lively little lovely lithe lambs
merrily milling around Marty’s Milwaukee
nibbling nutty Nabisco nuggets
outstandingly joyful and childlike
prancing prettily like playful petite ponies
Used and discarded thought shadows lurk
at every sunrise as if each were renewed.
A touch from the fading past, in a moment
as i look at the wet pebbles, ever decreasing.
Welcoming the receding tide, a caressing breeze
on which floats, the busy two tone oyster catcher.
On that breeze voice’s travel, voice's calling out
over the relentless, out going, in coming waves.
Are we all but driftwood ? Leaving to return
when the gorse flower is yellow in rare sunlight.
Maybe rudderless, in a firm belief and trust,
of our hearts compass, and its choice is free.
Be elusive ! Leave no trace, be faceless in
milling throngs and crowds, not out of place.
Perhaps a living phantom, amongst many,
yet never carless in your constant carefree.
Blend into the background, be seamless.
Unrealities and realities
grind together in mortar’s mouth,
spilling, pulverizing, volatile perfumes—
succumbing scents of citrus, crushed copper,
musks of bruised lightning,
threshing thunderous throbs.
Instability incarnate sings her reveling wails,
fragrances of something
Beyond Name.
I guide existences into black curve,
severing them against sharp, obsidian walls,
letting them rupture—letting them bleed
—syrups and statics—
messy marrows of forgotten equations.
Their shapelessness mutable,
pliant pages to pulp in the plunge
of the merciless pestle.
How many combinations will one
blend and crucify—
to crush, to coax, into coherence?
Rasps of bone bend against sanguine salts,
sheens of opulent oil merge with ember embryo—
iron filings licked into life by tempests reigned.
Anything of matter becomes
moisture—mass—mold—
hunger pooling at my basin’s heart,
seething for impending strike,
for sudden and unforgiving
birth.
Ecstatic eye of night
thoughts tangled tangent
tint of orange moon
slivers were just hazy
incipient learned launch
as the querulous quirk
indented ingress idly
still desperate to capture
though less likely
lavishness connoting mood
human forest focal point
I dream in dribbles soppy
though never flagged yet
as futile aspiration amid
hues strictly night bound
might benefit wistfully
when strident slumber
indigenous to townscape
has its muted rippled
riddle not tactfully
resolved due to blind
daylight tinctured template
aroused by the clangour
of mint medley lure of
Arcadia circus dangle
of inchoate promise known
as crystal carrot jewellery
box whose flecks fly a riot
before the milling cluster
who wantonly wonder
at collapsing fortress inside
whilst rugged resilience
that tower block of prime
revitalised endeavour bent
on a fantasy forage with
disposition a pointless block
though underbody wobbles
if left without the widest
custodial watch of the self
one might be elated finally
Wait
This can't be a mistake
The morning light
Is just too bright
We've overslept
Curled up in bed
Now we must rush
Gone that soothing hush
Toilet flushing
Teeth fast brushing
Coffee churning
Toast now burning
Swallow fast
Needs to last
Stuff all over
Where's the roller
Switch off lights
Well miss our flights
Connections short
Should we abort
No time to think
I need a drink
Get in the car
The Airports’ far
Traffic's a pain
This is insane
Check-in slow
With bags in tow
Our gates a mile
All rush - no style
People milling
My headache drilling
Boardings slow
I'm about to blow
The seat's a squeeze
But I collapse with ease
At least we're here
I need that beer
Our chatter muted
With strength diluted
We crack a smile
Gone is the bile
Thoughts of the beach
Within our reach
Where we can lay
For the whole day
Fall in a heap
Recover - sleep
Sand in our hair
Without a care
The sound of waves
Heavenly daze
They’re filming* in front of my building,
Equipment all over the place.
The crew members milling in bunches;
Huge trailers invading the space.
It’s cool to hear “Roll ‘em!” and “Action!”
And know that one day on TV,
The place where I live will be featured,
With actors appearing, not me.
It isn’t a common occurrence
So nobody minds all the fuss.
Tomorrow we neighborhood people
Will be back to routines, with just us.
*an episode of “And Just Like That”
Contemplative bliss communes with the serene,
into the spirit of the placid marine crystalized in my mind.
As the sun’s reflection spreads glitter upon its open sea,
throngs milling to the melodious tunes of the guitar.
Strumming troubadour, slim and rangy toe headed youth
grins modestly as his tip jar fills welcoming spared bills
And to the sounds of the seagulls
gleeful squawk, soaring through the azure.
Beyond the pier the magician plies his trade,
tricks which awe and stun
the enthusiastic crowds gathered about.
And what lovely crowds willing, mellifluous, madrigal,
thoughtful, kind, and respectful.
Smiles abound as though the world conspires for a pleasant mood.
I inhale the familiar primordial sea air’s briny scent.
I take pause to ponder gazing out onto the vast ocean’s expanse.
