Best Tongued Poems
(after the painting by Vincent Van Gogh)
Does she even exist? Doubting her own reality,
seeing herself vanishing in undulating undergrowth,
fading and merging into summer-scorched scenery.
But cold lurks there beneath shafts of sunlight, the phallic trees...
He wears the night underneath, a fabric of dark and unease,
his hand heavy upon her arm, silver-tongued charm
smooth as the silver-limbed leafless trees,
disappearing, now, on a twisting breeze...
Sinuous stems suffocate, writhing and thrashing;
convulsions of shuddering green and yellow.
Enticed ever deeper into flailing flowers,
evanescing into foam of frothing flora...
Did she ever truly exist? It's doubtful.
The flower-frail faceless and nameless
will always be lured and laid, invisible,
dissolving, under bare, phallic trees.
Sing Me an Old Style Song
Sing me an old style song,
With pretty flowing phrases;
A story of love gone wrong,
In other times, in other places.
No trumpets blare, just sweet trombones,
A crooner, smooth tongued and mellow.
Hurting, aching, quiet, for me alone.
Sing me an old style song.
Let bottled tears stain my cheeks,
As your freckled nose appears before me.
For I cannot cry to beats and bangs,
Please sing me an old style melody.
That I may cry and cleanse my heart;
Empty and ready for a new filled start.
let me be a wanderlust vixen in the vortex ~
a voltage liquified to the upbeat vibrato,
versing vehemently in venom-glazed grief,
and rehearsing your criminalism
like a serial liar ~
because I am too voiceless
to command the Monarch of mercury
to vindict the sojourners
that lure me to their blind holes,
and vandalise the chromatic criticisms
that clench me in their cyanide claws,
through the cracks
branching in the demonised billboard …
Oh scorching serpent,
slithering with velvet-tongued torment,
never leave me tethered
between the lips of loneliness ~
like a leaflet tucked on
the seaglass screen,
screaming for those stygian seashells
to lock my secrets behind
the bars of misplaced passwords,
because, this pulse of paranoia
is too pure to palpitate
in the pixels of poisoned prayers ~
and there is no anecdote
that annihilates the anxious
acronyms of abandonment,
streaming through the realms
of disposed dimensions.
There are no strings attached
that hum in hexed hoaxes
through the violin vendetta
strumming an acapella ~
through the lusty noise
of monsters longing for
the loss of my sacred insanity …
perhaps, the voice in my head
is an ode to the orchestrating shadows,
too mindless to manipulate ~
scripted in secluse
replaying the ruins,
paused in the prison
a sketch of sleep in splitting senses …
as bipolar ballads
tame their schizophrenic strokes ~
when the Maestro of moon
mediates a megalomaniac
sonnet of venting slaves,
in the muted matriarchy of mantras
that keep repenting rage,
in the impulsive incandescence
of my icy azure ink ~
refusing the warmth
of vulnerable sagas
that ache to heal me
and release the
insomniac coldness ~
blanketed with the sparks
of murky mermaid stars …
I own this label ~
the name of a lunar lunatic,
and this is a war,
between the sphinx of sabotage
and the never-ending nocturns ,
as, I remain weapon-less
like a cardinal iris,
rewriting the rules
of unshakable madness
in your maniac meanderings,
ineffable ~ invisible ~ incurable
an impostrous
i n v a d e r …
Golden Disks and Whale Clicks
mind song riffs
joining the back beat
nature clicks
timpani
drums of black thunder
percuss
then the sky opens
a luminous landing
off gasses from the heat shield
rainbow across a spectrum of light
Cam’s Glieseian tongue flew over the surface
of the audio generator
Voyager’s golden disk long gone now
transposes across a film of galactic plasma
the taste of whale and bird song they tongue
enthralls them—though they had no notion of
whales or birds
mind song cascade, scroll, behind the visitors opaque orbs
joining the back beat nature clicks woodpecker tunes
tympanic membranes shiver upon
retractable body hair
drums of black thunder roll
past helmetless crowns
percussing their brain stems
orgasmically
then the sky opens
Sol’s a black dwarf they are too late
but still the songs sang
Cam tongued the plasma film
once more then reentered interstellar
hibernation
First Published: Eye to the Telescope 1/15/15
Today I find
yesterday's essence
still tarries within my mind
I try and wrap myself
in thoughts of you
to regain warmth
from November's wind
the trees
are less blushed than I
as they stand naked
from this weathered touch
I feel you
in a winded breath
like a tongued whisper
against bare flesh
the lake
mirrors my reflection
as I smile back
through its ripples
as if fingered
by the soft caress
of your hands
I can see the sun
paint passion's red
across the sky
I get lost in the depths
of you within mind
and climax
between the folds
of this day
11/19/2013
You swear your word is solid
as a silver serving spoon
Well, why does it always feels like
another mis-spoken dog day afternoon
Hotter than July
in the middle of June
Cast iron sky
making fainting hearts swoon
Butter pecan words
all dressed up in their Sunday best lie
Preaching our turn to live the good life
will come in the bye and bye
But now ain’t the right time to be asking why
Melted ice cream promises
dripping on our hand
Dripping between the fingers
Two scoops of empty hope given again
Mint chocolate chip words,
supposedly solid as a silver dollar
Ain’t nothing but soft I Scream jingle heard,
making us wanna wipe our hands off around your collar
A gallon of Vanilla bean utterances
all packed down in a pint-sized box
Truth freezer ain’t working though ...
