Unmolested Poems

The Pond Gulls

The town pond was drained,
revealing minnows
wriggling in the residual water
they milled and turned
in silvered arabesques
choregraphed by a rippling wind.

Large ocean-going gulls
descended out of a troubled sky,
they walked among the writhing small fry
plucked out the little fish
employing just the tip of their great beaks
as if sensible of the delicacy of such morsels.

Dark clouds foretold a storm,
strange but the gulls did not fly off
to feast on Lake Erie’s plentiful bounty,
they lingered here on this little pond
like diners at a buffet
skewering only these bitsy sprats,

while squalls fermented the Great Lakes
and much bigger fish flew unmolested
through those high cresting waves.

Little ponds it seems,
do not at all mirror
the courage of the free.

Faraway

I love how wè live faraway
From the noise and voices
Echoing like dominoes falling
fast and faster into the abyss
Of destruction.

I love how we live safely,
We think, as long as the world
Stays confined within electronic
Devices like caged birds, wings
Beating breezes into deluges.

I love how we live unmolested 
By the sharp edges of violence,
The softness of sun when it rises
And when it sets buttresses our fortress
Of blindness.

Pit Valleys

In parts of Derbyshire and Yorkshire
there are still pit-valleys,
where industry and nature collide,
marry, and have their natural born children.

The earth once gouged, raped and laid desolate,
is landscaped by those who once despoiled.

Time plays its part, plants its seeds,
it up-roots high piled slagheaps,
softens broken mountains of concrete.

I have walked these valleys,
in some I had to stumble over the fractured bones
of abandoned and rusting machinery;
the fire scorched detritus of coal mines.

I have also strolled through resurrected Eden's,
vales recreated out of the unspeakable
into the bright eloquence of beauty.

The hands of men
and the wings of gardening angels
have covered-up all self-made wounds,
have put to bed the deeply trammeled.

The Lord of daisies and daffodils
strolls unmolested once more,
through the worst and the best
that good intentions can do.

The Kill

The rabbit on my lawn
was thrown sideways,
by some razor-clawed hawk.

The carcass is fresh
and still mainly unmolested.
I guess the hawk took flight
when I opened the door.

After the violence
there's a gap, an hiatus,
a softly rooted abeyance.

At some time,
a time far beyond the next breath
the raptor
will plunge out of the evening
to pluck the meat away.

Until then, I, the hawk and maybe
even the dead rabbit
must wait
suspended upon
a thin thread of disquiet;

eyes fixed upon each moment
while we watch the gap get longer.

America Dreaming

It is time to get fresh America,
to be plucked wriggling out of that shining sea,
a fresh baked humanity, moon-beam buckled.
Pass no more pay-day-loans
into the purses of the pawn-shopping poor,
give no witness nor evidence
of city shame, and house crud.

America, you can do this.
I am a being from across the world
I am from the ***-end of times,
my transformation, a promise of our mutual destiny,
rampant & manifest, our fate falters
let us be unbridled from
both the prideful and the lackluster,
un-arrested and unmolested
by the land grubbing snipes
or the false-fronted back slappers.
We are better than this blare of ourselves,
and if not
we can make a wooden wagon wheel
from all our legendary days,

It’s not too late, wipe your ass America,
wipe your dirty face. the dusty empire is crumbling
yet our first day is not yet done.
I am ready, ready to soar out of a hundred landfills,
a prismatic dodo embossed upon a tarnished coin
my downy head newly scrubbed of old-time blood.

A Hunters Day

Buzzards are circling, hawks are screaming,
in the backyard crows are tearing into a dead pigeon.
Songbirds are not singing
but watch silently from the hedgerow.
This is a day for the predator's,
a black cat slinks through the trees
looking for a free-range lunch.
As a lad I used to shoot small birds
with a pellet gun,
now I shiver in the noon day sun,
hoping that the claws and razor beaks
will fade away to a place
where children never kill for thrills.
A land where pigeons fly unmolested -
undigested.

The Invisible Violin

If we are to discover what is in there
and out there
We must dare,

dare to look under seeking skulls
brace ourselves as a bridge
between their empty eye-sockets.

Spirit, that invisible violin,
unmolested by thought
must play a jig at a funeral.

Time, the whistling tinker-man,
must be set loose of his rags,
allowed to paint the wind.

The rattle of tin pots and kettles
the rocking of your caravan
are the tympanic chords,
drum-drumming
on a beach yet to be reached,

unless like hermit crabs
we leave our shells
and burst out into travelling music.

In Better Times

All strangers are savages,
Until dawn when their perceived spears are fishing poles cast.

Long shadows dance beneath the milieu of shades of orange and red,
As a La Noria spice market somewhere in a distant past.

A chilly morning in an unmolested woods,
Where the tree tops rock like masts.

And a torch on a dock lights the way,
Amid an unfamiliar darkness so vast.

Where welcomed in for some white pine tea,
Travelers share stories recaste.

