Dashes, burst in flashes!
Apostrophes, aim well!
Commas, strong thy slashes!
Punctuation, pell-mell!
Ancient pyramid, the moon.
When you gaze, seen: what?
Troubadour, best hold thy tune!
Poet, make the cut!
Toil, recoil, beneath the soil.
Ensconce, O seance.
Ailing patient, insides roil?
Mud, sir. For the nonce.
Ivy, cover all you see.
As a blanket be.
Greenery, grow constantly!
Ocean link to sea!
Causal chain, blight with thy bane?
Well, friend, I'd best not.
Reality to remain?
Death is thine, robot.
Spirit of tomorrow!
In thy name we invoke!
Bitter is to borrow.
Signal well, O smoke.
Lightning, storms. They come in swarms!
Angry spirit forms!
Nightmare, violate the norms!
He who freezes warms!
Thus lava, O volcano!
Eruption, firework!
Dappled roe, run mid the flow!
Carrion crow, berserk!
In the tiny panel room, there’s a distant sound of thunder:
we huddle together, instinctively even though we are not acquaintances
two people caught in a small space while Armageddon happens around us
We exchange first names; I know this is the end
I have already seen several colleagues leap to their death
the woman has torn her pantihose; there are remnants of sash in her hair
her forehead has slashes of soot across it
I never expected this, I told her
an inner voice told me we had to get to a stairwell
We are 82 floors up! I argued. The voice was insistent.
I lift her with me, and force her to head down those stairs
It is dark and dreary. Evil is lurking around every corner.
My heartbeat has never sounded this loud.
That was 9-11-2001.
We are still good friends 24 years later.
I had worn the hat almost to death
It was a fishing cap, with a picture
Cannot remember what the picture was now
it had worn off a long time ago
It had fallen in the lake several times
but I always retrieved it, because it was green
My favorite color, and it had been my Daddy’s
It used to smell like him.
The seams had split, and the brim was peeling
It had slashes in it, as if it had been knifed
I am sure it was at least fifty years old
I kept it until it no longer smelled like Daddy.
roots wrenched from the soil
tendrils ripped from trellis frames
I scour myself raw
clutching a fragile harvest
in my bare, cold, trembling hands
A knife slashes through
the bruises and bitter scars
etched deep in my skin
leaving only what still glows
and can sustain my hunger
steam clouds coil and writhe
from the pot of shattered parts
softened by the heat
rendered down, made pliable
enough to begin again
I devour this dish
a meal for my well-being
inflamed with spices
for renewal, bite by bite
to face tomorrow's trials
Yesterday is wrapped loosely
in the barbs and silky vapor of memory.
Tomorrow is a Mahogany wall of steep hope
slippery anxiety.
The Present is an awkward roll on an ocean.
of crimson crests and sable troughs.
Perfumed sails and bow-crushing sirens
Flashes of flippers and fins.
Sudden slashes and clicks.
The tapestry of grand sudden sorrow.
Unmet expectations strike hard,
hurting where they languish long.
Unkept promises are blows earned,
hitting where they find no resistance.
Unkind words are slashes harsh,
ripping through the calm conscience.
The dormant volcano within the soul
then gets the upsurge of melted psychic mantle
in the crust of brittle tolerance,
that collapses in the caldera cradling the vent,
reaching the magma chamber in the core.
The soul erupts the lava in the wild,
burns the gentle patience as it flows.
Uncontrolled, it blazes the heart,
undowsed, it singes the sane senses.
The smoke billows up thick and intense,
clouds the deranged essence.
Words rise like Sphinx from the toxic ashes,
perish the patient face of mental restraint.
The flame surges in the stream of neurons,
no longer the carrier of conformist signals.
From the volcanic inferno of the soul
the erupted fiery lava called anger flows
in the torrents of blistering words,
scalding whatever comes in the way,
blazing a furrow for the reticent life.
Visage stark and eyes of steel
He shares my thoughts and what I feel
And seems to know more than I’ve known
The face in the mirror sees through me.
