His children lay bare,
Playing with their immitant friends.
It wasn't fair
His path was chosen, but
He faught his hardest,
His life closing before him.
He wished it flashed,
But instead it just longed.
Why wasn't he last? His life
Just begun.
The angels have gotten their wish,
For it was time,
They gathered their wits.
The children got only half a deal,
It wasn't fair, they should have
Had more than just a decade, a decade
To enjoy his life, but his song
Laid lost in a shadow
For love is lost and gained only
In a memory
A memory of our family love.
A memory never truly lost.
Daddy. I love you.
the Clown lives for eternity;
at least until the end of man.
He watches the follies of life,
judging with an unlawful Hand.
His beconing is hard to stop,
all must come to His call.
Although the wheel may slow His voice,
nothing can stop its awful roll.
after the call what is there left
but an emptiness and a void?
is it really all that dark there,
a place that all should strive to avoid?
but under all the Clown's makeup,
could it be that there is some peace?
a place in which the soul of man
is saved from its unlawful hand.
should We decide when to enter
the clown's domain, or wait for HIS soft call.
(Forgotten Date)
I tie float in a lake of black
as nuggets of gold breach the surface
and wrinkles of flesh grown soft pain the neck's cloth
Or door I fall from the heavens
upon a beggar's choice of cologne
and vagrant despair unhinges the door in the yellow wood
But not He stabilize in a mass
upon which words writhe and form
becoming a castle on a road made of fleshy mouths and souls.
(Forgotten Date)
Of gray talons and glued ears rising off the pillowed earth;
For bright clips and yellow drops falling off the mother’s breast;
And rainbowed hues dodging green blues for what has been spoken reels.
To crazy horses and forever zippers sliding down spokes of gold,
Over purple houses and greasy raisins coming across melting streets;
Where footprints of old and canes of new forever dripping over smiles.
And where downy feathers, with bloody black scabs stabbing cardinal skin,
Rise over nights of chocolate glaze and trials of cola dying to be born free,
Sound off the cadence of late, leading virgins and gnarly old men home.
Daggers of piercing blind my eye
for a dark taloned blade that catches my heart
and all that's left within my mind
but a semblance of truth and an empty cry.
A forest of black within me roar
with an unanswered cry of a solemn oath
and all that's left within my mind
is a sparkling thought of a wing's silent soar.
And fires of pain that burn my face
that rise above my aching need
and all that's left within my mind
is a grief less spoken and frozen in space.
For the thorn that forms within our veins,
which forever keeps us broken apart
and all that's left within my mind
is the memory of our battles and thoughts and pains.
four skies of liquid grain
fall upon the soldered earth
on top of speakers dripping rain
and holding back their merry mirth
poor rain falls up shards of glass
rising, dropping forming on bows
and like the gold bathed on the mass
finds frozen drops hailing their foes
tour fabrics douse the crowd's fear
with remains of crates and crushed seeds
upon the mouths of a broken tear
falls the knell of forgotten needs
Zox and blast and cartoon pigs
and trumpets and fries lathered with pink bow ties,
to singing frogs and drums and large floppy feet
covered by foamy soap spread on a chocolate rope
where grueling clocks and tired beds and leaky cheeks
find pasty flies sleeping on golden baked ryes;
seventy noses and lashes and webbed amigos
lie soundly awake and frown down at the milk-fed town;
And clothed and zippered and green pickled truth
screech the lazy call of understanding and Socks committed crazy.
Dreams are cast over a pillowy view
as eye’s sparklies dance across the royal blue glow.
Like leaves caught in a current the movers move
soaring through space to where lift fails the feathered folk.
Miles over home and heading toward the light,
unbounded highways lead the way
Over patchwork quilts of green and blue,
to mystery and joy over horizons of night and unspoiled dawn.
Rats, roaches and sardines all squeezed in tight,
move to the right or they will push and fight.
Double circle of red slashed in the middle;
to travel underground you space out little.
Tourists all stand in a crowd, gaze and gasp,
watching as locals an chaps whisk on past.
