You Set the Scene

Noise, aching cacophony.  Plead of ringing ears.
Can’t hear for discordant clamor.
Harsh voices, demented violence, cracking mirrors.
Lusty grabbing at what passes for dearness.
Jagged touch — jagged forbearance.
 *
Got strife, suffering fools,
random ridiculous rules?
Shout a counterpoint to profit’s dangling melody:
“Bring ample balm; anoint to entrain a sing along.”
Safely packed into treasured space of silence
remain joyful harmonies, fragrant glades,
beyond confusion or complaint.
Visionary steering allows weary refugees
approach to wisdom’s self-recreation.
Howling wind blows kind, accrued sensation.
Don’t like bleeding colors? Compose a verdant scene.
Step out of background painting, past edge
of silver screen.
Skipping through lucid gallery,
animated, amused.
 *
Hooded goddess tantalizes, whispers of
prizes well-laid,
her wayward journeys.
Salient shadows, ghostly sighs.  Branches bow,
brush restless sky, yearn.
One step at a time.
Wherever that might find you.
That slime and crap’s behind you.
As duration wiles beyond, learn to respond
then to desire,
then to recognize environs
that fit well enough to settle in, reside.
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Make Peace The Issue
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Histrionic

Seeking sensory vindication
for pumping blood, aroused anticipation.
 *
We have descended.
An anarchy of broken promises,
compacts, mirrors, pastel pieces
dropped heavily to shatter.
We embarrass captive ancestry,
whining, whimpering, writhing
as if such elocution equals drama.
We sadly dust away worn skin
without ingenuity to renew.
Settling, dumping our shameful load, resigning
into scrapes upon a screen.
Box of tricks emptied open, left to entropy.
But before we shuffle off to
endless evaluation, complaint, cold coffee …
Daring, darling Hope takes stage,
curtsies to the high box crowd,
sings so miraculously strong and loud.
For that eternal moment we are stunned
to applause.
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Make Peace The Issue

Stars’ Crossing

Crossed roads, slowly swaying
entrance beads from day to night.
Slip in between to become
for that instant of eternity
dancing gypsy calling to
Moon, to storytelling stars.
Embrace that mystery, train tracking
adventure.  Breathe forgotten fields,
lush or shriveled, dependent on water
and feed.  Let go of all but one brave
hand solidly grasped to the doorway.
Let go; let fingers fall reaching.
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Make Peace The Issue

Tell Me a Story

There are people
who have no loyal dog
to lick their fingers
into calm receptivity.
Have no god who answers
benevolently,
or at all, when harrowing storms
rage against peaceful rallies of witness.
Sometimes a wrong number
is deployed by tortured devils
screeching epithets to curse
and destroy.
The lonely insomniac
drinks elixirs of horrid prescience
from which he cannot awake,
while jovial thief of reason
breathes in the last
existential oxygen.
People like us
hide beneath sacred banners
whispering
strong words
loving sentiment —
for love is not sweet and light
but bitter, strong, energizing,
catalyzing beaten heart into art.
 *
Some call it pain.
Some call it ripping through matrix veil.
Some call it branding scars into defensive arms
that command be respected.
some call it a call to compassion
Some call it a test of will.
Some call it simple cause/effect, self-monitoring,
a warning, a plea for curative care.
Some call it raw sensation
to be interpreted
by me for me
by you for you.
Yes, art reflects. Angst, worry, tension as well
as mindspeak or heartsong or fleeting vision
of perfection,
what we feel, think, know, question —
these are all food for art. We with intent
toward creation create,
with whatever instrument presents.
Move as rhythm explores.
Got the beat,
staccato backbeat,
sure leading pack beat
backed up by bleating sheep
beatific in tingling glory.
Swing that same old story
in new clothes of Emperor’s fame,
sackcloth of crying shame
greatly desired
by those whose entire
fortune consists of dust,
gold like the Sun.
Oh the borders
Oh the cycles
Oh the long rewording, recoding,
reconciling, ever longing, over ‘n’ over
Each rationed drop,
each liquid layer sparkles
and decays.
Designated workday evenings
wonder fetid, over-crowded hallways.
Ghost deserted malls overflow with
buyers’ remorse — “Sold me soul and
all I got was this lousy high interest loan.”
So, no, the promised solace of loyal
service no longer suffices.  To say:
“Better days to come”
no more substantial than moonbeams
— laughter in the night.
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Make Peace The Issue

Love Song to the Queen of May

Electrical air, thunder praised lightning.
Aware, hug of ineffable gaze.
Aglow in nature’s snare.
Natural child.
Let her go wild.
Follow her there.
Enjoy these humble Spring delights,
softened days, enchanted nights.
Flowers of the May Queen,
bright expectant buds
waving, euphoria fragrant,
joyfully risen to
Earth’s celebration.
All that is or ever was or can occur
exists in whirling mists, vast cosmic blur
to set out bit by bit a brilliant poem
weaving eternally our common home.
Perhaps a poem of love,
thick words upon parchment
to hold to, warmly comfort sodden heart.
As flashing floods inundate, suffocate,
cleanse or lacerate from resultant rust.
Such perfumed promise might seem
a heaven sent reminder of what has been,
could become.
Romancers, lovers lifted above rhyme or
rhythmic scheme in perfect tune,
imbued truly with yearning spire of adoration,
create in shining halls of imagination
lyric poetry that never dies.
*
Gushing bloody revelation through fangs sharp and wise.
Temptress, tempestuous, oh tempt me pure and thorough.
Unrestrained wet, red essence
pumping into ecstatic relief.
Hidden as a jungle creature.
Learning by thrill, pagan exultation.
Strong scent of fecund Venus,
lusty scent of earth.
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Make Peace The Issue