He knows my faults, my secret sins
And bears no mercy without or within
Judgement swift cuts to the bone
The face in the mirror weighs me
Dreams and goals, schemes and plans
He shatters with a sneering glance
And his silence is the only tone
The face in the mirror knows me
He measures my worth with soulless stare
And soundlessly he lays me bare
Worthless his lips appear to moan
The face in the mirror shows me
He finds me lacking and less each day
Though why so harsh he will not say
Just a loathing low hushed groan
The face in the mirror wounds me
His disregard so plain and clear
He knows my pain and stokes my fear
His twisted lips set the tone
The face in the mirror grieves me
He arbitrates my very life
Slashes my soul with psychic knife
His cruelty hard as stone
The face in the mirror hates me
No escape and no reprieve
This simulacrum will never leave
His torment won’t let me alone
The face in the mirror is me
Promises not kept are like brutal blows,
ruthless ripping words are the harsh slashes.
They strike unaware where latent hope grows,
cleave through the ruptured heart as it crashes.
The mind becomes angry fire of the wild,
uncontrolled, it simmers the blood of pride,
flares to burn the gentle patience defiled.
Not dowsed, it singes sound senses defied.
The smoke billows up opaque and intense,
conscience trips losing its stability.
Vile breath is charged with ashes of hate dense,
face of restraint they destroy instantly.
Anger then turns to perilous terrain.
That’s not safe, so get away from it sane.
Wilhelm de Kooning in a state of flux
spontaneous gestures at the crux
Joan Miro with impulsive slashes&spots
broken lined perspective dots
Henri Michaux painting without a thought
arn active process randomly sought
Prayer
open door to heaven - devil’s descent at such prospects
teeth and claws - the nails on the cross
light seeps through Christ’s wounds - more sheep gather
angels take notice - boldness of blood, sweat and tears
angels and demons - double-edged sword slashes perversity
prayer’s perspicacity - heaven wins
Unkept promises are hard blows
that hit the psyche unexpecting.
Unkind words are harsh slashes
that rip through the essence undeserving.
The mind becomes the fire in the wild,
burns the gentle patience as it flares.
Uncontrolled, it boils the blood,
undowsed, it singes the sane senses.
The scorching words stoke the fire,
the smoke billows up thick and intense,
clouds the disbalanced conscience.
Words rise like Sphinx from toxic ashes,
perish the patient face of restraint.
The flame surges in the stream of neurons,
no longer the carrier of forgiveness signals.
The mind turns into volcanic inferno,
erupting fiery lava called anger to flow
in torrents of blistering apathy,
scalding whatever comes in the way,
blazes a furrow in the timid life.
Menacing winds howl through the fragile trees,
In shadows, rain slashes windows like a whip,
Lightning cracks—each flash a brief, jagged tease,
Thunder roars, shaking the earth with its grip.
Outside, the storm batters everything in sight,
Nerves stretch thin as we brace through the night.
The picture on our parlor wall
Is really not my taste at all.
The thing was chosen by my wife;
I hung it for a quiet life.
She tells me it’s the modern trend,
A concept I can’t comprehend.
A picture, to appeal to me,
Should look like what it’s meant to be.
Just what this artist had in mind,
Well I don’t mean to be unkind
But what it is I have no clue
And, if you saw it, nor would you.
Lots of swirls and lots of slashes
And a load of random splashes.
But I’m afraid it’s here to stay.
It doesn’t matter what I say.
Regardless of the charm it lacks,
At least it hides those plaster cracks.
Children cherish a summer rain
it turns them into unchained frogs
hopping around the gushing drains
splashing about mud puddle bliss
catching those silver manna drops
with pinkish frog tongue flicks.
The chalk people, in meltdown mode
bark out from plastic abodes
warning of killer lightning flashes
thunderous bolts and lion slashes.
The chalk people strip the hoppers
of their short-lived, muddy happiness.
Scolding them into a soapy warm bath
quieting them into smaller pieces of themselves.
God bless the muddy hoppers.
Unkept promises are like brutal blows,
ruthless ripping words are the harsh slashes,
they strike unaware where latent hope grows,
and cleave through ruptured heart as it crashes.
The mind becomes raging fire of the wild,
uncontrolled, it simmers the blood of pride,
flares to burn the gentle patience defiled.
Undowsed, it singes sane senses defied.
The smoke billows up opaque and intense,
conscience trips losing its stability.
Vile breath is clouded by the ashes dense,
face of restraint they deface instantly.
Mind then turns to volcanic infernos,
with dancing lava of anger scorn flows.
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