as the last leaf falls
my tree bare boned and lonely
without my presence
“A heartbeat pulsating as living light
free from each and every limitation
I AM that dwelling in inbound delight
the source wherefrom arises creation”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We are that we are that we might align as God’s designed, divine
boned souls; therefore, I am that I am that I might become all that
Spirit deems my possibilities to don and grow from.
As golden light inside earthly flesh status and matters, I densely
stumble through life’s living maze to either be conquered and
triumphant, or conquered and redundant. Only when confined
do most seek to break out and realize the divine tools we all
possess in the recesses of the ‘I am’ we are.
I am my soul’s potential of light, love and joy thus existential
credentials are essential for realizations of my nature. Intuitive
insight pulses layers of intoxicating rushes that inform and
discern the terms of who I am now and endowed to further be.
The Phat Ladies of Malta or The Fat Ladies of Malta
---------------------------------------------------------------
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8 chicken thighs de-boned and flatened
16 slices of ham
16 slices of swiss cheese
roll ham and cheese in the chicken
to create a cigar shape
use tooth picks or skewers to secure in place
flour with seasoned flour
egg wash and breadcrumb mixture
sautee golden brown ( almost done)
remove from the pan set aside.
in a pan sautee 1 cup of onion
1/4 cup of red bell pepper
5 T of chopped celery
4 tablespoons of garlic in olive oil
carmilize. add 4 tablespoons of tomato puree
1 teaspoon of anchvie paste.
2 cups of marsala
squeeze one leom
1/4 of parlsey
1 teaspoon of sweet basil
1 cup of chicken stock
1 14 oz. can of artichoke hearts
1 teaspoon of cayeene pepper
1/2 cup of black olives
1/2 cup of sunflower
salt to taste or taste and salt. if to salty water it down.
simmer on lowish medium for 20 to 30 minutes.
serve with a salad and some garlic bread enjoy!
The majestic position of the lion
Inklings of spring begin to stir
through the chirps and twitter of a red tailed messenger
hidden amongst the dawn and bare-boned branches.
It sings like a soul that breathes into long dreamt things,
nurturing the pulses waking with the stirring streets,
kissing the sky with its sharp obsidian beak.
It carries pockets of sunlight beneath its wings
like the soft swaying promise of budding flowers
inching towards the evergreen.
Kept in the quiet quarters of the morning,
echoes of birdsong scatter and return; they rise,
yearning for the warmth of the climbing light,
opening the Earth petal by petal
until the world unfolds into a pathway to spring.
There is burnt wood in this house,
building up the walls, charcoal and brown
There are damp spots on the carpet,
struggling to dry as the time passes-
filling this home with a mildew scent.
Your hands- they smell of butane
as you paint over the stripped and slivered
walls- Candy-chick yellow. Why Yellow? Why him?
Your smile is all shiny, with sweat.
Your eyes are pleading, mascara running
There are no contracts between a mother and daughter
so you didn’t breach it.
"There were no colours in your face,
so I didn’t bleach it."
There is a crackle in your honesty,
a small break in the promise,
A dusty speech that’s thick
with dead things.
Dead things- I am one
Burnt and brittle-boned, lying on the charred carpet.
You bring flowers in to cover-up the odor,
fuel seeps into my veins,
Building up to a great big crunch
I want to step on all your flowers.
Rupture all your olive branches.
But I will conclude in a smile,
wiping crisp flesh from my body
leaving raw and welted skin- red and wanting,
and help you paint the walls
Candy-chick Yellow.
Through a filter,
I look really great
My eyes are blue as azure seas
The bags don’t hang down to my knees
My lips are pursed in certain style
And grinned with just a hint of guile
The brows are plucked and even toned
The cheeks are even high cheek boned
Through a filter,
I’m the perfect weight
I’m built to swing on Tarzan’s vine
In other words, I’m mighty fine
My muscles glow in suntanned skin
It’s good to see the skin I’m in
The stomach flat, no need to tuck
I look as though I ate a truck
Through a filter, through a filter
Life is perfect, never changes
Through a filter, through a filter
Constant as life rearranges
Life, a cardboard cut out me
What a lovely place to be
You just can’t hurt what you can’t see
I saw it being built on sacred ground
a field where we boys had many times
reenacted Custers Last Stand.
Ashen boned jaws were riveted to the sky.
The school now waited to be
a concrete cave where madness
was injected into cringing sponge.
I dreamed once that I was a dog
chained to the school's bicycle rails.
Inside the new school, demented teachers
screeched through split nails.
Each lesson had to be hammered
into my psyche, each day my scalp tingled
with a foreboding.
Yet I knew that the arrow in my eye
had to be pushed in a lot further,
a whole lot deeper,
if my mind was to be ever
totally massacred.
