He's back
like he never left
with scary undertones
in tow
The story goes
They're chasing ghosts
& a known host
of other things
Who knows
what they're really
after in reality
They know Casper
brings a mentality
that borders on
unfriendly
Never mind the surface
it's what's
underneath the matter
that counts
The numbers continue
to mount because
of the unseemly
things that are about
This is a stout reminder
not to take anything
in life for granted
On this planet
the thinly constructed
veil hides more
than they surveil
With a heavy head
I say frail appearances
shouldn't be taken lightly
Granted they talk
a good game
but can they play
them all the same?
So many strange things
casually happening
but this is no
coincidence
They coincide with
certain incidents while they
claim they're on
the fence
His cryptic brilliance
is in question
but I swear that's
nothing new
It's true his
suggestions grew wings
& flew the coop with
an air of exposing truth
For those that know
this is the proof
that they try but cannot
hide
He resides somewhere
between what is seen
& not seen with
normal eyes
The faithful bow their heads
at the call to prayer
and kneel down in humility
but what if no one's listening
what if no one's there who cares
then it's all futility
a crime a waste of time
throughout the ages
what makes them willing to follow
like lambs to the slaughter
a purposelessness inside needs filling
an empty shell wholly hollow
it's all man-made solemnity
with ceremonial trappings
a means to control the soul
disguised in thinly-veiled wrappings
the so-called spiritual leaders
have much to answer for
no matter which religion
not a one guilt-free of shame
to make the penitent cower
tho' all is done in the name
of a higher power
The shadow in the night beckons.
I slowly rise from my warm and cosy bed
Only to follow the urge that drives me mad
Into spectral half-fledged woodland,
That spreads beyond my lonely tower.
Without volition, I approach slowly
A great, gaunt gate that towered
Over a ghostly path among the ashen trees.
A pale moon lights the blanched greensward,
That covered thinly the winding trail,
And from afar, I hear a river,
I hear its humming, throbbing, low, ferocious call,
Meant to disturb the serenity of my soul.
But I force myself into my somnambulism,
And perhaps, lull myself to dream of angels.
Over ink-drenched pages shadows crawled
Filled with tales of the broken who dared to fall
Tears thinly coated the weak and weary lines
Blurring the edge of truth with pain and glory intertwined
Through every ink smudge a story’s shape takes form
A tempest's tranquil eye documenting the storm
Wept-on pages with stories yield a heart laid bare
An ink-stained notebook with pages forever declares
Random and sweeping thought’s authorities
With the notebook’s ink holding poetic majorities
I once could feel the stars align,
Their whispers wound with threads of time,
A quiet hum, a tender plea,
The echoing pulse of eternity.
But now the golden cords unwind,
The sun retreats, the stars grow blind,
And telepathy slips like sand,
No longer cupped within my hand.
I held the moon, her silver face,
And squeezed her tight with soft embrace,
Her gleaming tears fell to the sea,
And birthed the waves' bright symphony.
But even as the tides retreat,
A restless rhythm bittersweet,
The touch of love begins to fade,
A fragile web too thinly made.
Still, gratitude, a seed of fire,
Burns gently on, my heart's desire—
To cradle those who are my kin,
To know the spark that dwells within.
Compassion swells in tender streams,
Empathy's glow, a quiet beam,
For those who rise, for those who fall,
We are the same, one thread in all.
Up and down, the cycle turns,
The cosmic dance of light that burns,
And though the moon slips from my grip,
Her essence lingers on my lips.
In loss, I find the quiet art,
Of squeezing stillness from my heart.
1&1/2cups of chopped mushrooms
1/4 cup of drained chopped spinach
4 tablespoons of minced turkey liver
1 cup of chopped cooked bacon
1/4 cup of yellow bell pepper minced
1/2 cup dried parmesan cheese
1 cup of chopped olives
1 teaspoon of anchovy paste
5 tablespoons of minced garlic
1 cup of chopped onions
3 tablespoons of sour cream
5 tablespoons of heavy cream
2 tablespoons of olive oil
1 tablespoon of red pepper flakes
1 teaspoon of dried thyme
1 tablespoon of lemon juice
2 tablespoons of sundried tomato flakes
___________________________________
The Making of The Mallard Mimic
thinly sliced potatoes layered
in rows
and fried in duck fat
to accompany the dish......_
filling for Mallard Mimic
Turkey
stuffed (with the above)
with prosciutto and swiss cheese
Puff pastry wrapped in
swiss and prosciutto
egg yolked glazed
with truffle powder and pork rind
crumbles
and hollindise
After midnight, an uncle
was born a newborn.
In the center of the Buddhist room where incense smoke lingers
He was born sitting on his haunches
He stood up, his legs trembling
“I really wanted to be a steamboat.“
He was a troublesome man.
So the next day, we went out to the harbor in the morning.
Uncle Pulp was armored up with a heavy body.
“Watch out, Uncle!”
I closed my eyes.
Behind my eyelids, the sunlight shone thinly.
Sure enough, he slips on the tetrapod.
He slips on the tetrapod and flips over.
His head was bleeding and he couldn't move a muscle.
I knew he would not live long
But the way it all ended so quickly
I was a little disappointed and sentimental for a while.
The next afternoon
under the bridge, where I could hear the sound of the rain
I was playing with stones
The leaden sky stretched far out to sea
to the sea beyond.
Then I saw my uncle's soul emerge from his corpse
the soul of my uncle, shimmering
It came to me
“I still can't be a steamboat
But I think I can become a mirage.“
With a look of unconcern on his face
He went out into the rainy sea.
And he never came back.
