shore. Though timber and iron
last the vigil for a time,
the voices that called out to the mariner
linger there on that shore
with an improper burial.
It takes a full decade for a patient sea
to bare its plunder, but only an instant
for it to change its mind for the morning.

6.
At low tide on the new day, descendants
from the Old World discover the pieces
of broken pottery that the storm has left behind.
Some wake innocently in the ruins, having spent
that wild night copulating on the shore.  
Others, with fresh paper and instruments
in their hands, search until nightfall
for the great ship that still plies its trade
of war and conquest from beneath the sands.
None find what they seek, though later
some might ***** a stone monument
on the site that others, four centuries earlier,
would have found suitable for a light-house –
if they had foreseen that lonely place
where the shards always flee
with the rising tide of a fresh sea.

Poetry hunkers down behind
the freshly finished facade
of language; each link to the lexicon
lovingly chiseled into the smooth,
grey stone. Here, precision reigns over all.

Vainly held in place for the length
of a reading, the facade glides
toward a shimmering white dot
on the horizon. The perfect poem, perhaps?
Here, perspective precipitates all.

Like quicksand, a marshy morass
of words ***** at the poet's feet
as he strains to match
the facade's pace, stride for muddy stride.
If he succeeds, pride will power all.

Poetry is breath, inadequately lodged
in the poet's ever-shrinking body.
Reading wrests the silent syntax,
inhales form through its viscera, exhales
metaphor and rhyme. Like becomes like, becomes all.

Scientists aside, the poem thrives as a living organism;
it breathes itself far beyond the face of the facade;
it swirls into the stratosphere, flying
straight toward the cosmos' breathless edge.
Here, the getting of wisdom is all.