Best Mont Poems
Erato
Out of an ethereal mist her form –
round, soft edges shimmering, a milky
apparition, like the full moon on a foggy
July night. Myrtle and roses came first
in the aroma that took him to the shores
of Tunisia and a Mediterranean breeze –
his mind wandered until she came full into view
and then his focus was secure…her beauty
filled every available space and he was captivated,
captured by love’s rich palette. He recognized her
not from a daydream nor a fantasy but his Big Dream.
“You…we have known before the slippery
rocks and the gypsy dance…stars over Mont Royal.”
With one look and a flash of lightning she charmed
his sight; he should have known he was doomed
to make the pilgrimage to Samos and the tomb.
She came to fill his head with poetry, rivers
of words to fill his verses and charge them
with emotions. Instead she filled his heart
with a drunkard’s love, a spring wine
with a delicate bouquet…morning weighs heavy.
“Let me open the gate and chase the noisy
dogs away, my riches lie within the garden.”
The shaper of words then took her guitar and sang
sweet melodies like kisses and he was the Best Man
far too drunk to resist her passions. He partook
in the creation of music divine amid the cries
of idolatry but he was deaf to the discord.
With every song they sang he fell deeper
into her graces and his destiny was sealed;
he traded his heart to be skilled in the art
of making love with words, a noble task.
Whenever his vision appeared
he sensed infinity within his grasp.
So, could this awakening be
the pebble whose ripples rock the sea?
The seeker, who had found his treasure,
was now swimming in fatal hope.
I am jealous of White Feather to have kissed
the artful lips of Erato and survived.
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You’ll trip on this mountain,
using its ball point or fountain.
And in less than a wink it will make you to think,
of a myriad ways to using your ink.
A star black and white, not shining and bright,
Trusted for excellence, it compels you to write.
From the crack of dawn, till late into night,
Makes you keep writing, till you get it just right.
- Prince Freakasso
(painter & poet)
Paris idol,
Count of Monte Cristo square,
An angle,
Some graffiti red and purple,
At the last moment I paint:
Phantoms of vampires,
Sarcophagus in pyramid glass,
Portraits in the Louvre castle,
Milady dame,
I'm no longer a donor for this alien dragon,
Abel's blood cries,
This cry goes to the sky,
Two angels,
Lot's house,
Rue du Bac,
Chapel of the Miraculous Medal,
The night,
Notre-Dame in flames,
Fire has the form of the cathedral,
Above this country hexagonal,
Mont Saint Michel like a continent in contrast,
Yellow before blue light, cyan,
Here I'm condemned in orange,
"If they do it when the wood is green, what will happen when it's dry?!",
"Weep for yourselves and for your child",
The natural rainbow appears just now,
To require the blood from beast Cain,
That city full of formal and informal crimes,
Stones of Herod's Temple,
I build my Defense
By the Lamb and Lion,
Like precursor and forerunner Ivanhoe knight,
Too - the count by Mother Immaculate,
Lofty line of Bethlehem star,
On signature of Jonas' sign,
They disregard in vain,
In malignant blindness,
Even she, Lot's wife —
Open eyes shut —
Look at the sanhedrin of Caiaphas,
cardinal maniac Illuminati over time,
Death cap, warning,
A destroying angel over this town,
Amanita all in glossy pale,
Grow worse toward nuclear weapon,
Never to taste,
Chain reaction inside,
Dark hole, femme fatale eats all dwarfs,
Equals in bad,
Like Napoleon Bonaparte at the battle of Berezina,
Bullying fate in dance macabre,
Olympic gold medal for Salome and Herodias,
The gymnast from the exterior courtyard,
Without oil and vine,
In vain asking water from this market named "The Ladies' Delight",
Say my lighthouse on this very toxic planet, going to collapse,
Jean Valjean on Champ de Mars,
In my hand some flagrant clouds,
In flight.
He is a European giant on interesting heels;
one of the champions of its domain and lords abroad;
the most visited geography in the world
which also enjoys copulation more than any other;
maybe, it’s no wonder breast and pussy are names of places
in the corners of its large pelvis
This mega super star isn’t shy of superlatives of its own
as he globally flaunts the tallest bridge
and his road bicycle race
being more globally recognized than any other.
Mont Blanc sitting above all other points in the continent
but unfortunately beats the rest in depression.
The Louvre is so known, that it is currently married to Mona Lisa
standing tall as a monumental pride is the most visited tower.
His identity is garnished with
interesting history of his monarchs
as one ruled for only a thousand and eight hundred seconds
while another survived two and thirty death attempts.
All these events give a chuckle to really ascertain that
he’s truly a historic, monumental, political and economic giant.
Ethereal elegance in depiction
Thy beauty of my affliction
Glamorous shine I now shall plead
Withhold thy splendor, for I concede
Bedecking diamond of value aglow
It is perfection you bestow
Body of platinum your tap I seek
One to sense and not to peek
Rays of silver upon Schwarz
O the value colors import!
Your white gold tip surmounts surreal
Is it crystal that your ink reveals?
Ballpoint it is shallowness you suffice
Yet I bet that it doesn’t exceed your price!
