in the sun
The skin became the bark of a tree
the soul turning to brittle scars
for uncaring worlds to see.
is a pile of
old owl bones
sewn into banks of midnight creeks...
even the plump, over ripened ones
no longer look at me...
but if their car was desert flat,
their oil grim reaper black
they'd paint a wormy, water colored smile...
slide it through my barbed wired heart
so long as I could spin the jack...
so I spin it until their potholes turn to satin-
in the sun
the mind has smoothed over
like pebbles in Saturn rings..
a forgotten spice in the conversation of life
an hour later the word snuggles up to me
Tomorrow or forever( which ever comes first),
I'll stay wrapped inside
till my skin turns back to ivory
to an easter egg yesterday
to a time of bouncing ball and spinning jack,
when the mind was a great silky nest...
the face a flowered meadow place
where watercolors swirled all day,
the heartworms kept at bay.
I'll stay hidden within the briar,
till the jewels of memories sooth
every scar - every stripe,
the molten knots of cruelty,
till the sweetened fruit reclaims the tree.
until then only my curtains breathe...
...stayed in the sun
whispering "everything's alright
she's thriving like a spring fed rose
in saintly gardens
an angel brightly glowing
...of this dream.
i staggered along
a ragged oragami path
through a battlefield of metal devils
faith folding and unfolding
garnished with ogres slinging
burning orbs of fire -haloes of insanity...
this is when
her singing rosary
that she loved and missed my heart
re-fastened our very being with a satin dream kiss
that had tattered in the talon of time...
lifted me across the bloody
broken battered fields
...into the arms of forever
where the beat of pristinity only flies
fly ever so softly into me
If dreams mean anything
I know it wont be long
till we dance
the dance of butterflies
over green sprigs and lacy things
in a warm wind
in the heart pond of gilded tomorrows,
we'll gently drift about
make origami sunflower love
high upon a gilded glade...
if dreams mean anything
death is just a splash
of black pebbles
in a violet starry stream....
if dreams mean anything
gently rustles silver leaves
gliding through open windows
a golden summers evening
like a cardinal's sable wing
warming the brutish bluish soul
of winter's icy cheek
like a spray of ocean blossoms
bursting from a magicians sleeve
into caverns of lonely hearts
rooting oh so very deeply
like a siren sweetly offering
a sextant for the wayward bow,
just before it strikes the reef
love leaves in a flaming howl
When winter enters the heart,
snowflakes gather in rosy chambers,
like ghosts of crows-every breath throbbing
sluggish songs of longing and loneliness...
Over time the crows pile on,
my-my how they live to pile on,
like bones of long ago loves...
leaving only an avalanched refrain....
but the soul is still flowing and howling
like an early winter stream
nobody dares to cross
those icy blue eyed thinning veins.
but there is a flock of warmth
in every winter heart,
buried beneath dead songs of crow and time,
they just need a pinch of flint and pine
to release the warmth from the glowing...
my-my how they beat to release rose budded songs
from a million springs ago.
the ice breaks-
left "yesterday" lying on the beach,
like a shark torn screaming seal;
a big red jagged hole in its side,
where a hopeful glide used to beat...
as for "free" its sailing for gilded clouds
far beyond the ripping reef,
where soft horizons swallow the blue
and spit back a frothy pink...
do we have "enough"
or will the silver slices of winter's blade
cut us down
or build us up-
will our pasts behave like choir boys, stay in time,
will they re-emerge and scream and sting our eye
make us blind to hope and happiness.
Do we have "enough" to pluck the guts
from the chasms of experience
to fashion buds of love
from the fiery depths of ego's lust,
have we evolved "enough" to trust again
when our old gray world blitzes in so unwelcoming
swinging dried bloodied smiling fists of what's the use and what ifs,
fill our starving souls with blackbird piss
Do we have "enough" to become an us
A spaceship called Hope... made from future's grand mist,
is perched upon a launch pad of manic chemicals, and loss.
With stun gun emotion, mother earth regurgitates.
her metal finger meets the button...
she releases her ballast...
My brain engulfing G forces,
soon to become a mustard seed
in the speed of light garden,
filled with gravid redheaded planets
giving birth to fat-headed moons.
The stars are cheering, like starving mad islanders.
Light years have past,
ground control has lost contact
(by choice or by accident),
the rations are depleting,
but I'm serene in this
I've blown by a million past lives
apologized half-heartedly to an alien God,
who wished me well, pointed toward a giant black hole..
then disappeared into the vapor trail
of lost potential and cachexic hope.
Its almost over,
there is no more virgin oxygen
only the stale argon of saints and tyrants,
casting shadows of black hallucinations
"Little seed...little seed...Didn't you know this was a one way flight?"
I gaze out a stained glass window for the last time
church bells are ringing from the parched throat of time,
as four golden letters peel from the side of the star dusted ship,
satiating the madness of stars...
"Little seed...little seed."
blue birch tree
behind the forest walls
in the shadows
absorbing every howl.
The phantoms collide
with your seeds of sobriety...
their cackle intensifies
(barometer of your successes).
The golden brook is within your reach
of your denim fingertips..
so reach dear one reach.
like a star searches for its sweet burning heart
full of life and the living sweetness
fight on fight hard
swing your roses at the sword
your not alone
that bird in the clearing sings your victory song..
reach for it through the briar
i'll meet you in the center
in the bowel of the storm
and kiss away the blood of your battles.
drifting beyond the lightest cloud
(pastel clowns in post mortem rain parade)
cascading in the cold moon dust
to shed this latest mascarade
wounded memories hang from the mind
(autumn berries quivering three quarters past prime)
when did "mediocre" pock the virgin tree,
when devils told us," painting by numbers
was just mindless barb and babble"
not a feathered masterpiece?
your very first epiphany,
an evening frost pon tender leaf
even that...nothing really unique...
they should have stated the slate cold truth
as soon as we could breathe.