demons lurk in shadows dark
hidden and furiously silent
their presence oozing at clairvoyants
soothsayer pauses in her reading to listen
juggling the genuineness and the risk of mistake
was this message from angels or demons?
she calls upon her ancestors for clarity
the message stops while the demons laugh
intimidated by her parentage, they disappear
When I was a child, every holiday was a surprise
teachers had us designing jack-o-lanterns and cutting out ghosts
this is how I had an inkling Halloween was afoot
It seemed like we were tracing our fingers to make turkeys the next week
Christmas was thrown at us by the music teacher.
We did not have an art teacher back in the day
our teacher was our art teacher
There was no winter program
there was a Christmas program
No one had ever heard the term politically correct
As an adult I can finally predict when the holidays are arriving
They come fast and furiously every year, like tornadoes and windstorms
Driving my old, worn-out car,
By chance, near the campus of Chosun University,
I saw a beautiful woman walking by.
Before I knew it, my eyes were locked on her.
Inside my "Blackie," a car with window tinting long faded,
It felt as if I were breathing in her sweet scent
For nearly a thousand seconds,
Sending her a silent, admiring greeting.
But with the sharp instinct of a cat’s whiskers,
She sensed the wave of my gaze
In a mere 0.00001 seconds.
"What a loser, staring at me like that!"
"At least he recognizes beauty when he sees it!"
And then, she furiously began to type on her smartphone,
As if channeling her pure rage.
"Hey girl, some loser in a total junk car
Keeps staring at me. So gross!"
Passing her by in my old, black junk car, leaving her far behind,
I kept driving as if trapped in a sweet, fleeting dream.
While she, as if she had just encountered a nightmare,
Shuddered in disgust and hurried on her way.
Remember me, why
not; weary am I
in the process of
splinters, of fractures,
of the glass.
Like a Picasso,
I’m admired through
fractals. Remember
my kindness,
absentmindlessness,
my madness.
Yes, my madness,
when I
clean the house,
(You must not touch
my lips, nor feathers)
when I am furiously
flipping knives,
cutting pieces of me
in the dark.
Remember me,
I speak quietly,
(your ear is hot
to the touch, wet
with whispers,
pangs of pleasure.)
I have many voices,
so many choices,
my lot in life.
(Roulette wheel
deciding my future,
if I did not believe
in God)
But I do; remember
me for my imperfect
compassion, the cracks
in my heart, how
I explode. A firecracker
that makes you laugh,
tickles your funny bone,
keeps you breathless,
finds your keys.
Remember how I awaken
under your eyes,
especially when they’re shut.
We are in a storm,
sometimes the umbrella’s jammed,
upside-down, flying off, but
in the end it protects
who we are as man and wife.
Remember me, more
than a wife, mother, child;
remember a friend, a fractal,
a conceived idea, a hope
of the future.
a young Elliott Smith knew he was a musician
raised mostly in Texas, his fingers were itch’n
He learned to play guitar, piano, bass and drums
He moved to Portland and played for the rich and bums
His albums came fast and furiously, he loved to write
Heaven adores you, new moon, figure 8, were all out of sight
His best songs were crazy er, and new monkey
but also great was his song misery
he died at a young age, a mere thirty-four
we will miss his new songs and more
He had a way that made you want to hear
and smile and nod, tap your feet and cheer
Deep within the city park
stood Barnaby, a highly
grumpy, semi- sentient apple
tree.
He absolutely despised
when children approached
with fawning, goofy faces to
steal his fruit.
Whenever kids giggled and
reached up, Barnaby would
furiously shake his wooden
branches.
THWACK! A barrage of ripe,
juicy red apples went flying
like heat- seeking missiles.
He pelted the screaming kids
right on their bottoms, chuckling
a low, creaky laugh.
The children thought it was a
hilarious game and ran through
the park intentionally.
They made ridiculous,
exaggerated kissy- faces just
to trigger the tree's flying fruit
defense.
Barnaby snorted woodchips,
launching a rapid- fire green
Granny Smith straight at a
nose.
The park echoed with loud,
joyful snorts as apples
bounced harmlessly off
targeted bellies.
The grumpy tree finally
smiled, realizing his thrown
treats made everyone incredibly
happy.
Those from the Far Right
Aren’t all that bright
They really can’t wait
To peddle their hate
And make people feel uptight.
They stomp around without a care
Furiously waving their flags in the air
Freely attacking migrants on sight
Wrongly believing that might is right
As they demonstrate a Hitleresque flair.
While the poor continue to hurt
Totally fooled by those in Brownshirts
Wage slaves continue breaking their backs
Corporations continue to not pay tax
Oh look there’s another billionaire pervert.
So don’t be fooled by the loudest voices
And be wise when making political choices
They came for the Gypsies, the commos, the Jews
And one day they might even come for you
And the fascists will all rejoice.
Last night I had a dream...
I stood up on a cliff
beneath a lighthouse
looking out upon a stormy sea.
And suddenly there you were,
your hands slide around my waist,
your arms wrap me in your warmth,
your kiss caressing my neck and shoulders.
The waves beat furiously
and you held me tightly.
Your lips softly kissing my ear
as the wind encircled us.
But then something woke me
and the dream came to an end.