How much longer can I bare this aching fulfillment
as I anxiously transpose these images and feelings
into meriting words.
Thoughts etched in obsidian,
A wharf rock verdant-
Wisps of color,
Like a jade curved smith.
To hew out crevices of the wast'd rock,
Wind washed and sand clothed-
Pulsating taking solitude,
With angels milling about,
deceptive in their demeanor,
Like newborn locusts,
Death is taken captive.
The captain calls out a-ship, a-shore?
Golden waves play harps in the summer,
And dance a deathly knell in mid-winters reverie,
Yet in all the colored hue,
A heart finds no solacing bosom.
OBLIVION
When all is finally said and done
Seeing that nothing now remains
A kind of freshness after it rains
My personal oblivion has begun
Just a black void, no glaring sun
A gentle silence welcomes quiet
No milling crowds, no noisy riot
Peace at last, who cares who won
My mind has now left the building
To others, invisible as a chameleon
Yet my resolve remains unyielding
This is well-earned private oblivion
I cast off my sharp edged falchion
To my darker destiny I am yielding
Truth be told …we all lie
Color the “facts”
To meet our “needs”
Plant and grow
Only our “seeds”
Of truth.
We shout
“SPEAK TRUTH TO POWER”
What truth to whose power?”
Protest the protesters
In BOLD PRINT signs
Milling about
In a mob
Of “TRUTH SEEKERS”
The truth is true
but as with rainbows
the colors conflict
bleed into one another
arc from one side
to the other
seeking TRUTH’S
pot-o-gold
Many are the edgy tool forms shaping this piece
The lathe has turned for millennia with no cease
Milling takes place in immense illumination
Those sharp edges move; in darkness saturation
All instrumental in making this earth take shape
There IS, a part of this art; you're choosing to scrape
If you're here for a millisecond or more of a life-long roll
Like it or not, your existence a chisel; producing a scroll
You matter to us all, failing, succeeding, or long-time, no care from you
Life; chaotic at times, unfair, but something common to all; on this spinning screw
I am not working these words as a contribution of introspection
My need; to remind my fellow machinists, of how they make my life perfection
Imagine myriads of strangers milling about
on the expanse of a beautiful glowing plain
which feels endless.
The atmosphere is incredible (I don’t mean just the quality of the air.)
It’s as if wisdom has permeated this place for eons,
such that a feeling of overwhelming peace abides here.
Within moments, the figures of loved ones long deceased
approach you, their eyes, softly radiant and seeking you out.
Then with inexpressible joy, they descend on you.
Everything all at once becomes abundantly clear.
You embrace each long lost soul and discover
you are embracing divinity.
A milling crowd (aren't they all),
I call my name
then try my real name
then a made-up name.
The crowd separates reluctantly,
A man with an ever changing face steps forward.
I intently recognize myself,
a self of many ages, some even before birth.
I am emotional, this is a cathartic moment
my eyes are pinballs being flipped
in a lit-up cosmic game.
The person is my personal
imago/, amigo, avatar,
my part-time impersonator.
This is no time for self analysis,
I take him by the hand
lead him into my mind, claim him,
show him as I am now
in the eye of a cracked mirror.
His face has stopped fluttering through time,
his eyes are now moth orbs
as golden as an astronauts visor.
I reflect upon them like the sun.
He tells me that all of his personas,
all of his faceted me-ness
revolves around an inner star,
then walks absent mindlessly
back into the crowd.
I turn to look at the rest of the world,
it is a radiant carousel painted upon
an endlessly nocturnal canvas.
The canvas and the painting
were created by an unknown artist,
one still waiting to be discovered.
I look around me; wow, this is unexpected!
Myriad strangers are milling about (thousands at least)
on the expanse of a plain that feels endless
even though I can see far out
to a horizon of verdant shining trees encircling us all.
The atmosphere here feels incredible
(and I don’t mean just the quality of the air.)
It’s as if wisdom has permeated all those here assembled,
such that a feeling of overwhelming peace abides here.
Within moments, I notice several figures approaching me.
Their eyes, softly radiant and seeking me out,
fall upon me with inexpressible joy.
I see my father, a few of my dearest friends, my grandparents,
my favorite aunt, Joan, and my beloved brother Dale,
who was taken from our family while still in his prime.
He reaches out to embrace me,
and among this sea of souls,
everything becomes
clear.
Feb. 19, 2023
for The Clearing Poetry Contest of Craig Cornish
Crazy plans were made
some of us raced off
to fulfill half-baked dreams,
Some became causeless rebels,
a few, artists, or poets.
They travelled,
they meandered here and there
looking for a purpose.
Last night in a reverie
I saw them all milling around
the base of a mountain
they had once vowed to climb.
They were okay, they had settled-in,
built families
brick by heavy brick.
Of course some died trying,
were they the hero's?
I myself, ended up
in a place not one of us saw coming;
better that way - no tracks or trace,
just slowly failing upwards.
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