Joe is an old, withered tiger.
Stripes of balsa wood and matches
walking in a burning ring of hellfire
His shameless tamers snapping whips.
From deep blue state shadows
to keep afloat the latest ruse.
Feeding him grade school scripts.
Paraded in front of media buzzards.
Most cultures would call it senior abuse.
Every now and again he stretches the chain.
Gives us a glimpse inside his sink hole brain.
A rusted through windchime without wind.
In the maelstrom of a radical-rancid-rain.
Joe the withered tiger in the gloaming of life.
Thinks he's still sniffing daisies.
That have long ago turned into knives...
Categories:
balsa, analogy, animal,
Form: Free verse
My balsa wood float rides ripple and wave
My bait unappealing today
Fingers frostbitten but I shall be brave
As I try to catch something to weigh
The cormorant seems to be doing okay
The seagull is eating his fill
The otters aren’t gonna go hungry today
And the pike is awaiting a kill
The Kingfisher fishes alone and aloof
The heron jabs quick as a spear
This riverside haven, I’ve fished since my youth
I still bring a truck load of gear
But ponder this truth under my canvas roof
There used to be far more fish here
Categories:
balsa, environment, fishing,
Form: Rhyme
Lightning’s flash,
shows me where to hide,
when the thunder comes.
Tell me, which is more devine,
the radiant curve,
or the simple line?
In the land of Balsa,
the elders know
not to hind in their homes
when the big storm comes.
Categories:
balsa, perspective,
Form: Free verse
Monster Trees
Monster trees reaching down through insane skies like spiders,
They see something coming in the green benign stretches,
We are the onion ring bearers wearing dark-day secrets.
We know what happens when bearded eyes shut tight,
When the dead wave from hearses designed for blind drivers,
As the hatchet girls crawl into the blast barges of mindless ropery,
Monster trees with long tentacled arms scoop up the night cats.
They reach for berries made of balsa wood and Melba toast;
They reach down from far distances seizing innocent souls crawling,
These ghost trees, floating as life clouds, through memory and time;
Through deserted forgotten neighborhoods with skeleton trellises.
We are the lettuce turners, the meat shredders, with raised hopeful fists.
Wearing chiffon camisoles made with Melba toast and dark-day secrets,
The hatchet girls raise lapping glasses of mad rum to the blast barges.
Categories:
balsa, anxiety, depression,
Form: Free verse
Life on a death bed
Bending boughs of flaxen curls
Loose tendrils frame and swirl
In the wind and rain
Liquid snakes stain
Your cheeks
Black streaks
A masterpiece in mixed media of life and death
White moonlight lights the ball of your face
Your face a sculpture in pain
A study of Nocturne in Black and Gold
You are a location
Ambiguous emotion set against line and form
Bleak tones a sense of void
You claimed once that the rain was made to obscure the tears of humanity
Collectively we could
I could touch you
Your flesh cold and waxy
A dab of heat here and there
just under the surface
a palpable purpose proving me you live
Your bones bend as scantling timber,
Your balsa-wood heart verily
Snaps
At the sweet nothingness
Of words
Air simply reverberating
Some imbued meaning
You’ve staked so much on
That ride in the air
On sonic waves
To oscillating fimbria
That gives hope
To life.
Categories:
balsa, allegory, death,
Form: Free verse
single malt sanity, sanitized, ionized,
with a little communion salt.
sprinkle replace, sprinkle to taste,
sprinkle with haste to the holy face.
yet still ground balsa wood icons
perfectly semitrical work to preserve
lesser linoleum countertop grains.
Like in winona minnisota where the midwest
vacuum sealed religion remains intact.
renewed morning by morning
by olive shaded stanley thermoses.
Displaced only on occasion by rubber
gripped cellphones and coffee mugs.
winona Minnesota....
where the Mississippi is the only
true dialect.
home to sugarloaf bluff and
the basilica of saint stanislaus.
that lesser known bishop of krakow
who may have been martyred but first
got stoned at fourteen underneath
the sugarloaf.
See him now stacked up and slid down the bar
the bishop of all cardboard regalia.
Holy under a golden pint ring halo of IPA..
