Outback sky a dark
canvas of cold stars.
Wind blows across dry dirt,
tossing grains of sand
against rocky crusts.
No clouds in sight.
A dingo calls out
to a bright moon.
Sitting upon a high cliff,
looking for a small,
quick hop
of a kangaroo.
Harsh shrubs stand still.
Night brings a sharp chill,
calming a sun-burnt land.
At dawn, currawong
will sing again.
But now, it is tranquil.
Shadows wash
all colour away.
Only a faint glow stays,
a ghost of hours past.
howling storms of fear
ricochet through old farmhouse
even the floors creek
Though his tone is quite gregarious
And his intent softly nefarious
He is ever so meek
His tongue in his cheek
His double entendre hilarious
like a round brass gong
afternoon sun burns in sky~
tarmac road steaming
dry leaves swirl around
canals and pools lie distraught~
lands yawn, mouths open
Under Soft Moonlit Skies, Lonely Howls Heard
Within wolfen heart, her hellish hunger arose,
ultimate power to destroy as yet unknown-
she lit her candle and caressed a red rose
crying in the light, far away her dreams had blown,
yet mercy and future shed a torrent of tears-
as streams formed, away melted life's darkest fears.
Watching as golden moon, its beauty displayed,
shadow winds sent mesmerizing whispers of love-
anticipation gnawed, love's kiss been delayed
for a jealous God, had cursed her from above,
looking skyward she in despair showed her fangs
as her sanity, by a single thread thus hangs.
Silence came, its music her racing heart then felt
as the new trees danced and sleeping rocks awoke-
he appeared to gift a kiss and her grave doubts melt
in that infinite ecstasy neither one spoke,
then she of wolfen heart and he of wolfen blood-
were washed away in Nature's romantic flood.
Robert J. Lindley, original Oct. 24 1982,
edited, and link -8-09-2020
Rhyme, ( In these veins flow Native American blood )
*****
In that wood so dark and deep
where ne'er but silent shadows sleep
there spectral images e'er do creep
in that darkened wood so deep
In that wood of shadows long
where ghouls and ogres there do throng
there where spells are cast in song
there in that wood of shadows long
In that wood so still and dark
where wolves do howl and coyotes bark
there where bleeds the elder bark
there in that wood so still and dark
Into that wood go not at all
where spooks and banshees scream and call
there where many are said to fall
do not go to that wood at all
Consumed in flash madness
I started to climb the mountain
from trivial to acute throes of life
at the peak none was sad
I want to sing, I want to cry
with the howls of wind
an urge to jump, free as a bird
for the last glance, I turned
Found I never left.
I can feel the wolf as it howls to the moon
It looks like a good luck sign
But, the wolf will not stop howling because it is his defense
Triple H is howling her fury
Heating up Europe
Helping them to shut down
Having her way
Triple H is smiling and smug
Heating up houses
Helping babies to be miserable
Having to sit on their mamas
Triple H is loving her power
Heating up tempers
Helping people to argue and fight
Having no control over their anger
This is power in words that speak the truth
begging to the bone of its essence cold justice
a brain washed mass of society have followed the pied piper
when certain rights have been removed
time is running out for real democracy
to be in any shade effective
corruption is the source of chaos
when we allow serial killers to kill our kinsmen
Awaken to the biting wind howls
while the sky darkened and the thunder scowls.
The distance sounds of birds flock across the darkened sky.
Sounds of crunching over the earth startled awake an owl to fly.
Flash of lighting then the sound, sending waves of fear, a pulsing heart;
lost in the darkness, of pounding rain, and gleaming darts.
She slowly turned her head to shadow weaving on her darken walls
from the flicker of leaves and trees obeying its calls.
Lighting so humbling, thins to a slight glimmer, and starts to stumble,
sounds of thunder wanes to a low grumbling rumble.
The night melts away to a light blend lavender and golden grain;
fresh sweet cool rain and earthy fragrance awaken again.
8/11/2017
Moon's gleam flooding the dusk
lighten the heavens and hell alike;
He feared no more as his spirit demised
submitting to shadows, thinning the wike;
He has no soul to shed a tear,
for his first prey had bore their heir;
Memories haunt the maddened slave
yet, fell another twilight for the wolf to tear.
When I first heard of “poetry howls,” I said to myself, “how sad”; is poetry meant to wake the dead or liven the living (though I’ve read of the living dead)? haven’t we enough noise around to confound and confuse a universe of smaller sounds, en train thoughts, low sung birds? haven’t we sufficient “icy pandemonium” (in S. Weil’s words)?
I would propose “poetry whispers” instead; of poets living, of poets dead, sharing a find, perhaps one supposed all spent, a jewel borrowed, or one discovered in a rent of the Self. And if unable to express epics lying buried within, begin by sharing a briefer line that – who knows? – may become the wine that loosens another’s tongue.
In the digitimes of trout streams full of numbers,
I’m the dark echo of a moon-ringing splash-machine
named 567-3389, my old phone number,
that crazy pet of howling crisis I’m
nursing now with my tender planted hands
and my tender planted ears
full of dark echo
and soil.
Sure, my life now is an echo of singing numbers
transformed by darkness into emptiness
dreaming of rhymes.
Please, dream of me as Richard Brautigan,
howls a dark empty hat in a dark empty room
suffers homesickness of a poet.
This lonely hat,
moon in black,
remote like tomb,
is in love with fairytales and fishing.
It has a silver trout shadow and all!
[Christos Tsanakas, Athens/Greece/June 2016]
What still life, in words upon the page?
Yet animated in rhythms of the tongue
Soft-mouthed or read aloud, in unison
Spoken in solitude or rising like the tide
In the ribcages of a thousand men
Some skilled orator
With the heartbeat of a nation in his hands
A silent offering from the lips
Of midnight prayer
A lover's vow
A battle song
What meaning we assign
A curious cluster of whispers and howls
Vulgarity, obscenity, profanity, blasphemy
A sacred hymn
A holy chant
Divine syllables...
The secret names of god
What still life, in words upon the page?
Yet animated in rhythms of the tongue
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