A Spoke broke.
Once Bespoke,
In the ruins I toke.
What a joke.
Wish I'd croak.
Could a fire stoke?
Can it go unspoke?
Too much smoke,
Im bound to choke.
I see my Shadow as a cloak.
It looks so baroque.
I peer to see no folk.
The fire grows with burning oak.
I might die of heatstroke.
What I heard was not misspoke,
The time has come to uncloak
Yea yea slow poke,
Take another toke.
Just rememeber, you cant de-coke,
Until you fix that effing Spoke!
We as young clay are
molded and folded to
be the pretty pot being
stuffed into the ovens
before our edges can
even be buffed. I don't
want to be in this kiln
Its flames's to hot with
words left unspoke and
songs left un wrote. And when
I crack under the pressure they
set for us. They say to just glaze
over those cracks as they turn their
backs on the broken pot and it's
forgotten song. It's
melody of helps and
pleas left only for the
fool willing to see
a catastrophe
dressed in a
pretty dream.
The quietest places, and dim
Each day-lit hour
Do the worst of fears
It seems harbour.
Of a striped, snaked face-telling!
Pale, plain unspoke.
A look, feeds off yours
While we yet joke!
At the far end of the casket
his girlfriend hugged his wife
And told her she was sorry
that she tried to steal her life
Their tears then ran in unison
for a man who loved them both
The years they shared now testament
to a choice he left unspoke
They never met before this day
and would never meet again
But each knew well the other
and they almost felt like friends
The mistress left, the children wept
the grandkids played outside
His wife’s last words: “Your hell has passed
sleep well my love — goodbye”
(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)
Poetry is a prolonged kiss from the kingfisher's lips.
The interpreted being of a hummingbird’s wings.
The things you do or the things you don’t.
The things you say and the things left unspoke.
The truth, the lies, the half-full hopes.
The light, the dark,
the near and far, almost there’s.
Euphemisms. Nights spent in alleys.
Alone, apart, together at heart.
The life, the aches, the losses
new beginnings, lovers, losers.
Regret.
Regret.
Regret.
Nature, art, destruction,
or the remnants of.
Winners,
haves and have-nots.
Have you ever danced or chanted naked around a bonfire?
That is a poem.
What is a poem?
You.
What a gift it’s been
to be alive at the same time as your pretty face.
O, cruel Time...thou silent thief of breath,
Whose fingers trace the fragile veil of death;
Thou weav’st the hours in threads of grey,
Till love itself doth pale away.
Thou tak’st our laughter, sweet and brief,
And turn’st it into dust and grief;
Thou swallow’st faces, soft and fair,
Till none recall what once was there.
The heart’s confessions, still unspoke,
Lie buried deep where echoes choke;
The tender glance, the trembling vow,
All perish...none remember how.
Yet in thy wake, though all decays,
Some fire endures through mortal haze;
For words once breathed with soul’s intent
Outlast the frame that Time hath bent.
So love whilst hearts are yet entwined,
Lest silence chain thy speech confined;
Proclaim thy truth ere night unfold—
Time may erase me, but my words are told.
And thou...hast thine been told?
