I hit the spot.
I marked it with a dot.
It's my spot—
An 'X' ringed.
A bullseye claimed,
filled with jet black ink—
Not a blot with rough edges that seep out,
but one with a sharp outer perimeter.
It's a point pretending it has a yard of space around it,
on its own plot of land, casting no shadows.
I shift a bit; neighbors start crowding in.
"Stop Right There!"
"It's my spot you're on!"
I feel the canvas moving under my spot,
or is it all the jostling moving me — page, plot and all?
Now I'm bouncing in a crowded jumping castle.
Dots blurring into one another.
Stippled footprints mark where spots once stood;
touching down elsewhere — here, there, otherwise.
I've lost the plot; I've lost my spot.
Just another orphaned dot,
set adrift, looking for a margin to belong in.
on a slate, forever being wiped clean.
I clamp down and dig in my heels.
Crampons bite into the ice floe.
Punctuation halts the slide,
puts its foot down—
my comma sheds its tail, and holds.
It is raining outside! I gaze at the photograph
of my mother!... a young child!... playing in the rain!
Her long, jet-black hair is dripping
onto her dress!... the embroidered flowers are drinking it in.
Barefoot in that captured moment of running—
one foot touches the earth on tiptoe,
the other is in the air!... she balances there, carefree.
Her small hands, like tender tree shoots—
one reaches forward as if following someone,
the other trails behind as if beckoning someone.
The sun shines upon her rosy cheeks;
stars and the moon swim within her eyes.
Outside, the rain has stopped! Through the windowpane
I see blooming flowers dancing in the breeze,
I hear the rustling of trees,
I see the sun’s rose at dusk, at dawn,
and night’s soft, ebony scarf
embroidered with stars and the moon;
I see my mother!... out there!... calling to me!
Through the windowpane… the rain is dripping!
it’s 12 again
i find my bare arms pressed up against the hard mirror/shower door
it lives a double life
my breath fogs up the glass
it keeps me warm
razor-like metal dig into my fingers as i grip the tweezers
it’s ironic how something so sharp can bring such comfort.
i stare at the inky dot right above the thicket of hair i call my eyebrow
only visible to the scrutinizing eye inches away
the painted lady on the surface of that unyielding metal smiles at me
i do not notice.
her unforgiving claws disguised as the honed tweezer tips stab into the flesh surrounding that jet-black dot
doing all she can to extract the imperfection
and when she finally succeeds
and the uprooted dot reveals its true identity as a helpless strand of hair
whose only crime was its misfortunate growth
i feel no remorse — rather, relief —
only the twinge of pain
and another lasting scarlet scab
right above my eyebrow
reminds me of the wave of shame soon to come
i soon forget
as i spot another dot
desiring to reignite my ritual of comfort.
I'm sick and tired of the scream in my head,
Flagellating myself over gnawing, aged regrets
The unwieldy armor, I've finally let drop;
My arms too weak to carry all of the weight.
Extricate the mind from tightly-knotted strings
And release all the cumbersome burdens...
The vacant sky, the unsqueaking hardwood
No longer requested; relinquish everything!
Dismount from the precipice of knowledge
Where color and light cease to brightly glow,
And find peace well-hidden in the dark,
Devoid of so much as a spark, or a flame...
For in the jet-black, bottomless deep,
The restless world lays down for a slumber,
And in that abyss lies the only truth that exists...
Embrace the void.
Our five year old hound dog mix.
the sweet Southern name of Beau,
jet black, sleek,
white chest and throat,
is living with his brother, Arrow,
and a new family for Beau.
I’ll miss his daffy antics,
and chasing indignant squirrels
in the spacious yard,
but we just couldn’t keep him,
he is still a dog of our hearts,
he’ll always be my granddog,
with his jovial amber eyes
and friendly licks on the side
of my head.
He’d sit at attention when he
wanted a treat,
he and Gus, our terrier mix,
had comical zoomies bounding
on the grass.
But now he’s on a new adventurous
life journey,
getting into mischief with Arrow,
we won’t forget you,
big boisterous Beau,
happy doggie tales to you. ~
I keep a notebook on the nightstand,
pencil at hand – life-rafts for thoughts.
A flock of crows
takeoff at once, their clatter is musical,
it is an hour-long symphony
played in a single moment.
My Scots grandmother
would sing to me in her Highland tongue
sounds so beautiful that my brain
would stop deciphering or even thinking.
I recall now those chanting-chimes.
Mozart must have leapt from his bed often.
I wonder did he stumble around lighting candles,
cursing the dark until he found his keyboard?
Did he lay his sleepy forehead on that forte-piano
willing himself to recall the bitsy songs
of Pipistrelle bats?
My head swings from the pillow.
If I could only reach that pencil,
but it has moved-on,
to a place where Celtic grannies,
and jet-black crows wait
to enter some other dream.
Do you think there was a Robin Hood,
and, if so, was he good -
or just a bad rapscallion
on a jet-black stallion?
