Now my tendrilled soul,
Has found its pergola-- Christ--
To wind its way up....
Before spring came, in late February
to the blooming and jolly hills
I ran, breathing heavily and frantically,
touching the perfumed blossoms
of a solitary, old cherry tree;
and underneath it I sat writing poetry
that hadn't a perfect rhyme and beat!
Weren't my skills marred by imperfections?
Canaries and red-breasted robins
flew down and rested on my outstretched legs;
perusing my lines to spot their names,
and when they did, they flapped their wings in gladness!
I could have imagined their joyful words,.
if only they had acquired the gift of speech,
and deeper in their thoughts I would have reached:
to dispel the myth that they had no feelings...
After my short poem was completed,
I reached for my harmonica to play my favorite classic tune;
and being surprised by the paleness of the fading moon,
I dedicated that happy melody to her not to let her despair:
by waving my hand to make her farewell less sad, while I whispered,
" Silent moon, eternal companion of every poet,
what's beyond the realm of this universe?...
Tell us more of those invisible suns and planets! "
Before spring came to the dormant valley,
the mountains' peaks allowed the sun to melt their snows,
to create gushing torrents to feed its water to the dry and cracked soil,
which needed rain instead of harmful frost;
and I drank the freshest water and washed my sweaty face,
while fighting off the bees' stubborn rivalry!
That spring has come again to dress herself with incredible splendor,
and this discontent and wishful heart desires nothing more than being there!
My theme is: Happiness In Childhood
I bent over to touch my toes
and the ground tore open like a backbone.
I tried to feed myself the sky;
to splice my tearducts into the universe
so that, when the pavement cried, it would mean something to me.
My fingernails punctured that slimy membrane
congealed with stars,
and I brought a slice of it to my lips,
hot and slippery like a jellyfish.
Peach juice, chalky-sweet, flowed,
fleshy particles snagged in my teeth,
and the colors erupted within my mouth.
Synthesia took over my lungs.
The hollows between my knuckles flooded with synovia
and all the ectoplasm threatened to separate from my cells
with a sound like thunder.
Diphthong tasted rusty like leukoplakia as it tiptoed across my tongue.
Tomorrow rose like the skeletons of trees,
groping for a feeling similar to catharsis
[catharsis tender as the broken wings of doves,
crunching underfoot like shattered glass.]
The clouds opened their thunderous maws
- teeth snicker-snacking, lamplight-eyes flaming the color of E#'s -
and consumed me.
I felt my skin turn to something other than skin:
thick and rough with scales,
my fingerprints melting into something waxen, smooth and opaque,
like pomegranate kisses on coffee mugs.
A feeling ignited deep in my structure;
cedillas blossoming like lilies from my lips,
fragmented sentences stretching taut as guitar strings
between my thumb and forefingers.
A flutter gentle and demonic as Calcifer erupted from my system
- splattering hot and frothing into my hand -
and fluid rushed in.
I dared to taste oblivion,
and the sky swallowed me.
My lungs failed to be lungs.
They flooded with caustic matter,
and I coughed up reflections sharp as fiberglass;
fighting with organs phthisical and sore.
I struggled to find a way to describe it:
the feeling of consuming something greater than yourself,
of opening your eyes and tasting the sound of rain.
It was like swimming,
but inside out.
I bent over to touch my toes,
and my spine tore open;
the loose laces unraveling, veterbrae poking out
like the tines of forks.
I tried to contort myself into the beginning,
but I only found where I end.
Who be th' stenchin' verminous Horsman
what hollers t' th' seafarin' oarsmen
when th' mind's a-fog
where we fest th' grog
why be d'mandin' pennin's of bay men
***All errors are intentional and used merely to facilitate pirate speak.
I do not know?
My Wishes are Simple
My wishes are simple,
my desires few,
to gaze upon an ocean,
and marvel at a solitary drop of dew.
My wishes are simple,
my dreams not too grand,
to feel the waves teasing my tired feet,
with no footprints left in the cool, wet sand.
My wishes are simple,
my thoughts serenely gentle, calm,
my heart resting beneath a swaying palm,
healing my being, caressed by nature's soothing balm.
The Ocean breeze soothes me.
The sound of waves relaxes me.
Soft sand between my toes,
collecting unique driftwood to make crafts,
beachcombing is my "quiet place".
You can't live on an island and not love the water.
I can sit and watch boats sailing by
or watch eagles soaring in the sky.
The beach is where I go to sooth my soul
and find my inspiration.
~~~~ The Beach at Eby Rd.~~~~
(my quiet place)
At the end of the road, I park,
leaving my shoes behind.
I walk along the sandy beach.
All troubles leave my mind.
I breathe in the sweet ocean air,
raise my face to the sun.
Inspiration flows through my veins.
Another poem's begun.
for Sara Kendrick's contest
"My Quiet Place"
Not this month.
*it is difficult to find words to rhyme with 'month.'
The future lies unwritten on
the blankest, blankest page.
I’m born today and, safe to say,
on track to boundless age.
At anchor in a harbor on
the leeward side of time,
engaged in making love to verse,
in making beauty rhyme--
the heart has placed before the eyes
what Gods of hope have borne,
a well of sweet serenity--
and love like summer morn.
Shades of color bounce within
Singing their hues dancing in place
Vivid lines colored outside
Rules broken with empty space
A midnights dream heard and seen
Gleaming from the twinkle of a eye
Wings touched flown and plucked
Gliding like a bird up in the sky
Wishes from pennies thrown into tears
The reservoir over flowing with pigments of pain
Drowning from the shadows
The flood paints the day
Words speak volumes of silence hidden
Their sounds blind to what they see
Mirrors of nouns and verbs
Their meaning and secrets lost at sea
Emotions ruled by laws of language
Spelled in boxes of glass
Melted from sands inside
That voices strangle to grasp
I do not know?
A thousand times I've made myself
Into an interprative lie
A thousand times, a million words
That never will quite die
But in the truth, so continent
Is nothing that cannot be bent
Within these words, this plenitude
Is nothing of an origin
Within these lies, one bit of truth
Is only found within a facet of interpretation
And so we feel we know each other
Through the words we read, twice writ
But in all words, so many meanings
Kill all hope of understanding it
One word, one touch of mastery
Finds greatness only in what's seen
By those who are quite predisposed
To look for life in words transposed
Upon a page, so blank, so bare
That all the soul must still be there
Within that spot of black, inside the space
Surrounded by its like. There's left no trace
Of individuality within the frothing, dying sea of words once writ, twice faded, lost inside a sea of meaning, tost upon the shore of all that's seen by those who know what their own might-have-beens could mean to one who's never tried to understand, nor dared to try the hand of fate against a raging sea that took the form of fractured metaphor.
The soul seeps through.