Spring's warming of the breeze
And the greening of the trees,
There's a settling in the hive
To the soft whispering of bees.
A burrowed beetle 'comes alive
To sate stomach's hunger drive,
While a newly structured nest
Assures us that the birds survive.
Yet there's no more time to rest.
Worker bees will start their quest,
While life settles in the hive,
Bees will bring back nectar's best.
I remember when your voice was my mother's,
measured cadences at the mirror, adjusting
my collar, smoothing unruly hair. Now you've
burrowed deeper than her inflection, nested in
the soft matter where I conjugate inadequacy
like a second language, fluent in the grammar
of not enough. You've made a home between
synapses, furnished it with decades of almost,
a museum of moments I should have said
something sharper, stood straighter, been
more. Some nights I hear the echo
of that first voice gentler, trying
to protect me from the world's
sharp edges. But you've honed
yourself on them instead,
become blade
more
than
shield.
Part One: I Love
The eagle as it flies far above restless
fields of golden wheat and stagnant marsh bottoms
where mice and rabbits inhabit ancient cress,
living small and unaware now in autumn's
warning chill of season's soon coming winter~
but the eagle knows coming snow will splinter
nature into those who have and who have not,
and only wisdom will see what spring has wrought.
Part Two: I Hate
The cold wind as it winnows its spiteful way
across tall mountain peaks into the valley
where colorful summer flowers once did play,
enticing bees to a pollen-filled galley ~
now flowers are dead and the bees have withdrawn
to hide from the cold in their houses of brawn
while beautiful flakes become old snow piled deep,
and nature has burrowed for long winter's sleep.
The Pleasure Remembered.
I saw her in a cafe yesterday; years had not been kind to her
her hair was matted, her skin was dry, and her lips were a sullen grimace,
not quite hiding her miss- coloured teeth.
Once, we slept entwined. I kissed the body and often burrowed
my head in her honey pot and drank her love juice like divine nectar.
She was sitting there, a lonely woman, thinking of her youth,
lost in thought, and her tea was getting cold.
It made me think of the nature of love; there must be a physical
Attraction first, loving the person comes later.
If I met her for the first time today, there would be no physical
attraction, but perhaps she would have had something interesting
to say. I just heard her cooing and sexual rapture.
The thought of sleeping with now was depressing, and for doing
that...no. But we did fly on wings of passion too high for us, and
we burst into flames, only ashes left.
She looked around but didn´t
Recognize me, why should she
A fat, bald man reading a paper?
In other worlds, we bathed in glass
instead of water.
Thousands of small grains cascade
as I stand bare in the shower, eroding.
Our ancestors never found cool, aqueous respite,
only beams that scorched the vast, barren sea of gold they wandered.
Their mouths, always parched,
never welcoming foreign waterborne contaminants.
Still, they were contaminated all the same
by those that burrowed into the flesh.
In any account of humanity,
we are flesh.
To be wrung,
to be infected,
by what cleanses and sustains.
And yet, we bathe
in dust or dew.
We consume.
We reach still for what purifies,
even if it wounds.
Burrowed and bought, this clan of soldiers
They cast lots to strip Him of His dignity
His crown was made of thistle and thorns
It caused the blood to trickle and bleed
Jesus was silent, do to Him as you will
My Father knows what's best for Me
There was no more relief in sight
As they hung Him from that tree
Within the cage, that which surrounds the core
There is much to behold
Muscles, ire, veins, blood
And one eternal liver
Selfishly withholding a wisdom that very few reach
Burrowed there, betwixt skin and bone,
Like an aesthetic for solely the inquisitive to admire
Worldly standards hold no weight to that which is concealed in the flesh
It is a flowing existence with no true shape or form
Yet the beauty in it is generous in kind
As blood is something we all possess
Still, it strikes a desolate fear in the hearts of us all
But those born of a much stronger seed embrace the warmth of this life bearing crimson
They show their appreciation with the blow of a dull blade
And a grin that exceeds past the teeth
Blue hibernation tones
Frost shrunk the leaves curled
Frog that jumped into an icy pond
burrowed deep into the earth
- even the shadow turned to ice
(alternative possibility for survival )
Love winter for those short moments,
when the clouds break up
and the sun's rays shine
With my icy hands,
I cling to the miracles of joy
Lay your feet in strawberry stream
feel the seeds red and green
Rushing flowing through outer space
Together bathed one sun one place
Burrowed tunneled between the worlds
Return to onesness is unfurled
In the shoot slide twirling smoothly
Eye's resting keep us moving
Journey destination all the same
feel you begin on astral planes
Inate nature pure untouched
Angelic inate cosmic dust
We are home
Time stood still
Silence sparkles
Cherry lips pursed in front of the microphone she calls me
She strikes the ivory like a deranged goddess
The first time I fell in love
It was with a melody
Rapturous the fever burrowed under my skin
I understood how fast a fire could spread sparks flew from the moans escaping her throat
What wild lust was this
Lost in her song
Delirious me drowning in delight
The sultry siren beckoned
And I followed
Magick,
sly white rabbit
burrowed inside a hat;
Desperate for a sweet carrot,
he hides;
Within sanctimonious dwells
a deadly illusion;
Planned informal
parley.