And after this, to me, you've told,
tell me, do you have much gold?
Sapphire stones, like little stars, shine.
Coal clouds form a webby design.
Dusts of light, with darkness, entwine.
Amidst red-black color flake
Waves of heavenly seas break.
The sun has gently gone to bed.
Bloody rays of the red moon spread.
Twilight, into rainbow shades, shred
Jet black kraits crawl around clouds.
Puzzles muse over dim shrouds.
Elephantine hills lay lazy.
Nocturnal creatures go crazy.
Environs seem as though hazy
While banks of rivers darkle
Water surfaces sparkle.
Amidst makeshift night's sluggish sigh
Cherubim fly about the sky.
Sleepy nightingales bid goodbye.
Silhouettes of flora dance.
As the breeze is in a trance
Angelic solemnness pervades.
Amidst the dead of night's black shades
Dewdrops decorate the grass blades.
I feel an unknown romance.
Spreading her mystical glance
... alleluias sound all around...
Dark Incense
Black cypress
Wood burning incense
Aroma scented lavender
Humbled grounds
Growing into the old
Wisdom in a safety deposit box
Jet black ghost flowers
Yesterday's vaporist
Roots growth dreary
Solitude slumber day
With dark incense
Ponder twilight
Meaning of life sinking
Enter into the vortex of emptiness
Dust and bones
Can’t live forever
Dark clouds Ravens fly
Death bed dying
Cemeteries awaits
End of the old mans journey
Engraved tombstones
Through silent whispers
Remember me no more
Covered in a vail
Caged beneath in bleak loneliness
In a darkened room deep in the crowd
A familiar tune, the music’s loud
Spotlights dance around the stage
With knowing glance, I turn the page.
I see her and she’s dressed in black.
Not in person – in paperback
Will she pose for me tonight?
I hold my breath, follow the light.
Through the haze all I can see
Are models strutting purposefully.
Then I spot her walking proud
The clothes she wears delight the crowds.
Her sultry eyes and jet-black hair
All I can do is sit and stare.
If I can get my timing right
Who knows, she could be mine tonight?
Out of reach, a designer’s dream
She's a peach, the catwalk queen.
We all desire but cannot touch.
My hearts on fire she means so much.
Her picture in the magazines
Leaps from the page into my dreams
Maybe one day she’ll be mine
Then we can leave this pantomime.
Sliding the jet black blinds
The shafts of light appear
A laser show on turf
Shines like a chandelier
A divine portrayal
Day starts with this premier
PLACE: 2nd
JIM SITS WITH HIS NEW
DOG LICK SHE SITS AT JIMS
FEET WATCHING HIS WIFE EAT
JIM SAYS LICK DOESN'T MIND
BEING SECOND SHE'S
USE TO IT FROM HER OLD
OWNERS EVERY MOVE JIM
MAKES LICK MAKES WAGGING
HER JET BLACK TAIL JIM GOT
HER AFTER HIS DOG DIED HE
ENJOYS ALL THE LICKS FROM
HIS NEW DOG SIT LICK STAY
LICK FINALLY JIM PICKS UP
HIS GUITAR JUMP LICK JUMP
LICK JUMPS HIGH LICK JUMPS
LOW HOW LOW CAN LICK GO
All is burning, cinders and ash
flakes float in black rain,
falling on a ground
of clinkers and flinders.
The hand of ruin traces sigils
of chaos and strife
on broken city walls,
within which rats awaken
They are the true rulers of destruction,
living cloaked with shadows,
in any crevice or crack,
hunting bones and burnt flesh.
Their rivals, jet-black birds,
massing on heights above
in their murders
and raucous unkindness'.
After Ragnarök, the still silence
is broken by the raspy flutter
of a million wings,
echoed chittering of uncountable hordes.
What life is left
does not weep.
A crow struts into a bar,
it's a crow, not a native American.
There's a hot wind blowing through town
Texas Rangers are drinking on the job.
A young beauty is busy
capturing boys' hearts
on her I Pad.
A land Line rings loudly
from a backroom -
no one has the skill to reply to the call.
The sleek jet-black bird
commences to dance
on the dusty wooden floor,
neck back and cawing loudly.
A picture of Clint Eastwood
looks down from an adobe wall,
he is 150 years old now
but he is still the rightful President.
Some crusty old-timer
throws a ten-dolor bill on the counter.
Soon the crow is drinking
and occasionally playing the fool.
Outside, a mule bray's,
crow flaps up and leaves
for the past.
Hollywood is still slowly arriving.
Native Americans have been on strike
for a hundred years.
The Crow Nation brews its own beer
and rez cops take their share
and don't care.
Jet-black hair faded to gray;
tall, slender figure
arched with age—
sagging like the skin around your eyes
so much like mine.
Your loud voice has quieted
and become gentle as the years have passed.
Your once harsh hands now seek to guide me
on paths I had to discover without you.
Father,
I wonder—
while you have been present
but still so far away—
just how much time have we lost?
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