We drift along the town-side promenade
on damp paving stones,
at blue hour,
past caffé windows
and the resting Héracléa port
Earlier we were sun-struck
watching gulls flicking over the marina
worn thin by the heat and glare
now we’re moonstruck
the harbor bobbing with a thousand white hulls
tide-light, the skin of the night
silvers the masts at sway
and polishes the darkened curve of the sea
the sea is never still, as if breathing
further out at bay, yachts cork and glitter like crystal
a warm breeze loosens cares
drifting honeyed with jasmine and salt
gentle waves wander in then out
returning as if by instinct
and splashing on the breakers like applause.
little bells in boat riggings chime
everyone's strolling tonight
being not just stimulated,
but biohacked - seduced by the scene
now and then a scooter mumbles past
its lights gleaming in puddles
as if for measured emphasis
.
.
A song for this:
Inesaurible Tu by St. Project
In history of long ago
of flying aces heroes
their is a name forgotten today
happily it remains that way
The Yellow Baron he was known
but as a pilot he never flown
The Yellow Baron was afraid of heights
so during battle he never once took flight
Medals of valor so many did he receive
saluting he slapped himself making his nose bleed
And when they pin a metal on his chest
he would faint and fall in a tangle mess
His plane always a mean clean machine
for in battle it was never seen
First in his plane ready to go
but on the runway his plane so slow
when he finally got to the end
the battle was over before his flight begin
His uniform always neat and pressed
eating in the mess hall he was the best
Mumbles of cowardice and a yellow spine
if asked to dual he would faint so decline
When war was over and victory won
promoted for not a shot hit his plane not one
And so the heroic tale of the Yellow Baron ends
in truth known to all it never once begin.
I fail, miserably.
Tonight, it was
the mad dash
to the grocery store.
I had just run 6 miles
in the 80-degree dying day
and I smelt like it.
I looked like an extra
from a bad horror movie,
or an escapee
from the local asylum.
My hair was loose
and wild, a half-made
nest for the robins,
no doubt.
My makeup had
rearranged itself
in odd places
across my face.
I just needed coke,
chips, and who knows
what else.
No one was looking at me
and I wasn't looking at them,
until...
"Miss Jen!"
Ahh!
I've been spotted!
I spoke in mumbles
and the usual
babbling nonsense
and sculked away
after I met
the whole, unimpressed
family.
I managed a joke,
horrible and trying,
yet there was
mutual understanding
in all our fake chuckling.
I was wearing my black
bike shorts, Panama Rocks
tee shirt, pink sneakers,
and I smelt to high heaven.
I grabbed a jar of triple
succotash, as if
intentionally.
Earlier, I was well kept
and wearing a ladylike dress
to a friend's birthday party.
Then, I had it together.
Who can maintain
that level of normality
for a whole day?
I'm not going
to the grocery store
tomorrow.
A symphony of spoons,
a poised poke of fork quartet prongs,
the clatter of knives
resounding, rebounding
in a chamber of diphthongs.
The boil and sizzle of oils,
crisping the chips, tempura and pakora to brown.
so biting the crust
makes the cracks ring out loud,
then softens to an ooze.
the slow chewing flows
into a sing-along song,
as the tongue savors the juicy flavors.
A slice of ripe lime, bright green
a gentle, slow pour of warm wine,
draws out two vowels to sound as one
as the mouth rounds on every morsel.
The steam sighs, rising up in spirals,
from the feast that hums and mumbles, low and strong.
Each bite a voice unfolding—
a choir of chew and tongue, sung
savoring the diphthongs
in each mouthful of potpourri chowder.
picking up the bottle
putting it to my lips.
, its empty
start packing a bowl
getting higher and higher
losing touch with my soul
hearing voices that won't cease
constantly disrupting my thoughts
mumbles and murmurs
drive me insane
hearing thousands of people whisper my name
I'm losing touch with it all
I'm not sure what's left
“do it”
“ no one would notice”
“it’s just a scratch”
“ your overacting”
“superficial”
whispers, mumbles
when i’m alone
they never leave
never will
so i will not sleep
never, never will
when i can hear the ghosts in my walls.