At the far end of the casket
his girlfriend hugged his wife
And told her she was sorry
that she tried to steal her life
Their tears then ran in unison
for a man who loved them both
The years they shared now testament
to a choice he left unspoke
They never met before this day
and would never meet again
But each knew well the other
and they almost felt like friends
The mistress left, the children wept
the grandkids played outside
His wife’s last words: “Your hell has passed
sleep well my love — goodbye”
(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)
That one lost their tongue
somewhere along the way
long ago, the sound,
doesn’t come out the same
anymore, so they roll it up
like a carpet containing
a nakedly dead body
of blunt words
like unplucked violins
untuned to how it all
really works
begging to be heard,
and the flowery prose,
purple and bruised
like over-ripe fruit
teeth rottingly sugary sweet,
is now seen
day-in-and-night-out,
struggling with ease
way too much
like madness overgrown,
the dense overgrowth
of language unspoke
hides glittering gems
blushing shamefully
more exquisite than
the now daily averies
all penned in babel
that flow in glass jarring
anticipated patterns
of suffocating
paisley prose,
the simple beauty
in the plainly spoke,
never again
to be seen nor heard,
the mercurial metaphors
birdfeed scattered
to the begging migrations
of petulant bluebirds
naughty nightingales
honey trapping
wet-beaked hummingbirds
all beating hearts
with their wild wind flapping,
tossing sticks and stones
to those tongue thirsty
kiss lapping, lap dancing
love parched, gargling
swallows
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Taken sideways, swept as a web strung spider
Sand sugar legged staggered specimen lured by weightless
Drifters soon to be lifted by unruly tide's violent
Fears ditched for the squall enthrall of ocean fizzed caress
Bolstered by booming blue brew, cork floated
Swell surmounts without pattern or rationale, contankerous
Bobbed from below, five foot heads promoted
Bounced jack in boxes sprung from rolling realm rapturous
By tide's untimed tumult, sea steamed unite
Sapphire stew participants simmer, softening vegetables
Drawn to next wily wave, crest conquer delight
Drag of salt soaked slow motion moon cascade incredible
Roaring turquoise rise, crumb humans crafted
Into toys at mercy of lapis lazuli, control's essential revoke
Track formation, tremor with desirous laughter
Brought to cool commotion by compulsion utterly unspoke
26th September
- For Ace -
At the far end of the casket,
his girlfriend hugged his wife
And told her she was sorry,
that she had tried to steal her life
Their tears then ran in unison,
for a man who loved them both
The years they shared now testament,
to a choice he left unspoke
They never met before this day,
and would never meet again
But each knew well the other,
and they almost felt like friends
The mistress left, the children wept,
and the grandchildren played outside
As his wife looked down, saying: “Your hell has passed,
sleep well my love—goodbye”
(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)
Everything I do
I do it for you
I do it for him
And for her too
I want to please
To put at ease
It’s quite a shame
That no one sees
Their pain is mine
I’m less than fine
I’m not caught up
If their behind
I fall apart
It breaks my heart
I see their sad
And fill my cart
When checking out
My load is stout
All trials combined
I need to shout
But still, I smile
Just for a while
Until I crack
Emotions wild
No word unspoke
My kindness broke
I can’t rewind
There’s no remote
Now I’m the jerk
And still, I hurt
Stealing pain
Will never work
Who only Honor can, must never Love!
(And Yet, he Loves, all hidden and unspoke!)
Who hath Heart sworn to Holy Spirit Dove,
Can never break what must remain unbroke!
Yet words a-tangle mesmerize him, still!
They speak in echoes and tangential cries.
They do not dare the sacred chalice to spill
And yet he holds the image of her eyes
As jewels to look on, filled with misty hope
O! Would that I were he, that I might love,
And in my loving, hold the higher rope
But this, my friends, bears never thinking of,
For thinking leads to yearning, that, to doing,
When he that Loves must end his hope’s pursuing.
At the far end of the casket,
his girlfriend hugged his wife
And told her she was sorry,
that she had tried to steal her life
Their tears then ran in unison,
for a man who loved them both
The years they shared now testament,
to a choice he left unspoke
They never met before this day,
and would never meet again
But each knew well the other,
and they almost felt like friends
The mistress left, the children wept,
and the grandchildren played outside
As his wife looked down, saying: “Your hell has passed,
sleep well my love—goodbye”
(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)
At the far end of the casket,
his girlfriend hugged his wife
And told her she was sorry,
that she had tried to steal her life
Their tears then ran in unison,
for a man who loved them both
The years they shared now testament,
to a choice he left unspoke
They never met before this day,
and would never meet again
But each knew well the other,
and they almost felt like friends
The mistress left, the children wept,
and the grandchildren played outside
As his wife looked down, saying: “Your hell has passed,
sleep well my love—goodbye”
(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)
I feel the spiders touch of silken shirt on skin
Hear the hidden thoughts in words unspoke
I see beyond these eyes
And smell the past, present and foreword
as it lies prone at my feet
just the taste of me
Don't play
never lose
Laughing from last place
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