August Leaves

 

 

 

London Bridge is flooded, melting.

The towers are struck and fallen down.

We well might look at this tragic mess and say,

“I’m not cleaning that up!”

But maybe it’s not a mess to be cleansed,

but a game to indulge in.

Luxuriate in dazzling suds, intrigued.

Work out scenes to turn chaos into valuable memes.

Are we having fun yet?

Because if we’re not, we’re probably missing the point.

 

Sense encoded missive strikes womb of Mother Earth.

She will divine the appropriate response.

 

Perhaps subliminal notes are written upon rocks or stars,

secret lights along a shining trail;

or it might come as spontaneous lyrics singing. 

Myth claims a method of mindplay.

Thoughts metamorph into birdlike beings,

unfurl vestigial wings.

Whirled reverberation

from eternal time.  Messages pop like soap bubbles,

fly swiftly beyond imagined borders

to wonders of continents, oceans, possibilities

yet unexplored.

 

more than noise

sublime beauty

realized empathy

ideations of silly hilarity

tasty recipes

arresting news

inspiring solutions

“you go” encouragement

“they suck” consolation

radiant art

rallying music

so, yeah, unplug, because you can’t abide a little snark…

 

Dismissed as crazy, what do you expect me to say?

 

No matter how we explain, they hear

the chatter churning between their ears.

Children in character play,

simulate their own boos and cheers.

Why interfere? Change or replacing the game

may cost too dear, be inconvenient

in this midst of disarray.

Indulged in fear,

passionate ire turned outward,

triggered to blame, to ignite contagious fire.

Set back a’piece where brambles

disguise our winding road, discourage inciters

with inbred eyes.

Pushing

sad, shadow memory.

Hard harsh faces

leer, jeer, beg for tears.

I dare not cry.  I never know what to answer.

Held by my arms fiercely protective.

Stale weeping, caustic, bred of poison, drips through.

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Untouchables

 

 

 

 

 

I have a friend

who has this

embarrassment.

She doesn’t like to be touched

by men.

Even their groping eyes

sear into her skin,

she says,

make her cringe, unable

to think or move or be.

She dresses in unflattering

layers, drab shades

for added protection.

She scuttles in public, peering

ahead and back,

desperate to hide her presence

from all who might stare,

or glare,

dare to apply an

unwelcome hand.

My friend doesn’t mind

her idiosyncrasy.

She wishes the world would be

more kind, more glad

to accept, embrace (without touching)

the way she has been made.

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Breaking bred

 

 

 

 

Ravenous,

born from boiling seas.

Holy Beast rampages, rises beneath

broken surface;

exhales snarling flame,

riotous burning blame,

wreaks tidal waves that never quench

roil of fire.

All our desires embroil, enslave

in thrall of poison spit.

We can’t allow comfort, nor encourage

scored hearts to heal,

not while we steal your ire

to fatten rich nests.

Believe your cause excessively blessed.

Believe you are doing your best

to be as Creation demands.

Believe you are worthless

beyond condemnation

unless you are taking the stand

prescribed and admired.

If you aspire to anything higher

you must carry the brand

on your forehead or hand,

must be willing to kill

in the name of fealty,

to fulfill the prophecy.

to feed the Beast.

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46664

 

 

Caging the Beast

“call me after the Rapture” I

post on religious social network

sites.

Have you read Yeats’ “Second Coming”?

After the prophecy

After the hard, hard rain

after the rainbow

Call me.  We should get together.

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Instant Message

 

 

 

 

I read your missives.

They tell me all across the planet

symbols mingle in shared airstream

meant for me.

 

I feel your loving.

Though I’ve never met you in the

biblical sense,

what do bibles know?

They were written for other days,

other ways of relating.

Love’s not based on seeing,

smelling, touching, tasting

more than survives

neurons’ translated senses.

My love embraces you,

who somehow see me

through impassioned words,

shared images

savored safely in recognition.

 

Love is eternal, but not forever.

Love is awareness in that esoteric space

visualized, realized, as all of essence

rushes dizzily through each private

wired net, lighting here and there

to display brushstrokes of ecstasy.

 

Taste the pleasure, take a bite.

Treasured freely growing fruits

nourish rich synaptic flow.

Emotion, luscious nectar we each create anew.

Together, synergy expands our reach,

our world

viewed.

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Simple Living

 

 

 

 

 

Following bliss

from blossom to blossom.

Impulse to impulse

a message appears.

Following footprints,

enrapt in  the lesson

free of exams

or keeping-up fears.

Each movement a chance

to discover new senses,

new meanings, new methods,

new facets and forms.

To swoop into dance,

heal with celebration,

imbue inspiration,

play out loud in mad storm.

It’s not about amassing a fortune,

elevation, acclaim,

becoming a star.

It’s not about

living up to some value,

but valuing living because

here you are!

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Excrement

 

 

 

 

 

 

We are what we assimilate.

Every sidewalk crack

struggling greenery escapes through.

Every desert pebble harkening to

exotic seas.

Children exiled from history,

Sun crazed,

exude melanoma, dark humor.

Exquisite delusions claim truth:

peer reviewed.  Shadow want

without desire.  Futilely seeking adventure.

Slipping down random rabbit hole,

wishing on some distant star.

Eagerly, clumsily chipping away

gingerbread walls in search of

early consciousness,

before monsters or taboos.

Primal artist

obsessively paints bodily waste

upon rocky exposure,

unaware of the concept of

archeology.

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Clean Up

 

 

 

 

 

I dislike the implied mess of violence.

Peace is more tidy,

clean and inviting.

Why waste precious metal

in deadly intent

when a kickass party

can pay the rent —

a rant and rave relaxing

pent up pain.

Where’s the percentage of gain?

The perception that rage requires

release within this people cage,

to ease torment of feeling less

accepted,

Reflex flight or fight? Psychobabble hype?

Nobody  needs to violently die today.

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Simple Things

 

 

 

 

 

“We need to believe in simple things.”

She said with a curtsy and a smile.

Then, removing her shoes, steps up to begin

her dance.

The wind and the waves seem to chant

in flute and fiddle and drum,

while a white-robed chorus alights behind her.

Chimeric amazement occurs

before the hypnotized crowd

as she portrays stories of love, co-reliance

and, yes, simple things.

Portentous clock strikes backwards and forwards

through seasons, epochs, in time to expressive parade.

Not of Czars and Wars, Events or Inventions.

leaves falling, snow drifting, folk singing,

birds calling, bread cooling, children embracing

And soon the crowd becomes a joyous dancing throng

of beaming celebration.  Each remembrance, special moments,

capacious breaths on dew-dropped dawns of spring,

warmth of a loved one’s hand,

bravery of everyday rebellions.

She speaks once more before dissolving

into verdant effervescent mist:

“Believe not in salvation nor sin nor in reward —

we must act as we can,

and believe in simple things.”

 

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detached

 

 

 

 

Where were you when I was dying?

Now that I am all but (merely nearly) dead

you mock me,

beg my aid

to mitigate

dark fall-out

of your fantasies.

Blind to my bleeding, caught up

in your cut-ups,

how can what I’ve left to say

reach you anyway?

Take your pleading to your

silent Lord.

Leave me to degenerate demise.

Strangers all these years

we might have met as intimates.

Today’s last wane of desire carries no regret,

no interest

for meeting

in your dream.

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