Categories:
balsa, autumn,
Form: Blank verse
A work in progress is a wonder
No wonder God loves us so
In Baalalala the natives make gods
From ivory soap
You can never be too clean on Sundays
Deities come in all shapes and sizes
Pocket Jesus is all the rage on all the islands
Towers of Babels are constructed around the world
Shaped from the finest balsa wood
Some reach as far as Mars
Come in mufti-flavors and languages
In Maltaluma fruit gods are carved with spoons
Formed from gelatinous fruit
Eaten only with clean fingers
Chocolate gods know no boundaries
Created in shapes of sin
Man makes god in his favorite image
Hollow inside, covered in gold plate
It's called a cow
They worship it when in trouble
It does not work that well
Union rules forbid it
Clearly stated in their by-laws
“No miracles of any kind by the cow”
“No milk”…. “No how”
Categories:
balsa, celebrity, creation, god, image,
Form: Free verse
NOW AND THEN
Tell me how you know it's now
by lines across an old man's brow?
Before it came, it’s come and went.
A wispy trail, a non- event.
Found within or found without
It always seems there is no doubt
Reality is limited to our years,
Our hopes, our dreams and all our fears
But did they ever re-exist,
or were they just a timeless shift
in human thoughts, to never know
except when death redeems the blow?
Then perhaps answers shall appear
within the light it to make it clear
that now and then, when understood
becomes no more holes in balsa wood.
CAK 6-15-2014
Categories:
balsa, memory, mystery, spiritual,
Form: Rhyme
Poor little Moon King
trapped inside a gilded cage
within the marble prison walls
the cage is painted
and the marble held up with balsa wood
a fake fairy-tale façade
castles in the clouds
ladies in classical poses
battles never won
nor even fought
locked in frozen frescos
as trapped as the poor little Moon King
forever
insulated from the cruel sisters
modernity & society
having anything you want
except what you really need
the sisters cannot let you bare
flesh and soul
crying to sleep
in the silken cradle
an empty shell
an unnatural fondness forbidden
yet tasted behind the closed door
a self-deluded love lost among luxuries
Oh Ludwig how you wished so hard
the sun would shine
on your chivalric dreams
but
alone lamenting at the balustrade
you are the Moon King
forever in plaster and paint
cloud-covered
out shined
hag-ridden highness
hiding behind a pile of stones and pretty
colours
poor little Moon King
Categories:
balsa, lonely, lost love, sad,
Form: Free verse
For Vienna, by request.
Something has gone terribly wrong in my garden today,
My tomatoes are all growling at me with big teeth on display.
And when I investigated I got a big surprise,
‘Cause they were staring back at me with big round bulging eyes.
Then they started to come after me trying to get a taste,
So I had to move a little faster as I was picking up the paste.
I became quite concerned as I thought about my loss,
Afraid that I would be the one who ended up in the sauce.
I started to pull away from them in this deadly match up,
But only for a little while since they could easily catsup.
Then they crashed right through my door like it was made of balsa,
I backed them out with a carving knife and the threat of making salsa.
This is not what I had in mind when I planted a tomato vine,
It’s not right that my garden should pick on me to dine.
I don’t think that I’m out of line and my complaint is perfectly valid
After all no one should have to worry about being eaten by their salad.
Next year I think that I won’t waste my time planting killer tomatoes,
Instead I think I’ll use the space for a run of peaceful red potatoes.
Categories:
balsa, funny, me, garden, me,
Form: Light Verse
A single orange leaf
twists and turns 'bove vibrant vales -
espying a shadowed glimpse
of nature's palette as she sails.
A variegated dreamer
drifts beyond a wooded realm -
'tween doughty boughs of balsa
floating o’er oak and elm.
She glides along the gleaming glens
with bewitchery and charm -
fingertips slowly dance and dip
as she whispers in Fall's arms.
A silent soaring sonnet
soon greets her tinctured friends;
atmospheric art is born
as their colors braid and blend.
A masterpiece of chroma
gently lures the naked eye -
leaves of bronze and yellow
decorate a midday sky.
An orchestra of colored flags
sing passed a closing eve -
now its time to bid adieu
and thus, each stipule leaves.
The orange leaf then slumbers
underneath a yawning sun.
Her wings have gone to sleep,
my friend, for her breeze ballet
is done.
Categories:
balsa, nature
Form: Rhyme
The wind on top of the mountain
Is just right for flying my kite.
No, it’s not a store bought item
I made it from old newspapers,
Elmer’s glue and old balsa wood
Spine and spar sticks from last years kite.
Now here I am again ready
To launch it on its maiden flight.
I hope the tail isn’t too long;
The bridle string is sufficient.
Well, here goes! Come on baby fly!
That’s it! You want more string? Up! Up!
Easy does it! Straighten out babe!
That’s it! That’s it! You’re on your own.
Categories:
balsa, children, sportsold, old,
Form: Prose Poetry