“How shallow can observed value make one be?”-
Soul Maker: Special Edition Diamond Ballpoint Pen by Mont Blanc
Schwarz: German word for Black
"In the 1840s, two sisters fall in love with the same man.
While drunk, he writes a letter proposing marriage
to the wrong one."
My friend from New Zealand calls from Palm Beach
to tell me in her lovely down-under tones
that David, her husband of 40 years is gone.
She'll go in August, that august month, to take home
what's left of the hearty man who loved her--
admired me. Ashes to ashes, earth to earth,
dust to dust, or in the case of the precious 65%
of the body, water, returned to water.
New Zealand, Yes! "Green Dolphin Street," old film
of transport. Lana Turner in her finest role.
Van Heflin, concealing love for the bride sent-for
in error--her inconsolable sister fleeing
to the sea, whose incoming tide entrapped her.
A rocky climb to safe haven with the holy women
at the top of her washed-out world saved her.
Poor girl, first time an ocean ordered
"Get thee to a nunnery!"
I have been a witness to the mysterious tide
of Mont St. Michel's 'plein mer,' its glistening lip, gliding
snake-like to reclaim what was solid, solid no more;
threaten feckless strollers struck with sea fever,
or a would-be bride in wrongful death. Solid, this earth,
as far as we know, "terra firma," yet terra agua
summons us: the cobalt ocean of my childhood,
a sparkling Paris fountain, its sibling in St.-Michael
town, assorted rivers I have loved: Georgia's
Chattahoochee, the fabled Seine, or the Flint River
of family outings. These move the plasmic stream
within, washing where the ashes of my brothers
enrich the ocean. David's destination, as he
follows their lead, and Yes! I will join them
when the tidal heart runs out.
for my brothers, George and Jim
I am a poet.
I can re-write truths with my
Mont Blanc pen and still
Not be called a liar.
Like a child I can speak,
Comply to my will,
Cut off details and facts
That I deny.
I can do that without being asked why.
Snip snap.
Snip snap.
Even if my baby
Leaves me or deceives me,
He knows we’ll be
Together again
In my sonnet.
He knows that because I am a poet.
I can replay what happened
Way back then,
In my glittery solitude
And personal den.
I can always say
What I mean,
And not necessarily
Mean what I say.
You see.
Just because I am a poet,
That doesn’t mean that I am
Gloomy, Melancholy,
Gothic or even Bitter.
I just choose to see what my
Eyelids have been endeavoring to
Hide…
With falling eyelashes of refusal and
Dilating pupils of fear.
I perceive what others don’t because,
I am a poet.
Do you get that my dear?
Am I not exactly what you wanted to believe in.
You move through thoughts as smoke through the air invasive and sticky sticking to the conscious a millisecond per nanosecond hovering just there just long enough to register… the register your chemicals pattern know their way and flood and flow just enough to not let you know of what your unscious plans are for you,
And many have told you your profile is becoming and now you only speak to people with head turned and your eyes askew,
Hardwired into your physiology, your superior rectus and medial rectus on overtime,
Should you have the time to shoot the breeze…
You left me standing in Mont Martre dealing solo with the street vendors, who wanted the Euro and a peek up my skirt all the while trying to rip me off
Their invasive eyes spying at my legs…their psyches at full mast attempting to tempt me to part with currency. I am fluent in foolish.
Am I not exactly what you wanted me to believe in?
You are lost at sea, damaged and wave-weary desiring so much to reach a shore,
To hear a voice, hold a hand, human connection. You intentionally albeit unknowingly keep your self at sea, professing the need for solid earth under your feet
while all the while you wile-
away your time
upon salted, foam-crested waves you keep your mast full -- wind behind you directing you maintain your aqueous journey…It is the longing and pain you keep close to your breast. The longing is what you don’t profess: The longing is what you live for.
Are you not exactly what I wanted to believe in?
I am so glad to be here,
With eyes so bright – they swirl of chocolate.
Content and breathing.
Thank you.
Thank you for these small feet and cute black painted toe-nails
That can fit into shoes and leave foot prints on
Rough gilded grains of sand.
Thank you for these legs, yes they may be skin and bone.
Faded and outworn, and not at the exact height I want them to be.
Still, they run around fields in PE class. They perfectly lean
And bend, when I drop a coin.
Thank you for this stomach.
This small round belly, with a beautiful belly button in the center.
Thank you, now I can eat all I want, and laugh so hard that this tummy aches.
This belly has held butterflies, and delights I have over indulged in.
Thank you for these arms, with white hands on their edges.
These arms they can embrace mama.
These hands they can make Zeina a cup of soup when she gets the flu.
These fingers they can hold Mont Blanc pens and wear engagement rings.
They can make pinky promises and wipe off salty tears.
Thank you for these lips that can smile to lonely strangers.
Sip on straws, and release teeth that munch on saggy pizzas.
Thank you, now I can kiss dad goodbye on the cheek, and teta hello on the forehead.
And with the power of vocal strings, and sound waves I can read,
Scream while watching Saw III,
and sometimes, speak my mind.
Thank you for these ears, pierced three times on the right side, and four times on the left
side.
