Long Cindered Poems

“Fire burning in a hill
The lines are rocky rough
Red angels wait to pick remains
The cindered shoulder
Of confused men” 
(Peter Murphy)
 





"On the Cindered Shoulders of Confused Men"



Close your eyes it was all just a bad...

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Through the hills within the woods of a mountain's slithering slopes,
A road winds its way, on which rides a car driven by a misanthrope. 

Plucking from his pocket a pack of poison sticks with one...

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There is A small portion lying
                             ...

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Ride, ride, ride thou figure from the East
In thy curse hath many a mother wept
On thy brow the furrows of distant steppes
Yield unto a steely mask of doom
Destruction follows in thy path and yet
Methinks I...

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Written: February 1st, 2024
             ________________________________________

I propose they should read a poem
Set it in light and let it serve as a totem
Similar to a...

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That day before I crossed you
I saw the Thames
Where Wordsworth stood alone
To pour his heart upon the wave.
And I open mouthed wondered 
By the banks
Of endless history
For ever intransigent
On the Thames eternal transience.
And then I...

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Upon the rustic walls,
Laid a shadow, shadow too dry.
In the trees beyond, laid the carnelian of fall;
And I stroll away, into the vestige foliage ply.

In my little cabin,
many boring days had flown by,
but it was...

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Fstop. (SNAP!)

our moment.

our pier.
in a split second, 
a single-slipped ray
of animation 
senses and egresses
ambient light  
into the 
cauterized bloodstream 
of two enamored
lovers.

Fstop. (SNAP!)

our reflection.

my desire for you.
my private folding
twice into your extended arms -
thrice...

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We set foot on dry grass at the cockcrow 
 of a nascent union. 
Cheek to cheek as Cupid towers 
over the rose inside my heart,
shooting arrows at a dyad draped in fire,
gliding through the...

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It consumes
                                 ...

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He said, “Yes, I flew a fighter plane over the hills, and the people 
were running, they were just people, they were villagers, not soldiers, 
they were running away,”

and a tear came to his eye,...

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Spaces like Life

Your death is no spectacle. It will unfold itself ceremoniously
like a soft-sweater worn and discarded because of a snag
I walk in a ghetto in the black of night, chunks of asphalt heaved up...

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The world seems to be quiet and out of its mind
Not to mention the words that aren’t kind
Messages that won’t complete the good thought
Bringing cold air and the barren nature she sought
Being of the kindness...

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a broken bottled oasis flashes in the distance.

  bent waves of light whether the skies 
  burnt skin.

  Some kind of desert revival whose chapeled 
  steps are cindered bones Flashes...

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REMEMBER.


Remember
Poetry is the blood of your visions
It rips you apart against
The torrid consolidations of mundane
Strengths elongated in the retinues
Sparked for uncertain verses in trials.

It wants huge skies to fly
It wants ruined castles for your dreams
Vast...

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I used to say I love you, many years ago –
My passion-cries were wings of flight!
Like burning arrows pierced upon a snowy night,
I loosed my songs to let you know.

So long ago! So many years...

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Remember
Poetry is the blood of your visions
It rips you apart against
The torrid consolidations of mundane
Strengths elongated in the retinues
Sparked for uncertain verses in trials.

It wants huge skies to fly
It wants ruined castles for your dreams
Vast...

Read More

Outside the window sprawled an ash
with splayed and scalloped leaves in pose. 

Each veined and blotchy web was stuck
to misted panes as swirling winds repelled
the rush of rust across the open view. 
The heavy trees...

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I tell you, I lost it all by that flame
The sudden heat that ate my house, the smoke
That singed my every hope, my cindered name
And how was this tempested thing provoked
What little spark ignited this...

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the curious dream

toward darkness when the sun
	breaks down
do I dream of civility and rules
or does my brain    reorganize
the life fantastic validations of
	chaos theory
and twisted monsters   giving
	life
to that which never was...

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The Final Strokes

The many hued sparklers were dappling the almost cindered sky
Turning the sunset from gilded gold to ochery orange.
Michael Angelo's brushes were yet busy with his final strokes
Of separating light and darkness on his...

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I chanced upon a vagrant word
beside an idle railroad track
its campfire fueled by burning books
it asked:"Is poetry coming back?"

I shrugged, acknowledging my doubt
unable to assuage its fear
we listened in the setting sun
for that distant train...

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