just more soft sugar cone lies given to the poor
Saying you don’t have to feed the muzzled ox
Though laboring all day,
we shouldn’t be given minimum wage pay
Melted ice cream promises
dripping down on our hand,
giving everyone sticky fingers
But please understand,
we ain’t the ones doing the stealing
Stolen dreams, stolen hope —
Two more scoops of soft black walnut can’t-cope
It’s hotter than July
in the middle of June
Melted ice cream promises
dripping ... dripping ... dripping
from your silver spoon
Give me two more scoops of my favorite I Scream
Melted ice cream of broken promise dreams,
giving us Rocky Road nightmares
But you still swear
you really do care
You still profess,
you silver-tongued devil,
how generous you are,
as we keep getting less
Beneath a shroud in mystery
was built a monument sublime,
where flowed a river endlessly,
her flow kissed the periphery,
ignored the grasp of time.
So great the span of her intent
she circled mound and battlement,
where roses sprang in every glorious hue,
and other vibrant flowers showed their worth,
as ancient trees spired mightily in view,
and full proclaimed the grandeur of the earth.
Behold the caves where lovers kept their tryst,
close hidden where the mountain swooped and shaded,
well guarded by the shadows and the mist,
a devil's place where dissidents and traitors kissed
in heated passion, and their love degraded.
Within the gloom a roiling and a bursting,
a waterspout came thrusting, thunder blasting,
and spat huge molten rocks like tiny pebbles,
the torrent coursing down, not merely dribbles,
the raging maelstrom flinging high and over,
revealed beneath the streaming sacred river.
She ran through dale and covert full continuous,
a journey never ending, until she reached the sea.
And then was heard a cry, a call to arms,
that neither bliss nor solitude becalms.
Yet music from the edifice and caves
o'ercame the sound of warring and of strife,
reverberations and the crashing of the waves
a mighty symphony in tune with all of life.
the sun-bleached monument regaled in gold,
the savage caves, calamitous and cold.
A dream of perfect grace I once beheld,
a lady with a voice as clear as spring,
a vision of my destiny
she sang of sweet eternity,
such joyful notes didst bring!
Would that I might recover
the beauty of her song,
the passion of a secret lover,
I might labor hard and long
to recreate this sacrament,
its sunny climes, its frozen spa,
a two-edged sword its testament,
a blessing and a curse both spent,
to dwell within that twin entombment,
a two-tongued threat beneath Abora.
For whosoever breaks these grounds,
and recreates conflicting sounds,
has tasted direst dark and Shangri-la!
On The Prairie
Congregated on the prairie western clear with beasts
Cowboy chews tobacco, swirls black liquid, spits
Projectile clean, target hit, lizard quick
Long tongued creature stunned
No time to snatch a timid bug
So much hungry love undone
Reptile rolls over rounded rock pin ball like
Looks both ways before crossing into dark
Cowpoke silhouetted, floated on campfire
Smiles Clint Eastwood style
Slips a small stogie through cracked dry lips
Moves it from left to right
Lights it, inhales harsh life
Jagged teeth, yellow, tinted by time
Clinched while he thinks about old wars
A warrior down to the core
Grins at the beans bubbling up
Old iron skillet and the western sky
Gazes at the long lost stars through smoke
Shakes sand off hat and boots when done
Speaks not a single word
But with a sigh he rises and rides off
Oh wonderful jumbleful spring
hormones awakening after winter naps
making bumbling idiots
out of unsuspecting saps
Oh dopey me, I bathed
perfumed, powdered and dusted
picked out slinky sexy things
getting more and more flust’ed
I skipped down the lights
and locked the stairs
let down the dogs and
tripped over my hair
“Dames Javid” I purred
“come sugar me some lip”
as I swiveled my eyelashes
and batted my hip
He tongued on his trip,
as he blew in my eye
then gazed in my ear
and heaved a big sigh
Ah, Springtime, it’s jumbleful
don’t you agree?