Where the groundhog has chewed the chain link
I slip through a brittle-boned hedge, and I am there
where geese sail a puddle-deep fog.
We taste the sea in its brine-washed ripples
splash through its salty clouds. Ohio rides on
oceanic currents, the Atlantic gets swept up
on gull wings, surf drifts West for miles,
then flops down and paddles deeper.
The sky has startled fisheyes in it; between the
soggy woods, aquatic scales slide and gleam.
Long-winded showers shatter where mermaids
chase, plunging on through dazed turnpikes,
or pausing to comb their wavy hair at windswept
rest-stops along Interstate I.75.
If beauty is but skin deep,
I prevailed upon her to construe,
'Does it lie in the eye of the beholder
or, of the two which one is true?'
For we can't judge the book
by the cover, with but one look,
as what's inside truly counts
far much more than that.
And tho' to me she bemoaned,
'I am big-boned'
I've yet to see a skeleton which looks fat.
Raw,
a nubby grey knuckle-boned day,
when the wind blows through my skin
pulling at the cord
which holds my insides in,
oh infernal internal wall
keeping without without
and within within,
off key Wednesday
crashing chords that I have swallowed
not a passing thought for the blue tunes of tomorrow,
or the music I have made thus far in life
and the ones that I have begged or borrowed
as always I’ll wait for it to pass
fill the gallow glass
to fetch me a drink while I think
but no-one is near
my fault, not because I fear them
I hear them in the hall
scratching
but I don’t let them in
it would give them a chance to win
I need them on my page
to take away the blank
fill it with ink
because being empty stinks
I don’t want the void
empty yarn from a ragged yawning hole
so I’ll sleep,
hope to feel when I wake
no idea how much more time it is going to take
will it break me or make me
perhaps I will try the fake me
the one with the smile
the one I revile
but there it is
sat on my face
smug and satisfied,
all while I’m melting away
a Dali soft watch
on this raw knuckled day
18th April 1775 on the strong big-boned mare
'Brown Beauty' may have been her name
borrowed from John Larkin a very good horse
of Narragansett Pacer fame
a copper-bottomed silversmith
Son of Liberty Patriot and Boston-born
riding with Prescott and Dawes toward Lexington
then Concord minutemen in advance to warn
of the British Army's actions
was intercepted in Lincoln but doing his bit
the man had lanterns as the plan
and arranged to have a signal lit
in the Charlestown Old North Church
with one if by land two if by sea
but in those long-gone days
as it was unknown technology
right then and there
it was quite unlikely to see
three if by air
some say vestryman Pulling and sexton Newman
(not a deacon)
as the midnight rider never made it all the way
were the real heroes of the day in fact quite a beacon
All empty streets are paved with sleet,
it's not cold enough for a snowfall;
the cheek-boned guy is seeking a place to sleep,
he has found shelter in a warm corner down the hall!
We expect some heavy snow, don't be caught cold;
power outrage is a possibility, buy candles
and stack up on food and check on friends;
mental health improves: if communication is good!
I spot the hot dog vendor with frozen face and eyes,
his steaming breath is a volcano fuming; he challenges
the brutal weather by rubbing his gloveless fingers;
he curses it aloud: who thinks is mad when he yells?
Wild kids run by the hot dog stand and poke fun at him
saying, " Santa is another fat grinch, he offers nothing! "
" My two children are hungry! " He chases after them;
I hand him a twenty dollars bill: he can't stop smiling!
A string of starlings strung out on a wire,
over a road bridge
above a freeway.
It's cold, it is sleeting,
its November.
The line hums,
I can't hear the hum,
but the birds can,
they fluff up stiff feathers
they cling to that warm sound,
they listen,
their tightly gripped claws
listen as thin boned legs
ever so slightly
vibrate
to that nonexistent heat source.
The sky continues to howl around them.
Oddly,
strangely,
they may survive -
hard to know for sure.
An hour later, driving back
the starlings are still on the line.
Don't know if any dropped dead
I didn't count them before.
In my head an old vinyl record
plays Glen Campell.
Just my tune
the orchestra palls in insignificance
I stood by your dreams
forgetting the past
the pitter patter of rain recalls
Meanwhile we looked the same
from a place with no name
Silver boned islands appeared
With black furrows marks
provisions you
This I promise you
Her big-boned spirit
was a fine-spun sprouting
of prairie brome,
threaded through with engine oil.
Her home was a rickety refuge
for wayward cats.
Upon her tangled porch
poems grew in small pots
muddled with the stale air
of Maui Wowie.
She wrote on the back of her mouth
with cigarette smoke.
Her poems were the rain-filled footprints,
of Jack Kerouac.
She had pronouns after her name.
Her fame became legendary
but only between the gaps in her thoughts.
Her love for possums and racoons
was almost romantic.
Some still write about her ghost
as if she still lived.
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