Long Inhabiting Poems
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p a u s e s
spaces in your words like notches on wood
endearing stillness
till a sprawl of irregular "I love you's" spill truth like a stream
run full
a tear-choked gaze in a sighing-room
tugging us to earthy touching
our commitment
inhabiting green-garden parts of a world
tireless in its defining
pushing past preconceptions
snared by the peace of pressing one to one
fluorescent part of gifted chemistry,
claimed
no soft need to nudge it
no drift to sullen limbs
a saga of expansion
like a coal mine burning underground
where we live
an intimacy even in small tallk
truthfulness finding its bounce, prized like existence
still shaping days in words we share
and heed
in words that pull r e c o v e r y
Poem composed May 10/2023
Glints of stardust drip of winter's essence
as frills of Sagittarian ornaments
ring in the birth of a cycle
flickering with the tempo
of mid-December’s equinox: she is
the twelfth month; the last goddess of angels,
kindling seraphic night passages
and fireplaces robed in leaves
of serenity and thawing roses...
phrase by phrase, page for page, arm in arm
with a hymnal litany,
the goddess of laced winds glides
on an altar of sacred eyes and lips,
chanting about gods, children ,and love.
Inhabiting a residence in grotto white,
she holds iced lanterns and dahlias
to unfurl a season's finesse...
O angel of twelfth handmaid,
time will sing her ripened hope, her celestial rhyme
to revel in a tender parade
of flakes only evening's quilt can ever wrap.
Angel of the twelfth handmaid,
half- luminous, twice-content
virtues pure will encircle halo's Light, amen!
aforementioned author born
February 7, 1812
the long deceased (centuries) storied author
I toot and trumpet virtual horn
accompanying pet rooster
first thing in the morn.
Greetings mutual friend,
hard times dash Great Expectations
in this Bleak House
whereby battle of life ensues
when Sunday chimes
from Master Humphrey’s clock
somber American notes
invoking overshadowing doom
from young gentlemen:
Oliver Twist, Nicholas Nickleby, Barnaby Rudge
Martin Chuzzlewit, David Copperfield
and Young Cricket on the hearth Little Dorrit
collaborated on Pickwick Papers
with Dombey and son detailing
how I (a haunted man/
ghost’s bargain) alias Mudfog
self absorbed in his Old Curiosity Shop
hunted down by boyhood days
(akin to an endless Christmas carol
frieze as child’s history)
now a thick dust covered holiday romance
memory portraying this signal-man
(according to George Silverman's explanation)
eerily similar to
the mystery of Edwin Drood,
exiled after his trial for murder
birthing three ghost stories
inhabiting a haunted house
affecting the young couples lamplighter,
an uncommercial traveler
evidenced by pictures from Italy
prone to speeches, sketches
by Boz and his lazy tour
an oft repeated Tale Of Two Cities
best read at dusk.
SPIN MASTERS SPINNING AWAY THE DAY
Every moment
I turn on the TV
What do I see
Nothing but liars laying down lies
Spin Masters spinning spam of deceit
Chanting
The truth will set you free
White is black
Black is white
Lies are true
Truth is a lie
Lies will set you free
I see nothing
But politicos
Dropping down lies
UN truths masquerading as the truth
Oh so sincerely
The lies spew forth so sweetly
From their corrupted lips
The toxic wastes
Spree out of my TV set
Infecting my soul
With paranoid distrust
And I vainly try
I do try
God do I try
To the find
The nugget of truth
Buried deep in the dark, dank, dangerous
Black, evil miasmic mists
Given off
By the talking heads on TV
So I leave my house
So full of doubt
And wander about
Looking for the truth
Some semblance of hope
And I look up
And see a solitary cherry tree
High up on a hill top street
Infusing the air
With its sweat ambrosia
And I smile
Knowing
Someday soon
The national nightmare
Will be pierced by the light
Of clarity and truth
And the evil ones
The body snatched aliens
Inhabiting our leaders
Will be banished
The peace they display is a ripe fruit from thousands of battles,
They walk among us, in a silence that intrigues and soothes,
We think they have always been this way, under a benevolent star,
But this peace vibrates like metal hammered a thousand times,
It resonates with the memory of blows and raw wounds.
A hundred years of inner war means demons faced,
The fear of not being enough, doubt like a splinter under the skin,
Anger burning inside, more than any enemy,
It's a hundred years of learning: forgiveness frees oneself,
That falling matters less than refusing to rise.
Their peace is a silent victory, a fortress without walls, light,
It's not forgetfulness, but a comforted memory, inhabiting the cracks,
It does not fear the storm, knowing that at the end the sky is washed clean,
And when their eyes meet yours, you feel the humility,
Of those who have walked through fire and found themselves undefeated.
When you’re with someone
Even nothing becomes gravity
Without someone, space is a vacuum
My Hadean era without you
When Earth had no one to love
I came home to nothing and nobody
That hollow feeling returns without you
I remember when I had someone 24/7
I could watch the news or read a book
Like old times ungrateful of your presence
But, without someone inhabiting a world
Is heavy and hard, empty and consuming
Atlas couldn’t lift this world alone
Waiting for someone to give effort purpose
Without natural selection dreaming of us
How do the old survive partners passed?