The tracks begin to rattle and light is seen,
off in the distance is the train’s shrill keen.
Doors fly open, we push and run inside,
lunge for a seat before a change in tide.
The train begins to lurch, the scenery pass,
one stop then another as crowds start to mass;
The heat and your sweat slowly down it pours,
with a lovely odor wafting next door.
Transfer to green, red, purple, and to blue,
arrive at your station and get your due.
Ticket in machine, and then out it pops,
eyes on the wall or you’ll miss your stop.
Your trip is all done and your pounds are paid,
break for the sunlight and watch the parade.
March, my friend. March.
Through the flood of people jigging to the dance of coins.
March and stop and look and jig.
Plead, beg, dismiss, and haggle.
March, my friend. March.
Through the market of fleas.
Stomach tubes far behind left juices churning in throat opening void.
As air rises and below land falls, mortality question for obedient muscle’s falter.
Swimming feet in lakes of slimy residue and legs quiver
thanking muscles of goo, one foot over the other to chant inspiringly vigor.
As thoughts and memories coalesce, and danger and weakness are forefront brought,
memories of falls and jumping fantasies overcome the sensible foe.
Raspy roars summon red-lined clouds,
which overtake bloody thought.
A clarion call demands violence and
the drum’s cadence quickens juices flowing through rivers.
Remembrances of humanity marshal thoughts begging to shine down
as seething primal urges threaten to overtake societal demands.
In a flash of brilliance rationality returns,
leaving behind an empty, helpless dissatisfaction.
Fragments from the first draft:
My mind roars helplessly as a guillotine cleaves rational thought. Where thought existed a moment, a demand for warm blood fills its beheaded void. When does the sullied blade reward the helpless passenger whose trip is answerable to the calls of beast? But once clouds dined in red chase away vision and fill its blinded vessel with ringing thunder.
Hanging in a black oozing sky
floats a brilliant point of night.
Over mountains shadowing blue
glaring down battered sight.
Multitudes glance across its shine
failing to notice its soft sigh.
Yet few do stare and heed its call
and follow to learn chains in time.
And when one does feel lessons learned,
and accepts the untold truth
then fate dost intercede a hand
to impress being’s short turn.
Where once giants walked the earth and lived in statutes of marble, where citizens, born and conquered, raised eyes to the divine multitudes and lowered necks to chiseled law.
Where the great Caesar conquered and became a god and paved roads all led to his temple where aqueducts the size of stadiums and coliseums were built for the glory of blood, death, and entertainment, lies but rubble and half forgotten chalky memories.
It was better when the fire of voices were suppressed;
when moments affected me with cold calculation.
When anger, hatred, frustration, sadness could be held at bay,
at little more than the cost of happiness and love.
When only tidal forces could breach my fortress,
and, once breached, would wash away the receding water.
Rational thoughts were clouded less, and rages were few,
except with blood—when built up gases would explode forth on those most familiar and least deserving.
It was better when emotions were suppressed because of memory of pains;
when personalities could be pulled over my face like a poorly fit mask.
When lies and truth mattered little to me,
and each was exchanged for little more than a passing fancy.
But with worse comes happiness and love,
and isn’t the fire of voices but a small price to pay for truly living?
Sea of cotton candy blue, clear as blown glass magnifies corals of green as we float past.
In our wake the remains dance of the water, an avenue of chlorine colored sea.
On a night as blue as a forever rain,
spinning winds of fate in a web spotted drops,
walks a beauty drawn chiseled force and damaging bearing.
Not a beat of heart or a blink of eye passes
before his tumbling heart falls before her sculpted feet.
As his blood ceases to pump and
fields of cotton sprout on his tongue
their eyes meet like in a choreographed show
All of time waits the darkening sky,
the lady judges and weighs—
he smiles and casts his wager as hope’s spring splashes his quivering lips
As the coin flies through the air and
fate’s web slowly coalesces,
another dream passes before the crooning sky.
The inner man hides behind small comments and smaller entertainment.
He grows only when others water and fertilize his fertile grounds.