Cause pobody’s nerfect,
especially me.
slithering snakes run silent
sleeping snakes lay deadly
awakened venom ready
while reigning as prone giants
breathe upright fools gather tolls
exhale hate and hued discord
bow in ranks to thy dark lord
ascending dust; marching trolls
march riotous foolery
spew venomous rhetoric
slither fork-tongued heretics
confess inflamed schoolery
o’ taste and see politics
halls unjust, wall-smears dark read
blood-soaked tiles seep pus instead
walking snakes hiss for boot-licks
What pushes my pen in this whimsical notch of the world?
Something whispers to me like an elder dream....
and the trees hang arbored 'oer a little stream of sea,
the feathered folk flit and flute,
and sip the may-season rill;
Where sun has finally come dipping like a diamond.....
I am measured to this mighty moment found;
and there is holly even in the most forgotten shade,
though royal (even) ----- with garland diadems made
It would seem the angels have foretold this:
to not forget the most beauteous of days;
with proud hours honeyed,
the long-loving minute endures in thy heart,
and remembers the kiss of legends
despite realms of sadness and dark,
the withered wind which blows old upon the sad hills....
too ancient for wise men; for in youth how pink the heart
and varied, new struggles are many -----
yet plain with simple solutions
Mercy hath not a mind for memory....
swift its song, its house clean of enemies lurking,
no bogey-man skulking the midnite hour,
no roving-a-wraith scratching the old attic boards;
Forgiveness sleeps in the quiet wood,
and wakes with whispers of faith,
with the ease of nestled lambs and recollected days;
What poor tragedy to fret with dark remembrance,
to furl hades in the denizens of thy heart ----
black-tongued as the devil in his den!
What fool would prefer a scowl to a smile?
enemies come and go.....
friends come and remain,
when the house is quiet with memories....
of youth and adventure in the old daydream glass;
more precious the ancient hours
and parched the pages of first chapters,
first beginnings, first faces in the ripples of time's pond;
Whispered words from behind a wall,
to cronies gathered short and tall.
“Go on ahead,” he said, “let's see.”
“If I can turn her sweet on me.”
So from within, she heard the tale:
the rye, small, snickers, the wolves’ wails.
Yet, like the doe in the fires light,
the wail entranced, did not cause fright.
Wide-eyed, so stunned, the morsel stood,
in frozen stance within the wood.
Within his reach and steady glance,
the hunter broached the ancient dance.
With swagger, grace, he set the pace.
the honeyed tongued Knight on the chase.
He spoke words of honor, brave deeds,
of his claimed virtues she took heed.
“No, ” said the Maid, for she was shy.
“I’m afraid,” she moaned. “Do you lie?”
He turned her chin, and eye to eye,
stroked her fair cheek and heard her sigh.
Offered cake to this starving waif,
with trembling hands, she took the bait.
For upon his lips and rough skin,
She could, sweet-sugar, taste within.
He sought the warmth of her blood; bone.
He thought the conquest was his own.
Yet, she too held a hope within,
to bring forth the goodness in him.
Oh, she could feel his aching need,
'Twas his seedling soul, she'd feed.
The prey, prayed, to touch his heart.
to give the Hunter a new start.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Many’s the times, his teeth came near,
to the pulsing vein in her throat.
Many times the Universe stopped
like a dandelion seed afloat.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The hunter balked, stayed for a time,
tasted the joy of her sweet wine;
loving the feel of a drink new,
a gift, love, offered each of you.
Could he extinguish this pure light?
Could He reciprocate, cause fright?
Sorry, was the wolf deep within.
He was sorry; she’d let him in.
Sorry, he couldn't grow in her arms,
Sorry, he couldn't loose to her charms.
“Sorry,” on the tip of his tongue.
As he left her, unharmed, on run.
“Sorry.” said she, rising higher,
made stronger by her pure desire.
Like the ancient Phoenix, she rose,
on the wings of her loves fire.
And prayer floated back from above.
