Strange signpost of circling destiny - an Exxon station,
perched at the crossroads of State Highway 95
and Farm to Market Road 1331.
Almost certainly without its own knowledge
serving as the gateway to Arcadia.
Where life may be older in the body, but boasts youth eternal
in the mind, heart, and soul.
Where power, prestige, and wealth all wither away
in the soft sunshine of familial love.
Strange paradox that from the sunbeams of a quiet Czech church
may come the vital fuel to power an engineer's heart
in the midst of the sparkling glass
of a city that never knows silence.
For now, I am not sure whether I borrow from paradise
to vainly chase its specter -
or whether I borrow from one ideal to build another
which may not be entirely worse ...
though there is no denying that it is different.
There may be pains in Arcadia, though they seem so far away
to this weary man on a late spring day.
8 May 2022
cove of stark comfort
simplicity of forest
verbena-pine scent
I don’t care if i see stars
immersed in sylvan fancies
9/14/2020
blatantly passionate
perfected bodily beauty
attractiveness overcharged
a rhapsody of
recognition of
emotion&near ecstasy
reluctant to leave
overt interest remains
problematic
yet understood
innocent impulses
somewhat erotic
eventually
asking aloud
this interest to amuse
remote&unknowable
to applaud
perfection of
this gentle
kinder existence
perceived as a treasure
this survival of memories
the preserved
disappointments of
an abundant&
vanished arcadia
silence now a pleasure
a mere panacea
imbude
recorded now
with joy
You leave the car at what was once,
in old reality, a farm and where the
National Trust democratise so now not cows
but parking motorists feel alarm.
Across a road are loos, ex milking parlours
still with “stools” and piss
as folk make moves to
an archway leading to a long curved lane
edged with a guard of reeds that,
while obstructing the view ahead
incite its anticipation.
Conducting the children, we lead them
to where the pathway fairs into the beach
framed by those stalks high reach
from their rooting in Arcadia.
Some fresh reality as we quicken pace
through that narrow place into entrancement,
a shout of elements where the claustrophobe
of routines in small spaces erodes into the
expansive sunbed of yielding pearl toned grains.
Here we claim our place below a trope of
salt drenched thrift and campion sea slopes
barricading us from the insomnious land breeze
that keeps conscious plain life.
Oh, that's it, Keko. Pass through. Go ahead.
Just walk across my books without a glance,
with all that arrogant insousiance
of yours, encoded in that languid tread.
No, never mind that I've been up all night
engrossed in them. What now? So why the pause?
Ah, now I see. You might retract your claws
in expectation of a fondle-fight.
What must it be, to live a life by whim,
to eat, to sleep, to gambol, amble, bask
as humour takes you, never think to ask
of costs or consequences, to never trim
or balance, need to tack, or double back.
There's no-one holding you to strict account.
You waste your time guilt-free, don't have to mount
defence or mitigation. If you lack
the cares and burdens of my tedious chores,
perhaps there's something else you'll never own
- a subtle thing called purpose, which alone
gives point to my percentages and scores.
Don't look so smug for landing on all fours!
This ledger's done. I know I have to die,
and that's my tragedy. You, pumpkin pie,
don't have a clue what's coming. And that's yours.
woke up to a full day but i can tell the sun's only come half bright
on the cemented pavements and shameless statements of the
buildings towering high.
lately pacing shadows of motion
with squeezing tight objectives
lay themselves amaze to stamper so sluggishly unexpected
and rest their bodies inside
these big red rectangular double decker boxes
that commence to shudder along
with a sense of dying, clinical combustion;
hence to be condensed;
surrounded but all alone;
in the city that's countlessly counseled;
'Et in Arcadia Ego'
so I walk out of her door,
scramble my pockets for some cigarette paper
whilst standing under the warmth
of the dormant electric heater
finally pick up my deck and wheels
spark up in time to ride
with a rustic shallow breath
the barren concrete comes to life
as this skater rides on over
i'm just waiting to be swallowed whole
'cause even here death appears
in Skater Arcadia
Let go my ash on a windy day,
From a cliff near the edge of the sea.
Mingled forever with the friends I have loved,
For all time, now together . . now free.
And I promise we'll scatter both hither and yon,
In places you'd all like to be.
In patches of broom-moss on Arcadian shores;
In the midst of the songs of the sea.
With the froth and the foam and the fresh salt air
And the glint of the sun on the brine.
My spirit rejoices in the beauty about,
Though not captured in life . . is now mine.
The dark turns the day into time for more play,
Under star twinkling gems from deep space.
Or perhaps they'll be mist and the touch of a kiss,
Of a time yet to come . . and a place.
Yes; we'll bide by this shore till the earth is no more
And the sea gives up every last soul.
Until heaven appears drying all good men's tears
And as promised . . at last we are whole.
Rigid around the edges
Behold blissful paradise
A spring not yet discovered
graceful earth divine
-MIRANDA LAMBERT-
1ST PLACE IN DODOITSU CONTEST 2/23/11
This is where death is the child and I it's Laborious hand holder
Jagged night, lean souls
blackened sight in the martyr moon
crooning crows and brazen ravens tear the skies through
Crooked grins and demon walkers make the evil hallow
and the meek surrender
Beads of fear saunter a stream's pace down my tired countenance
The weary die. Her voice bleeds a susurrus...
"Doth thou arrest my poison...my heart...my love"
I only reply true "May I arrest the blade of my weary foe before I arrest thy poison kiss"
There is a place where the mad prophets speak
Where god speaks confused tongue
Where Babylon is anew
This is where death is the child and I it's laborious Hand-Holder
-Kalonji A. Davis
2/18/2010
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