Philosophy Imagism Poems

the pale moon hovers

over the village at sunrise....

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Like returning to a place in a dream:

sound of one hand clapping:

the mottled butterfly haphazardly flits

into the welcoming Light of day....

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--- No "news flash", obviously ---

just a momentary flickering,

a little something of the infernal

plays through the warm glow

of the inviting angel's face....

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after dead earth and moon
ships will scan this here
scan the darkness
then they will leave without collection
this area used to be good
what we did was beautiful
epic...

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A Game of Life

Life, for anyone, is very complex game
The way you play it, give it the name

While running a marathon
Don’t take others head on...

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TRAM   BELL



Steep streets everywhere you played,
Where your football would roll away forever;
And sawdust spilt out of the butcher’s onto the steep sidewalk 
Among...

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Standing at the window I watch with amazement
One dancer whips the air fiercely with her bottom
Another writes something in air with pointed fingers
Both seemed lost...

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a chair is not a chair
until its sat on by human
sit on log and it’s a chair
sit on a pig and it's a chair
sitting of...

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Life isn't a white sheet,
It comes as printed plastic,
You can't write one damn thing,
You can only tear it in pieces,
Stretch it, deform it, burn it,
But...

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Defunctive smoke
From the brain
Rankles the soul:
An eternity of ignorance.

There are no marrams for skin.

Marquetry of bones
Intricacy assumes
Hoodwinking eyes
That see only nudes.

Whining gin.

Phthisic mind
Transhumanizes darkness
Swaddling rain
In...

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The dying inside:

Myopic windows;

daylight fading

on a glass table top;

dead flies milling,

unaware....

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This weather-worn stone statue of him:

Cross-legged under a tree, surrounded by

Flowers in the garden;

The expression on his face fixed inwardly, Knowing, placid,

Be it Spring, Summer,...

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Miss First January canoed from the clouds
And anchored right beside Mr. Midnight
Red flower on the right, a book on the left
Traveling bag strapped on her...

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Somewhere between here,

blase and tomorrow's

derangement, lost the plot in

a moment of coherent clarity,

'twas quite a peculiar notion

unsettling predicament of

knowing one's own psyche,

silently questioned the

absolute mindfulness,

hardly...

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A requiem can faintly be heard 
     in the springtime breeze
as dandelion's morph from gold 
     blossoms...

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