When left out of sunlight and out of reach of hand and mouth
he must learn to grow as a fungus—without sunlight or tending.
But perhaps that growth is more meaningful;
feeding roots that can be reached through others tending.
Sweet dreams find her hands of fists and feets a’wagging upon red limbs amiss their slumber tales—where rainbows of light sew fabrics of journeys upon the windswept fruit of her mother’s sails;
Sweet parents do late night dreams a’visit, and up she grows from tiny fancy to kicker to grant of an evening plea—when open windows and kernels of knowing peek through lights shining suddenly free;
Sweet eyes begin to flutter as fancies of trees of gold of purple of green of pink take flight as images focus and shift—who’s to see upon her clear eyed sight the visions of families, futures, and the gift.
In the early breeze of autumn, when moisture sculpts the air, a tree lists, dipping a naked root in a pregnant river.
The root clutches warily a bobbing spoil, its wooden fingers clinging against the river's strain.
Instance: the prize fancies the grasp, speculates, and discovers the tree leaning forth.
The two share harbor from the river, entangle, feed, and grow together.
But as rivers tend to flow, and resolves weaken, root, whipped by the violent water, may snap, freeing the prize.
As the tree grows—and craves—there follows, often belatedly, a fresh root willing to test the waters of fate.
Pulling back from the edges of daybreak
avoiding talk of the next release
I am haunted by the causation of hope
For Julie has taught me how to couple
I pass the weight and fear its loss
Learning only of beauty after beauty retreats
Am I doomed to mistake and dwell alone?
Feeling are far and walls thick to hide
Cut, blood and missing pain I've now felt
Tears-sorrow-loss-ache of receipt.
Tree limbs dipped to find you,
Plucked from racing streams;
I doubted an elfin woman would capture me,
I long questioned the sway of all women.
And yet, evidence of perseverance thrives
Encasing and lifting me from my bemused shape.
Moons pass overhead as heavens rise,
Illuminating my solid mask, it fractures.
Green daffodils surround us presently,
Sands and suns boil a salmon's call.
Field's littered, corrupted by space, await us,
Stumbling and raising hair for summer.
Sliding across an icy rhythm we wait;
Descending across tears dried crusty brown;
What becomes of our travails?
The same can be said of our distance.
electrons zap greetings, exchanges;
new zaps follow silence, until:
meet in steak’s house, jack-o’-lanterns near.
opera’s next, but i know it can’t last;
not a relationship man;
never been one—didn’t know how.
‘moving away,’ they tell me, ‘far away’
‘where am i going to poke,’ she asks;
‘somewhere beautiful, sunny and sandy.’
she goes, leaving me humid and dreadful;
no go for me, thunder rolls;
classes on ardor, i learn slowly.
year plus-plus passes, ears pop often;
eating headsets like candy;
soreness of distance and pretzel rest.
heart quickens when i say ‘wah i nee’ ;
‘wah she-ong nee’ we cry, ‘wah she-ong nee’ ;
story’s unfinished, beginnings await.
I want to tell of sadness.
I want to rain tears.
I want.
I want to tell of sadness because.
I want to rain tears because.
I want.
I want to tell of sadness because the telling allows me to relive.
I want to rain tears because raining tears evokes.
I want.
I want to tell of sadness because the telling allows me to relive the memories that fall.
I want to rain tears because raining tears evokes the squeezing pain.
I want.
I want to tell of sadness because the telling allows me to relive the memories that fall to the growing years.
I want to rain tears because raining tears evokes the squeezing pains, the unquenched thrashing feelings.
I want.
I want to tell of sadness because the telling allows me to relive the memories that fall to the growing years.
I want to rain tears because raining tears evokes the squeezing pain, the unquenched thrashing feelings.
I want.
I did sadness.
I did raining tears.
I want.
Black’ed-silk roads glistens night moon;
She drives late bearing home;
Calls: “Be soon, wait up,” says she;
“Never thought different,” says he indifferently.
