A Wily Brush
The world has become my canvas
Everyone's paths
conjuring patterns
Vain ventures
plenty vanities
concocting colors
As unflattering wills
arouses a wily brush
This world is a notating papyrus
Each monk and mockery
fusing a lucid ink
As Pain taunts pleasure
masking our actions
with blending colors
Different worlds are formed
Birthed by ephemeral words
ushering a cascade of thoughts
flaunting baskets
of friable dreams
fashioning the pen
a flickering fiend
flattering friends and foes
a slick ink
with a cloying unction
Sea, swallow me
Crash upon my wading head
Rapture me in heavy tide
Let your water fill my gaping mouth
and the salt eat away my lungs
I lay feeble in your unforgiving waters
Friable as the stone in which you
thrash my eager bones upon
Make your bed and tuck me in
under the abode of blue lit stars
Lull me to sleep
as you cover me,
and drag me out to vast abyss
Deep November,
a shallow time, nonetheless.
The snow is high packed with a cryogenic
amnesia.
Not yet dawn,
a sunken bed
muffles rising thoughts.
An eyelash of cognizance
flits across
thawing synapses.
Then the elastic nature
of sleep and wakefulness
snap alive!
November is howling still,
like a stray dog it scratches at my window -
wanting in.
For a while intelligence is a thorn in my paw.
Outside of the brain, November
is the same,
the darkness is still deep,
and friable as charred bone,
yet by now I am a candle flaring,
a flicker and gleam
within a neuronal time-machine,
and mind-surfing
on an ever-cresting awareness.
The loam of Human Kindness, friable,
Can be compact within a mortal grasp,
Yet loose as needs release and pliable
For the roots of Compassion to enclasp.
Warmer emotions must shine from above
If tender regard is to grow from seed;
The sun of mankind’s garden must be Love
For our good works to produce and succeed.
But the moody darkness of self-concerns
Can pour from our clouds like a deluge flood,
To soak in ruin’s caprice wetness that burns
The bonds people form, severed in the mud.
So tend your soils well, O you Sons of Man;
Nurture on Earth, God’s harvest while you can.
an
essential focus
self-analysis
of the
instinctive urge
a contrast so stark
explicit
invisible
as
explosive
exploits are portrayed
a mantle
of a perogative
whipped
manipulated
yet so delicate
in self-satisfaction
self-irony
to the fore
sensibility
so friable
lacking solidity
as
fluidity surfaces
the immediacy
pauses &contrasts
as formal
tension
is magnified
THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived
In the stillness of time flaky and friable Flaking paint exposing a patch under the surface watching iron will turn to dust
Morning Fog Memory
Lamp-eyed frogs on this misty morning croak guttural sounds that break the silence of muffling condensation,
Their ancient amphibian eyes blinking slowly as shutter lenses at a fifth of a second.
Lenses that once caught photos of us in scintillating amber sunsets permanence beguiles
Time remakes space
The frozen moments of love once viable we store in our minds as round full and glossy as dewdrops balanced on the wintry friable leaf
Those old people of the past entombed in the faded yellow-hues with smiles
With worn out ideas of an age long vanished…
We too wear are trousers rolled as we grow old,
I think of you in this mist.
what makes the heart feel for something it can't touch?
his tears caused contractions for his heart to pulse
floundered, looking for loves heartache to clutch
whimsical solace of her essence startles his impulse
shouldering the bane of a kiss that foreshadowed trifles
kooky huh? how time unleashes emotions restrained behind pride
losing his beloved inamorata to an admirer she mollycoddles
his heart became friable to the echo of her suicide
It was the absence of a note that left his worries unverified
what makes the heart feel for something it can't touch?
Now alone and without; a lovers heart is mummified
he will never love another as much
the “ghost orchid” has become her epithet
the rules of this game have changed, misère ouverte.
I chose Bonnie Raitt “I can't make you love me” because when I listened to it it brought
back memories of my childhood feeling second to my fathers work. His physical presence was
always their, but his heart belonged to his work and still is. After listening to the song 5 or 6
times I thought of the question, what makes the heart feel for something that it can't
touch----like love, and went from there.
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