A whispered shhh hung in the air
Tall grass rustled nearby
A slight sniffy, snorty snout sound
Preceded the crinkly crunch of dry grass
Sweat slithered across my brow
A large head appeared
Violently shaking
Hanging jowls jousting
Saliva arcing aimlessly
A growl ruffling the air
We ran
Screams scurrying ahead
Saliva spewing demon behind
Fear fueled our flight
Her hand thinly slipping from mine
She fell
The demon approached
We heard her
Breathlessly shriek
“DAD
….CALL THE DOG”
Old means sudden pain of unknown origin.
Fluency of mind becomes like a foreigner.
Old means the circle has shrunk to a point.
Old is ignored, like a newly minted orphan.
Old is when the glitter of friendships fades away.
The aloofness of acquaintance retreats into its haze.
Old is a black-veiled wolf cooing like a virgin sage.
Old is the white crow cawing down the final days.
Old is dusty gray and a mountain lake so cold...
The crippled myth is that it's crafted out of gold.
Old is infinite goodbyes and infrequent hellos.
Old inhales its ashes, then is etched onto stone...
Old is both a satin blessing and a burlap curse.
After all, we could have perished well before our birth.
Old is not for the thinly veined nor the pastel-hearted.
Old recalls that wide-eyed child curled up inside the dark.
Tiny drops of water, falling from halfway down the sky,
Shedding sights of splendour, as the pillow soft clouds cry.
When a silvery drop falls upon a leaf, its green hue cascades.
As more drops fall they join to spill to the ground, the leaf fades.
The rain begins as a thinly woven veil, a shower so precise.
Falling softly upon your skin, a sensation to beckon and entice.
As droplets of a fine mist explode to quite a heavy downfall,
Resplendent colours mix with the sun and create a golden shawl.
Rain is welcomed with its rich gift of nourishing water to all.
As it’s momentum grows the sound is stronger of a heavier fall.
We know there will be a glorious rainbow appear as proof,
But they aren't so splendid when there is an almighty hole in the roof.
There was headspace for thinking,
but the roof sagged low,
it restricted imagination.
Rooms stacked on rooms,
all boxed in.
The only way to hear
any other part of himself
was to drill holes,
in the dry walls of dead cells.
Nurses attended to his hands and feet,
he told them often,
that he felt they had been
nailed to a crucifix
he once found painted,
onto a public restroom door.
When dead at last,
his brain was thinly carved,
slices were offered
to a holy communion,
of private investigators.
A much-redacted report
failed to be widely published,
it could not be read,
not even between the lines.
we keep away from the racket
street noise, huffing and puffing
to whisper intimately, a lilt of catchy
its weight of dandelions seeded
an ebb and flow of what others thinly imagine
we whisper a new kind of lyric
personalized
gratifying
soft words of casual enticement
me finding her eyes that dart like Dagwood tumbles
whispers to remind us of a shared love of lines
like Picasso angles
or jutting pines in backlit light
as hawk wings tower bladed lines
hushed words
crafted to startle and surprise
a serene feeling of time slowing
what could go wrong in whispers
like syrup on waffles?
our way to trace clues of pleasure
rich in concealment
to fill our minds
with music at low volume
played within a world
as it is
pulling apart
tilted at us
On those long days
when it was too hot to ride
or run, a boy would find
an island of cool beneath
a tree and sit there
with his pocket knife
to whittle away time
and a piece of wood.
A good blade could shape
the hull of a model boat
or thinly peel an apple
or carve a name clean
into the smooth bark
of a spotted gum.
There was a world to make
with a pocket knife,
mine a pearl handled beauty
with two folding blades,
short and long.
It was beyond the mind
to think it a weapon, only
a treasured possession
of pure utility, a tool
for hands to bring forth
a creation or to cut free
a form from its binding.
Finally,
years saw its blades become
blunt and spend less time
in my pocket, more languishing
at the bottom of a drawer.
It's still preserved with
a nostalgic reverence.
Nowadays, whittling
has become a lost art for boys,
pocket knives tarnished
by a new age and drafted
for duty in the service
of fear. On those long days
when it is too hot
to do anything much,
hands still crave to carve
things that substitute
for a piece of wood,
twitching away
in the cramped solitude
of an air-conditioned self.
interesting
the girl has red hair
she is around 200 pounds
she dances well
people throw coins
into a violin case
no violin
there are pidgins on the pavement
they are also dancing
between the hurrying legs
The girl is an angel
I know these things
gut response things
reflected everywhere
glass me
moves in dozens of directions
the red head
follows my window forms
Interesting
skimming under thin ice
from underneath
i have no head
but the hat is very smartly placed
dancing particles are named
only when they join
even when the street has no name
the cold weather has dead-fisheyes
sex talk overhears itself
interesting
naked slippers walk quietly into the light
a red face melts on its own hot breath
fat girl stops dancing
winks at my thin lips
the thin coat and thinly disguised admiration
only my ankles are swollen
interesting
In the mouth of muted madness,
sits teeth ready to devour
any word that arises
Its inflated ego is like a belly never
full always hungering for more
Clamoring for a meal as the hours
pass, it opened doors
that can never be closed
The monster rose from their incantations
sown on fertile grounds
during witching hours
Who knew those words held all
that power to create & destroy?
An unholy matrimony of energies synergized
and employed for battle,
manifest to the surprise of many
Thinly disguised excitement covered
pursed lips as they
ready for underworlds kiss
The merging of the 2 brings both heaven
& hell to its knees
as bride and groom 2 be
Things were never the same after they
opened that door designed
for pain,
as something else was ushered in
causing the world & plans to change
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