How when chicks outgrow their nest?
Someday will I be an old cat under the sun
Solitary in his last dreaming content
Like Gaia ushering in Titans' children
Divorced from someone, I hold up my planet
For someone to inhabit other than me
When they leave, there's a world in solitude
I’ll age alone without companionship
As it was before when we were new
Making my world real as stardust
I’ll become the universe looking in
Without someone’s gravity
Ground me above the graveyard
Till then there's the grind
With half-sealed lights , a thrill beckons
when the whip of wonderland calls me--
Bewildered, my eyes travel
in unmapped time :
For a while,here in the den,
I amble with new heroes and friends
through exciting cities, forests, and halls ,
their own stories inhabiting
my space, my world--
Through vicarious plots and awakenings,
the ripeness of imagination invites
a curiosity wheeling in my mind...
each villain, one maiden fair
shedding lustre behind trails
of pages bound to rip my bones
in torment of rage or love;
this heart flitting like the throb
of a lamp on the floor...
In the den, unbound by my wish
how to end a chapter,
I break into a tear, perhaps fine laughter. ..
One character holding the moon
in desperate scene becomes my mirror...
I trace her own calligraphy of life
frame after frame as my spine
begins to slouch--
with near sleep taking over:
Still amidst some galactic fancy,
the book on my bosom
trembles to haunt my world
made mysteriously beautiful
through the never-ending pursuit
of human yet empyrean schemes...
and I bleed with my heroine's frailties
that I cannot wait for morning
to calm me... not yet.
The creek was the color
of weak tea, a bronze brew
that filtered light to bathe
the bottom in the soft glow
of an autumn morning.
Even after a long summer,
the water was still high
up the tufted banks
with deep pools plummeting
to a dark mystery under
the overhang of trees.
At first glance I thought it was
a rat that set a wake
upon the still. But it was
too big with a tail as thick
as a hand, paddle feet
and a head wearing
a shiny bill. A platypus !
I mouthed in a silent yell,
as its unmistakable shape
made course across
the water only to dive
and drag its wake down
into a bubble trail
towards some hidden hole
and out of sight.
To glimpse it in the wild
was like seeing an apparition
of the sacred,
something made and forged
in the distant dreamtime
of this ancient land - strange,
almost alien, surfacing
to draw breath in the now
before sinking back
into the timeless burrow
of its own myth.
Platypus - Background Information.
The platypus is a shy, unique semi aquatic, egg laying mammal inhabiting streams and rivers in eastern Australia.
It has many distinct features, the most striking being a duck-like bill, broad tail and webbed feet. An iconic Australian animal, it has deep significance to First Nation people and is an important part of their mythology and culture.
If I had my magic with me
I would have touched the ailing humanity
And cured it would have been,
Within seconds,
Cured, forever,
Without ever fearing any sort of darkness
Grapple at their souls
And inhabiting in them!
If I had my magic with me
I would have touched Death
And never again would it have been tempted
To harvest mortal souls again
For purposes known to itself!
If I had my magic with me
I would have made sure
That Earth remains fulfilled as a Mother
That her tears fall never
That her heart wrenches never
That her breath falters never
At everything that we, her children,
Are doing to her!
If I had my magic with me,
I would have created, for humankind,
A world within this fallen one
So as to have them believe
In the romance of fairy tales,
In the magic accompanying them
In the everlasting pleasures that they promise
Why,
I would have imbibed in their hearts,
The way
To have true and genuine love
Burning therein, all the time!
If I had my magic with me
I would have saved my own soul
And that of Love's
I would have touched his inner essence
And would have showed him
The meaning hidden behind our purpose
So as to evoke in him
The urgent need that the skies
Have thrust upon me
To have him acting accordingly
To the musical beats of celestial piano players!
Pray,
My magic, though
Is left back there
In that realm from which I fell!
Without it,
I become as useless
As is a rabbit in an ocean
As is love in evil's realm
As is music in a hater's heart!
Without it,
I become powerless
Relying solely
On the mercy of the skies
On its might and its potency
On the faith I hold for it in my heart
On the trust I have for it as well!
Pray,
Magic,
Would have been of great use,
Yet, sadly,
Without it,
I can't help but let my heart wrench
And let my teeth clench
As I watch life on Earth roll by!
I plead, out of cynicism, for accepting.
I am here, and my regrets are flagging.
It's unlikely for me just to be harming.
My chest has gotten used to my suffering.
Confession is ugly and does not avail.
My silence helps me feel like such an angel.
My poem often turned into a puzzle.
It seems as if I've been writing in a low yell.
Sometimes specific notes deter.
The reward flies off with a cursor.
Inhabiting my waves, rapture
My distress showed the flatter.
Holes obscure the road.
I'm escaping the old code.
The drills aren't the fight ride.
My troops have busted the spread.
I may not have a sword, nor am I trying to keep.
With a stick over my sheep to weep