Alas, in better times they say in every present,
Better times have long since passed.

I Can'T Hear You When You Whisper

" I CAN'T HEAR YOU WHEN YOU WHISPER "

you screech one final time, 
so loudly that the walls between us shake

(Listen, listen, listen!)

I repeat, with fresh rebellion
but to you, it's just a whisper
so you hear nothing

'til my lips are at your grimy ear 
and now it is too late

After I have done, you thump behind me down the cellar stairs, eyes aglitter

And leaning awkwardly against the roughened wall, 
stare past me as I work 

I may now speak my mind unmolested,
while you, of course, can make no further 
comment

These shaken walls hold sentences for far too many ghosts 
and tomorrow, I'll begin to tear them down
but for now, I eulogize at the height of my voice

so I can't hear you when you whisper

The Invisible Violin

If we are to discover what is out there
we must board the Holy Ghost,
cleave the winds of time
into gods and tridents,
count the star clusters within us.

Under seeking skulls: those white domes,
antique tripods brace themselves,
their quaint brass fittings
helping us to adjust
to the future.

Some seekers turn a grooved infinity sprocket,
some paint cave paintings on the arching
bones of craniums.

Spirit (that invisible violin),
is the prime element 
in these spiritual machines,
some of which gaze into darkness,
some that can push behind the past
into a freely radical moment
unmolested by thought.

The secondary element
is the whistling tinker man
or any god we choose to name.

The tertiary element
is the rattle of his pots and kettles
upon his moving caravan.
We hear those tympanic chords,
then like hermit crabs
we leave our shells
and burst out into travelling music.

Untrampled Sand

Untrampled Sand

Idyllic shorelines tucked away,
Are island protected in a tropical bay;
Below pastel skies polished by clouds,
Reveal a Shangri-La bathed in gold.

Untrampled sands, white and tanned,
Are cooled by waves and wind fanned.
Where exotic vegetation creeps unmolested,
Claiming squatter rights of fertile deposits.

Mollusk seashells litter the beach,
Within the cove’s curvature outreach.
Where hermit crabs upgrade shells,
And birds sing throughout the hills.

Un paraíso tropical de mi corazón.
En sueños con la mujer que amo.
Gracias por la memoria
Ese viento llena mi lienzo.
Mientras navego por los océanos.

A tropical paradise of my heart,
In dreams with the woman I love.
I thank you for the memory
That wind fills my canvas
As I sail the oceans.

Spring Beckoning

As the time of spring beckons 
                        

We all have this moment of clear-sightedness 
when we see we are of little importance other to the world 
and clear-eyed grasp our smallness.
We can in our tiny ways push the world forward an inch
perhaps to a fairer society where children do not die under 
the rubble of concrete.
We can do nothing to stop these people who will push
us into an Armageddon, and will they somehow think 
they can avoid the calamity when there is no one to blame.
There was a time when one could travel unmolested 
in the Arabic world, then the smell of petroleum and 
the white man came and destroyed the peace for greed.
No, not us the lesser people, we are victims too of their
hunger to dominate and enslave us in mortgages and loans
that can never be paid; so we watch and wait and when
the day of disaster comes shall I help the ruffians to my lifeboat.

Buddha's Smirk

Palm trees and bamboo tower
above me 
What grand stature! 
Patches of terra uncensored by grass
 Ferns intertwine, creating a 
jungle of green
Deceased, arid palm leaves
rest upon a bed of lively shrub
The humid, Hilo air
annoying, yet, a sense of 
warm, maternal embrace 
surrounds me 
Mr. Buddha, he sits, stone still
So patient
Unmolested by the humidity 
or the mosquitoes
An ever so slight grin he presents 
that says: 
"I don't know it all, but I am content."

To the Intruder In Mary's Garden

(Mary, Mary quite contrary, tending your garden just so;
planting your bells and cockle shells, and hoping to grow.)

I built a little house,
And dared to plant a few flowers in the garden.
Surrounded by gray stone walls and a prickly hedge,
The violets and the daisies grew unmolested.

I wasn't inhospitable.
I placed a bell on the front gate,
And built a flagstone path towards the kitchen door, 
For all legitimate passers-by.

But you came creeping,
Like a thief in the night. 
Over the wall,
And past the gate;
Sewing seeds of dissent
Wherever you trod. 

I suspected something might be wrong,
But I did not want to see,
So I buried the thought.
Trouble is, burying and planting 
Can have the same effect.

An alien bush
Grown from a monster seed,
Appeared like a feral plague.
I pruned and trimmed,
Pruned and trimmed,
Trimmed and pruned,
To no avail.

So now I see in the light of day,
Please take your weeds
And go,
Go far, far away.

For the entrance is the door,
And visitors ring the bell.
Those who stalk and slink
Mean nought but ill
I think...
I think.

Independence Day

Independence ... To. be cherished and protected 
Interdependence ... Live and let others live unmolested
Dependence ... On the God in whom we trust. 
God bless the U.S

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