She can touch me,
reach in
with an inward and knowing finger,
stir my senses,
entice,
until I know for sure
that the dead and the living,
are timeless.
When her love steals my mind away
'2gether', becomes a special word,
a spellbinding word - magical -creative.
I have faith in illusion,
what is unreal for many,
remains ever a fantasy for them,
no wonder their idea of being alive
is a lie told to a liar.
What is real for we who are free,
cannot be explained by old ideas,
or any outworn, buckram logic.
We who know
how to make love to the unseen,
continue to dance -
with the only one.
Categories:
buckram, poetry,
Form: Free verse
A raw red crater of hunger;
the clacking tongue a buckram spear
shaken at all comers.
The gulls mouth is the gull,
the gullet is the gull
the torso, the snowy pale blue plumage,
that dark under-feathering
all the body of the bird
a perfect bow
for the arrowing beak
and its raucous bugle.
A neck stretched for greed;
above that gorge, hard-set and avaricious,
glint eyes long allied to savage seas.
The bird has the primal scream
of a scavenger,
the gall of the harassing hunter
- and yet is admirable,
sleekly beautiful, often graceful,
until,
rigid jaws agape
we regard its wide-open craw,
wince
as those shears clamp down
on some still wriggling shred.
Categories:
buckram, poetry,
Form: Free verse
A red raw gape, a crater of hunger,
the clacking tongue
a buckram spear shaken at all comers.
The gulls mouth is the gull,
its avian body
only a winged engine for that open maw,
a perfect bow for that arrowing beak
with its raucous bugle.
A gullet for a perfected greed;
a throat that yawns wide enough
for any a scavengers scream,
a call allied to the pitiless winds,
and thrashing seas.
Categories:
buckram, poetry,
Form: Free verse
Back then, time ticked loudly,
clocks ran faster than chipmunks.
Young bones were fueled by green grenades,
I needed speedbumps for my brain.
Mother said that If I lived to be a man
I would be all strewn about
like a crow-pecked scarecrow.
Eventually I discovered
a way to give words a meaning
outside of the hide-bound and buckram dictionary.
Naturally I had to surrender some grammatical logic
for a more fanciful argot.
It was only then that my pipsqueak prattle
had the effrontery to call itself ‘poetry.’
Now in n my grizzly elder state,
I still remain a rare bird,
ever bamboozled by age-worn chalk-talk,
or any jargon
that refuses to jump out of its own skin.
Categories:
buckram, poetry,
Form: Free verse
Like all things related to screwballs
and misfits
I was born looking for a word
inside a clock.
Back then, time ticked loudly,
clocks ran faster than chipmunks.
Young bones were fueled by green grenades
plucked from low-hanging life-lines.
I needed words to save the world,
I needed a clock-case to store them in,
I needed speedbumps for my brain.
Mother said that If I lived to be a man
I would be all strewn about
like a crow-pecked scarecrow.
Eventually I discovered
a way to make words bespoke,
to give them meaning
outside of the hide-bound
and buckram dictionary.
Naturally I had to invent my own time-machine,
and had to surrender to a fanciful argot.
For a long while, only blithe revenants
and their little helpers
could read my tenuous tidings.
It was only when my pipsqueak prattle
had the effrontery to call itself ‘poetry’
that some said sadly
that I may be ever so slightly explicable.
Alas mother was right, there is only the clock,
and it runs on mechanical words,
and so I remain a rare bird
bamboozled by age-worn chalk-talk,
a jargon that refuses
to jump out of its own skin.
Categories:
buckram, poetry,
Form: Free verse