It has been said you are all just bricks in the wall -
confined and coffined in concrete, your moments
magnified in mortar, souls stone-stippled.
But listen: you are as flowers, individuals efflorescing -
shy eyes of violets, fragile forget-me-nots
unforgettable in pews of blues, sunshine celandines
beaming from sunless corners, strident daffodil trumpets
with everything to tell. Some will grow apart -
wayside wanderers, wayward and cast out.
Some forever up against the world-wall.
You unfold as petals, to sing in tongues of the sun,
in golden tonals, corolla contraltos, a floral choral,
soprano sepals, hibiscus hymns to him and her.
Flowering through stone, blossoming through gloom,
though shadow-dusted with dusk's lilac bloom.
Baptised in the dew of the new which forges
a world anew, transformed by the higher light
which highlights your days, gilded pollen-gold.
Days lengthen as rays warm walls, edges and corners
sun-softening, souls becoming sun-stippled.
Listen: these are the petalled messages to you.
Newness of spring’s manifestation,
efflorescing motifs of flowery guile,
views of the gregarious vernal rev,
eviscerating the macabre haste of time
rapidly flittering as orange eye-thunder...
Enlaced halcyon trees to ponder in a birdy glee
No longer barren, they sing a gasconade silken
Oh robin on your perch precarious, stay still so!
Under the preeminent flurry of you,
glowing petals snow my gazing...
How fast your breast flashes by my lost breath
(2/20/2021)
The sublime chorus of voices
Bring out a shamanistic praxis,
With brevity displayed,
With bravery supported.
How do you dance with your own destiny
When you are betwixt and between?
It becomes a sequence of inwardness,
And askesis of the will,
It manifests itself in resistance
As a precursor to a life-long battle,
And great wonders of exceptions
And concessions we allow in life.
I evade the ambivalent truths
With passion of a prophet,
And may I be I with a touch of divine,
Every time,
And time again,
As a fable of life, and of death.
And may I be I, a particle of truth,
An instance of
Self-indiscretion that is opaque in eloquence
But transparent in stanzas
Of the living whether it’s challenging or ecstatic.
Reincarnate weeping of the Eros
Is an indication of a grim future,
Hissing whispers of a serpent
Tell of it in the depths of azure oceans,
Passing the message onto the sirens
Who surface in the shades of willow trees,
And may I be I as I watch them efflorescing
To the most phantasmic beauty
That makes the living free,
And the Eros alive and well.
when I
a rock-chucking stick-slasher
patch-monger
was
there was a waterless
well
where we would await sprites and goblins in ambush
shoe-lace lariats
piles of rock for cannonade
this and all all the angels
at bay
for there is nothing gay grisly meaner than
restless
idleness
caked with efflorescing dandelions
raging raiding sun
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