Decidedly, no longer a teenager
Even older than the president, I'd wager
Curmudgeonly, "that's not music", he mumbles
Reliably, "prices are too high", he grumbles
Each year, his age is closer to infinity
Perhaps that's how many times he wakes up to pee
I guess the time has come, I must accep' it -
To tell you the truth, it's me who's decrepit
I am just a poor boy
Though my story's seldom told
I have squandered my resistance
For a pocketful of mumbles
Such are promises
All lies and jest
Still, a man hears what he wants to hear
And disregards the rest
Nor is it strange
After changes upon changes
We are more or less the same
After changes we are more or less the same
In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of every glove that laid him down
Or cut him, 'till he cried out
In his anger and his shame
"I am leaving, I am leaving"
But the fighter still remains
Parts of:
The Boxer by Simon and Garfunkel
Still Here
I will remain
Despite the strain
The punches thrown
The anger sown
The promises made
The truth does fade
I hear what I want to hear
Disregard what I fear
I bear scars
From life’s wars
Knocked about
But never out
I am still here
I shout
fruit
we sway in the wind
but i grasp the air
in hopes it can sweep me from this branch
this branch-
preserving the purity of my skin-
is forced to let me fall
i rip from the loosening grip of my cluster
a wound on my side-
evidence of a new chance-
gifted by violent departure
i feel the air on my palms
i smash into the ground
mud covers my face.
i gaze up to the branch-
my past shimmers in the glaring sun.
a blue bird flies overhead
her beauty exerts itself effortlessly over my grime.
she parades her freedom
as the mud hardens under the kiln of the sun
i signal to the bird.
recognizing my flare, she glides to my side
and picks me apart
as i lay here-
opened up to this beast-
i listen to her speak
her tongue mumbles a foreign language
one that doesnt wish things away
a language learned from experiences
observed in her fulfilled juvenility
when all that is left
is the muddy skin on my back,
i sink into the earth
decaying for more time than i ever spent on a branch
why would i ever
excuse myself from youth to preserve my expiration?
i forfeit my experience then,
to gain a lonely breath here
A Winter’s Night
A winter’s night collects the stares and
the mumbles of
the deaf.
The sequence of events
Lead me to believe
That love exists
The sequence of drama
Lead me to believe
That the story is readable
Who could have thought?,
The sea speaks in tongues
Are you listening?
A profound word
The birds mumbles the unknown
Can you relate?
To the truth
Who could have known?,
The sequence of events
Lead me to believe
That lies exists
The sequence of drama
Lead me to believe
That the story is yet to begin
Who could have thought?.
Summer breeze, bones at ease.
Schedule clear, mind clear.
Belly full, tea at hand.
Love and cat both sitting near.
Hawks aloft, quietly.
Bats asleep, naturally.
The half remaining moon climbing
up to the Eastern horizon.
Cedars busy not rotting, cattails busy
decorating, ever so briefly, the not-there air.
The wind shifts...mint and meadow flower.
The winds shift...now the horse manure.
The Dào speaks and whispers,
roars and mumbles.
Her lessons ceaselessly
thread through Named and Noticed;
silk offering pearls.
Weaving warp through weft,
her unbounded Echolessons
knit the Fabric of Life to the
web of Space, of Time.
The wind shifts...playground sounds.
The winds shifts...I’m not now around.
we encounter a neighbour
who suffering from delusional dementia
he mumbles and stumbles in delirium
we pause awhile to assist
yet we know his disability is permanent
so apart from informing his kith and kin
who in any event are apathetic
there is nothing we really do
all around we see suffering and decay
something within us too is dying
or perhaps it’s already dead
as we become indifferent
to tremors in the void
A flattened rose mumbles
An old cracked button chuckles
Tickled by a 2nd place ribbon
In the corner a tattered doll weeps
Comically consoled by a one-eyed bear
Ballet slippers long for a pointed toe
A dried corsage sits inside a dusty tiara
A leather-bound diploma shouts success
A tear stained letter sorrow
For joy and sadness are but fleeting moments
Imbedded in the soul of ephemera
In front of the class
she obediently stands
her fingers locked in cradled hands
with downcast eyes and trembling lip
she leaks a tear that sears her soul
then meekly voiced
and barley heard
she mumbles what she thinks the teacher wants.
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