Thank you, now I can hear the call for prayer when I wake up at sunrise.
Now I can listen to Chet Baker!
I can hear jokes,
And sometimes eavesdrop on others when it’s really
None of my business.
Thank you for these eyes,
That helped me see too little
Or sometimes, too much.
They have gushed joy and trapped tears.
Thank you for this conscience.
It bubbles with scruples.
That goad me to apologize and sympathize.
Thank you, now I can give that destitute man at the subway the coats I had
But never really wore.
Thank you for this heart that loves and hates,
Grudges and forgives.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
I am so glad to be here,
With eyes so bright – they swirl of chocolate.
Content and breathing.
Such a devious plan we concocted one day.
Kind of mischievous in an ornery way.
The goal was to throw an innocent curve,
knock people off the routine that they serve.
We showed up early to church that morning,
with no indication, without prior warning.
Some surely thought we had set our clocks wrong.
We’d never shown up before the first song.
The early-to-risers were there hanging out.
No clue what our sinister scheme was about.
We brought doughnuts to share in reception hall,
a diversionary tactic that served as a stall.
It worked to perfection, they didn’t even know.
We ran to the sanctuary and filled the back row.
A peace calmed the room, as we eagerly waited.
A family connection was somehow created.
They came in together, the back-row-brigade,
bewildered to discover the prank we had played.
The looks on their faces was priceless to see.
How could this happen? How could this be?
Glancing around, with their smiles now erased,
they weighed their dilemma, feeling displaced.
“They’ve taken our seats,” one gruffly replied,
as they shuffled back out to regroup and decide.
We burst out laughing over what we had done,
then moved up one row after having our fun.
As they sauntered back in, to their cheerful delight,
somehow the world had again been made right.
Sliding into the row, one leaned up and said,
“Thank you for putting that thought in our head.
We've taken for granted our comfortable place.
God wants us moving and sharing His grace.”
Our newfound friends still claim the back pew.
At times we bring doughnuts, to see what they’ll do.
What started as a joke was a blessing in disguise,
the Sunday we took the back-row by surprise.
The Back row Conspiracy, was the brainchild of my wacky youth leader, Mont Toon. His
unusual ways had a way of drawing kids in, then showing them the way. I’m not sure where
I’d have been without his influence. I’m sure he’s stirring up something in heaven at this
moment.
This is how I write,
Take pen in my hand
Black Mont Blanc
Open small hardcover
White paged
Museum sketch book.
Don’t think much
Words come as ink flows.
Outside,
Clear night sky
Full moon light
5:30 AM
Lunar eclipse
Will be memorable.
In the year gone by, I've been to the top of the Eiffel Tower.
I've walked over sands leading to the Mont Saint-Michel
I've even gazed into the eyes of the Mona Lisa, and realized
This is not what living in France is about.
Listen:
Life in France is driving through the green tides of the countryside
And eating crêpes beside a dark-grey storm of a sea
It is asking friends over for just the appetizer
And discerning the importance of petits cafés
It is summer nights and live music calling from café doors
And wandering about a town gone dead come Wednesday
On Thursday, it is eating galettes at the morning market;
It is discovering always new things of an old town
It is passing a hand over a stone wall and thinking of
The number of centuries your fingers have just felt
Our river la Rance is more beautiful than the Mona Lisa
I prefer the castle on the corner to Mont Saint-Michel
And our little church inspires me more than the Eiffel Tower
Because this is what living in France is about.
Listen:
It is knowing it's everyday beauty
the slightest details that are what makes it great
Mostly, it is the sound made by sneaker soles on cobblestones
And the scent of fresh bread on the air
With
earthly
green and blues,
his blended view
birthed
the
new way-
a bridge from
impressionist
art
to
abstract
expressions-
a father of
all
Ekphrasis 'Mont Sainte-Victoire by Cezanne
Premiered at Al's by the Sea,
Mont Clair, PA - 9/24/2021
THE BOOK OF GENESIS
THE BOOK OF EXODUS
THE BOOK OF NUMBERS
THE BOOK OF JUDGES
THE BOOK OF RUTH
THE BOOK OF KINGS
THE BOOK OF EZRA
THE BOOK OF ESTHER
THE BOOK OF JOB
THE BOOK OF PSALMS
THE BOOK OF PROVERBS
THE BOOK OF ADVERBS
THE BOOK OF REVELATIONS
If I were a mountain climber,
I’d always take the time
To check out superstitious lore
When choosing where to climb.
For recently an avalanche
Took several climbers’ lives.
I’m sure they left some grieving friends
And parents, children, wives.
This avalanche occurred in France.
Mont Blanc’s the mountain range;
But here’s the part that is, to me,
More obvious than strange.
The northern face of Mont Maudit
Is where the slide began.
The meaning of that name was not
A factor in their plan.
Or possibly, those mountaineers
Thought there was some mystique
To conquering a mountain
That’s defined as “cursed peak.”
With dangers in a sport like this,
I know I’d be averse
To setting out upon a peak
That’s burdened with a curse.
They thumbed their noses at the gods
Which is the kiss of death.
I wonder if they realized that
As they took their last breath.