Lidar uncovers what is beneath.
Liars reveal their teeth.
Whores ride a Beast.
Super Bowl Halftime Show Fleecing Theme;
"pRINCESS conjures up demons,
for her grammy (Lilith) and plays on your
emotion to not consider what is wrong or evil
or family worthy.
In the midst of the bright lights and cheers
of the crowd,
a princess takes the stage,
casting her hypnotic shroud.
Her words dance like demons,
with eros ascending to the clouds-
playing with our emotioned glands,
with harps, tabarets and cymbals,
drums to chakra your heart
beguiling us with illusion,
and persuasion's dark arts.
We cling to her melody, lost in her spell,
blinded to the darkness that lurks,
wishing us to dwell there with her.
She conjures up emotions, tugging at our core,
but behind the glamour lies a twisted lore.
Beware, dear soul, of the princess so bold,
for her burrowed borrow deceives,
leaving our spirits cold.
Let not her song lead you astray,
but heed the call of truth,
before it's too late and you serpently sway."
(..."and if you listen very hard, the tune will come..."
Angel pours out his bowl....
Beyond the wave-sacked pebbles
lie the pockmarked dunes,
sea-wind swept heaps,
burrowed by the claws of scaly thrashers.
Here they huddle, the working class,
flogging grim pleasures,
wolfing eggy sandwiches,
dipping tea-stained teeth into beakers
as a chill summer drizzles on.
I am a brine-spattered small fry,
a boyhood caught in a swirl
and flounder, bare feet
skimming the slimy kelp, stalking
an ankle tugging surf.
Mother, her demeanor
soggy and sagging at last,
pleads to be led back
to the creaking camper.
Father smokes a plug of leathery shag,
grunts upright, walks toward the sea,
looks to see God knows what,
then turns to drag me away,
from our holiday day.
The teal peels as it submits to gloaming,
and a round lucidity exposed abroad.
As the alien brilliance shines far away,
the maneuvered view is being cast.
'Tis dormancy that exacts dark period of tenure,
countdown from the zero hour.
Distant silhouettes grow versus fawning growth,
dipped in Luna's balm.
The etching of profiled naturalness acquiesces,
constant figurines masquerading the expanse.
Subtle contours architecturally restructured,
split seconds surrender serene scenes.
The solid realm maintained lifeless postures,
as the teeming formations made idle trims.
Mimicry traces the bestilled in passing,
perfect copies render mockeries silence.
Heights claim their surroundings,
as the tight-lipped verdant statuesque frames.
Depths summon intimate intrigue,
whilst burgeoning burrowed bedrock bound.
Exchanging brightness extremely bold,
lilt ventures its routine as the subject of Sol.
More or less defining shadows...
there's no difference that a day would make.
There are unbearable things to bear,
There is a place I dare not speak of
And we have all been there.
Gwendolyn MacEwen
The Name of the Place
The Shadow-Makers, 1969
It wasn’t meant to be mine, yet
Each word belonged to me.
The poet, her desires and regrets,
A sweetness that painfully bleeds
Into my veins, into my thoughts,
A long-awaited transfusion--
A blue flame soothing a blue moth
That named the stranger I’ve become.
I must return what is not mine,
Though each line has burrowed deep,
And the echoes of her grieving pines
Will not let me sleep, how can I sleep?
Back it must go to sulk on a shelf.
Returned: one thin book. Found: myself.
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