A prayer, sent with her hearts' love.
echoing his sentiment many ways.
“Sorry Love," She said.
"May the Wolf find his Way.”
Will I Recognize… The Face Of Love?
Or the Wonderful, Bedazzled Appearance of:
A Moon-kist Meadow, Hushed and Dark
A Solitary Silhouette, this Beauty Mark,
Windswept Grasses, like a Babe’s Soft Lashes
Rippling across Earth, that’s smooth as a Cheek.
In the Hushed and Flowery Scented Air…
Your Face of Love Materializes, Silvery, Full
The Face of Love … is Unforgettable.
From the Face of Love … Will I Withdraw?
The Face of Love without Any Flaw;
As a Canopy of Clouds with the Splendor of Sunbeams
Piercing past the fluffy powder of Heaven, to Radiate Gleams
A Classical Cameo-Sculpture, Perfect Profile Structure
Yea… in the Bright Beacons, I see Your Smile
In the Illumed, Clear Sky, ‘Your Face’
Can Love’s Face be Touched … Attainable?
The Face of Love … is Unforgettable.
The Face of Love … I Have Visualized,
Potent, Breathtaking, The Vision Rised;
From a Sunlit Lake, Winking as Would Diamonds.
Your Face of Love, Emerging from Far Beyond
The Depths of the Lake, as My Heart Quaked,
because of the Wavering Portrait’s Peace
because of Water-Color Caresses.
That Face of Love, was so Tangible.
The Face of Love … so Unforgettable
The Face of Love … has Gazed Upon
Dreams of Mine, the World’s Not Known
… Out of the Woodland’s Emerald Mist
With Drops of Dew, Love’s Face Kissed
The Framing Boughs; My Relaxed Brow.
Floating… Breathing out the Mist of Morn Light
That I may Sketch Your Face of Love, in Life.
The Face … More Handsome, than Sons of the Womb, is Possible…
The Face of Love … is Unforgettable
(For A Medieval-Tongued Poet, I Found Here at The Soup...
Ismael Nieves, this one's for you Kiddo
Mistress MoonBee
Beneath a shroud in mystery
was built a monument sublime,
where flowed a river endlessly,
her flow kissed the periphery,
ignored the grasp of time.
So great the span of her intent
she circled mound and battlement,
where roses sprang in every glorious hue,
and other vibrant flowers showed their worth,
as ancient trees spired mightily in view,
and full proclaimed the grandeur of the earth.
Behold the caves where lovers kept their tryst,
close hidden where the mountain swooped and shaded,
well guarded by the shadows and the mist,
a devil's place where dissidents and traitors kissed
in heated passion, and their love degraded.
Within the gloom a roiling and a bursting,
a waterspout came thrusting, thunder blasting,
and spat huge molten rocks like tiny pebbles,
the torrent coursing down, not merely dribbles,
the raging maelstrom flinging high and over,
revealed beneath the streaming sacred river.
She ran through dale and covert full continuous,
a journey never ending, until she reached the sea.
And then was heard a cry, a call to arms,
that neither bliss nor solitude becalms.
Yet music from the edifice and caves
o'ercame the sound of warring and of strife,
reverberations and the crashing of the waves
a mighty symphony in tune with all of life.
the sun-bleached monument regaled in gold,
the savage caves, calamitous and cold.
A dream of perfect grace I once beheld,
a lady with a voice as clear as spring,
a vision of my destiny
she sang of sweet eternity,
such joyful notes didst bring!
Would that I might recover
the beauty of her song,
the passion of a secret lover,
I might labor hard and long
to recreate this sacrament,
its sunny climes, its frozen spa,
a two-edged sword its testament,
a blessing and a curse both spent,
to dwell within that twin entombment,
a two-tongued threat beneath Abora.
For whosoever breaks these grounds,
and recreates conflicting sounds,
has tasted direst dark and Shangri-la!
I can’t say
where life begins
and death takes over:
Oh! I know of birth
and funerals--
what the church says
and what my gut
further tells me…
but my heart often
wanders above wings,
parting shadows
to a place alone
where I encounter
a loving presence
my feeling no need
to define...
I have read those volumes
both blessed and cursed
tongued caramel ecstasy
and licked the sacrificial fires
(sweat-making chilies
and artery clogging rinds of life)
but remain
mostly confounded
though comforted somewhat
by the little I know
and concisely name--
admitting more of me
has always existed outside
my libraries of
leather diaries
and embossed references….