Slippery dust sprinkles her dozing head;
Bobbing chin hits chest, eyes drift lazily;
Hour grows late, bed distant;
Car sways lullaby of rancid fatigue.
TV glaring the show’s laughter;
His freedom riding on peace of moment;
Air buzzing silence over empty home;
No rain finds the drying couch.
Swallowing, smiling, and shaking past;
More cheery occasions to find himself;
Nose itches and something not right;
Time gone away, no creak of door.
“Should be home hours past,” says he;
Phone dials and beeps and rings and rings;
“Signals fly and tunnels break,” prays he;
Chest sinks, galloping heart peculiar taste.
Ventures out soaked in darkness glow;
Empty roads and pitter-patter night;
“Come home, come home,” yells he;
Tears of clouds answer nobody.
Dialing and beeping and ringing and ringing;
And dialing and beeping and ringing and ringing;
And dialing and beeping and ringing and ringing;
And dialing and beeping and ringing and ringing.
Silence answers as sun arises;
“Needn’t want a day alone,” screams he;
Rings and rings and now scared to answer;
Not her, not her, who will it be?
“Found she over cracked tree,
“Roads slipped and head dipped;
“Smashed ride and broken side;
“Not what you want to see,“ says not she.
Pumping legs and tortured valves;
“Alright shall be, strong lady,” cries he;
Arrives at sides of bed and cracked form;
“Sleep she fell while driving,” hears he.
Sinking to knee, holding bloody she;
Never knew she was until past night;
“Not right, give back, thief,” cries he;
She breathes, eyes drowning beeps and fights.
Weeks he goes to visit she;
Nights pass thinking of phone’s late call;
“If only I’d dialed and beeped,
“If only I’d rang and rang,” says he.
Never wakes and she falls away;
Flowers drift toward final rest;
He and she and she and he stay;
Too late for he ringing and he forgiving.
It’s another headachy day in the neighborhood, a headachy day in the neighborhood; won’t you be mine, won’t you be mine; won’t you be my neighbor. Hi boys and girls, welcome to another rainy Seattle day. Wow. That was terrible. That was beyond bad, that was, please, someone, grab a stick and beat me senseless bad. Before you blame the lack of caffeine (this is my second, unintentional caffeine-free writing day), I want it placed on the record that yesterday was caffeine-free as well, and while yesterday’s musing was brain dead and drivel, I didn’t have a headache. So, take that, you evil I don’t want David to drink caffeine zealots.
I still want to get back to the Sacrificial Lamb story, but I don’t think it’s going to happen tonight. It’s difficult getting these words out without having to think and write a story. I’ve decided to tell the story from both Esther’s and Fred’s point of view at the same time, interspersed, if you will, so you can watch Mr. Jenkins visit both of them and see their reactions. That’s the plan, at least. There’s going to have to be history between Esther and Fred, and flashbacks—I like flashbacks. I didn’t expect this to turn into a full-length story, but I’m not complaining.
Today was a good day at work. I don’t know why I’m such a sucker for compliments, but I received one this morning, and after that, my work output quadrupled. I should buy a compliments machine for my office. I imagine it with a large, red button, which I push every morning. The compliments would have to be different and heartfelt. I’d see right through it if I felt the machine was faking in any way.
Here’s a non-poem I threw down while in the throes of a keep my eyes closed because my head is pounding and if I move so much as an eyelash, my head will explode moment:
Dried beef flavors noodles of wool;
Razing forests of splendor across bedrocks of green;
Why they make him to ride the night?
Try of which to rinse the purple pus.
My eyes explode across vision’s stars;
Pained fingers tap pools of raisins.
Yeah, that’s what I think also. I’m going to call it an early night. I will find inspiration one day this week, and don’t blame me if it’s at the bottom of a cup of yummy caffeine with steamed milk.
Gray clouds covered blackened heavens.
Ratchets cracked.
Pop, they released fires through the sky.
Heavens blazed.
Acrid smells reached down to the crowds.
Drums swelled.
Cheers cried over the screams of delight.
Hearts thumped.
Gnarled fingers pointed to cover their ears.