That is,
until it begins again...
Crack!
A violent ocean wind
has trampled furiously
over a collection
of coconut palms,
demolishing them
like bowling pins.
Now overturned,
the roaring current, with the wind as his accomplice
reaches out with writhing turmoil,
blinding the skies with darkness.
(Pinpricks of light shine).
The ocean rips the coconut from its tightly woven bed,
rearing open its gaping mouth
to condemn it to an eerie fate;
swallowed beneath an ineffable weight.
Strangely, it yielded to the monstrous waves.
Like feathers in the breeze, it simply let
the ocean bear it, further and further from the shore.
Only a crack could sink it,
yet the sea despite all its might, was impotent.
And- perhaps- the coconut knew-
that as sure as nature has torn down its house,
it must also guide it to new lands
where it could root and make another home,
anew.
Waiting for the sea to quell itself,
the coconut passes the time
by counting the stars.
I was born into fear,
All I could hear was yelling,
There was no telling what was next,
Perplexed I grew curious,
Furiously flexing i threw objects,
I knew when it got serious,
A series of events would take place,
Ending with a slap in the face,
Making me chase away the sorrow,
Until it came again tomorrow,
Borrowing peace,
Searching for a release,
Something to ease the tension,
Binding me to this dimension,
My body an extension,
My energy is in intention,
The direction set by a feeling,
Though fear is stealing the show,
Keeping me stuck in the shadows,
Being too afraid to grow,
Was keeping my energy low,
I'm letting it all go,
It's hard to do though,
Not worried if I go slow,
I know what way to go,
Throwing myself to the fears,
Born of Cosmic tears,
Created just to be here.
I would never intentionally use a ghost writer
and yet, I often do not recognize a poem I wrote yesterday
because there is a section of me that writes poetry fast and furiously
these poems pop out onto pages in spurts and sparks
I can barely type fast enough to capture them
are they coming from me?
from somewhere inside me
I always blame my muse Trixie
for she is bossy and persnickety and has to have her own way
this surely could not be me
I strive to write ten poems a day
Some days I write as many as thirty
One day I wrote forty-nine
I would never intentionally use a ghost writer
I don’t have to
Oh, what is this thing called love?
It's a concept I don't understand.
Delight that occurs at first sight?
Or can it be carefully planned?
Is it something that lasts for all time,
or will it run into the sand?
Would Priapus profit from praise,
or should he be promptly trepanned?
Is love as elusive as luck,
or can it be had on demand?
A candle that burns all alone,
or a flame to be furiously fanned?
Is love like a light in the soul,
that will last and endure and withstand?
Is it not just a chemical shot,
just a spurt or a squirt from a gland?
Does this love thing ennoble us all,
or should it be totally banned?
A danger to all it ensnares,
or something incurably bland?
A bonus and boon for mankind,
that ought to be loose in the land,
or a danger deserving restraint,
to be chained and detained on remand?
Oh, what's this enigma named love?
Allurement? Procurement? Command?
Will it harm me, or charm me, I ask:
should I fake it, or take it in hand?
Igloo, art thou frozen?
Take heed before the night.
Sun is sinking? Yet again?
Rage, red run the right!
Anger, ice is on thy wings?
Beat them furiously!
Bee and hornet, thy gift stings!
Poison, plight, and plea!
Time enough tomorrow?
That song is getting old.
Sin, thy light! Suffer sorrow?
Golem, let's! Our gold!
Wit, comprise a stratagem!
Sizzle in each mind!
If they make it our problem?
Fizzle as you're fined.
Pain, thy chain. Let me explain?
Waiting for the rain?
O my armies, cross the main!
Blossom, O my bane!
Counted, scout? Without a doubt!
Will and woof, rise! Rout!
Remember to go without?
What's it all about?
Temper-fount, now to explode!
Best to share the load!
Squashed on highway, O my toad?
Get out of the road!
Deadly is the dawn? Sac pawn!
Hear me, Kingdom Gone!
Mow the grass on every lawn!
Carrion crow caw'n!
Reckless is the prisoner!
Breaking free at once!
Dotard, how ? Thy vision? Blur...
Gaze upon the nonce...
lickety-split is my word of choice
loving the rare 1863 buffalo nickel
too many coins to put in the machine
crazy ways about you, not to be mean
furiously fast, frenzied, frazzled and discombobulated
Two dimes are spit out by this machine, not related
likety splickety schmickety blickety hickety licky diky mee
what type glow turn into fury?
I recount the nights of faint, distant glows —
the dimmed party lights of summer —
of silenced streaks of fleeing light, tassels of clouds
adorned in fleeting whites,
on the broad balcony of the west, when the
incidents on the large vestibule of the sun sum up
their lives and times on seasons’ palimpsests.
The wild party closes by the stretch of the twenty-first hour.
Darkness, frightened, creeps in with the stealth of a departing thief,
the coyness and diffidence of an undocumented harlot.
Twilight aids the shut eyes of young irreverent bats;
drunk with summer's furiously spouting liquors,
like the denizens of an unclothed city, they fly low,
with gambolling wings, propelled by unseen strands of evening gales,
shadowing briefly the glints of pimping stars eager to witness the next day’s
orgy.
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