Necks craned.
Trumpet explosions rocked painted hills.
Whistles pierced.
Ancient music built to the sitting ovation.
Legs cramped.
Mammoth sparkles filled the traipsing images.
Breathing stopped.
Brightness flashed through rocks explosions.
Crowds erupted.
Creased flags waved the smallest children.
Dreams sparkled.
At the corner in the city sat a corner store,
covered in plastic to keep out the evening pour.
I held the umbrella to cover my head,
She pouted to indicate her lips dripping red.
A man clipped tulips into a plastic pot,
I tread past but she bent and stopped.
I reached past my coat and patted at my pocket,
“I don’t have enough,” I yelled over the racket.
She sniffed and tweaked each petal with care,
dismissing my call with an uneven stare.
I looked through the fruits and Chinese buffet,
“I bought you flowers just the other day.”
“You didn’t,” she said through the rain-soaked plastic,
“Oh, that’s right,” I said, “I must be spastic.”
She lifted a bouquet from its tight quarters,
and handed them to me to act as her porter.
The thorns ripped through my leather-gloved hand,
and I bit my cheek and swallowed skin’s strand.
She led me to the cashier waiting out front,
I glanced at the helplessness of her staged stunt.
For what to do with a woman’s demands,
but reach into my heart and fulfill her plans.
I paid for the flowers and bought her sweets,
I learned long ago that she’s a sucker for treats.
I presented her gifts with a flourishing wave,
and she clapped and smiled at my great save.
We met in passing just the other day,
and we chatted it up and I made her stay.
We harked back to our moments of joy,
before sadness broke us like two big toys.
“The gifts I remember you taught me to buy,
without which no girl would have grown nigh.”
We laughed remembering what led me astray,
and remembered the kindness of that wet day.
I told her how happy I am with my girl,
she regretted that we didn’t give it a whirl.
I smiled and said, “Think of that night.”
“It would be years before I got over that sight.”
I waved goodbye to return to my girl Sue,
“It was because of you I finally learned to woo.”
I think back toward the lessons she taught
and finally realize that nothing was for naught.
***
Yeah, tiredness found me. I might rework it when I find a chance. It's not up to my usual standards of bad poems.
At the corner in the city sat a corner store,
covered in plastic from the evening pour.
I held out the umbrella and covered my head,
my girl pouted as her lips dripped red.
She grabbed the umbrella and pulled it near,
I apologized and wiped her lips clear.
A stock boy clipped tulips into a plastic pot,
I tread past but she bent and stopped.
I reached past my coat to pat at my pocket,
“I don’t have enough,” I yelled over the racket.
She sniffed and tweaked each petal with care,
dismissing my call with not even a stare.
I looked through the fruits and Chinese buffet,
And said, “bought you some the other day.”
She lifted a bouquet from its tight quarters,
and handed to me to act as her porter.
The thorns ripped through my leather-gloved hand,
and I bit my cheek and swallowed the strand.
She led me to the cashier out front,
I glanced at the helplessness of her staged stunt.
For what to do with a woman’s demands,
but reach into my heart and fulfill her plans.
I paid for the flowers and bought her sweets,
I learned long ago, she’s a sucker for treats.
I presented her gifts with a flourishing wave,
and she clapped and smiled at my great save.
After many months we filled with small joys,
sadness broke us up like two big toys.
I don’t remember what led me astray,
But I remember her kindness of that wet day.
She taught me to woo and think of my mate,
And never take for granted each and every date.
Of millions of Julies flitting across my moments, it’s those without which remain.
Moments of holding hands while raisins rise and leaves reach past shadows,
The truffle oil smell of hair while I rest chin on head;
The smile so large I lose days falling through it;
Squeezes so tight I bruise feathered pillows forgetting she’s gone.
I share crazy thoughts and inhibitions and wait for her to turn the spigot and end the dream.
Reddened eyes of fondness grow fonder at distances so great they disrupt solitary ambitions.
I dream of holding her moistened hand and raising her arm with each swinging stride.