A boy all alone, with Binky in tow
In search of that place where the wild things grow
No compass in hand to say where to go
An innocent child would already know
He traveled by day and traveled by night
By the sun's red glow and the full moon's light
Bravely forged ahead with untrammeled sight
The sheer audacity of this lads plight
Over hill and dale, what progress he made
Determined he trudged over field and glade
Near the end of hope, the boy kneeled and prayed
Resting only now under forest shade
I want to stay here, teach me what you know
Please Lord, I have no other place to go
Now this child of four, Binky still in tow
Will live in the woods where the wild things grow
Garnering complete elucidation
within the untrammeled confines
of several exceptional poetic lines
most certainly deserves validation
Does brevity confine poetic thought
not if readers have a vivid imagination
Comprehension is found where sought
Three lines can be a brilliant summation
Poetry is shadows that come to light
The tears trickling down from my eyes
My emotions escaping in sorrowful sighs
Easing burdens and healing scars as I write
Twenty-four hours ago,
the wind ran across the lake searching for a place to land.
Some shingles followed, torn from their topless roots.
This morning there is some abuse,
feathers fly on their own,
the mallards are whispering in the huddled reeds,
however, daylight stubbles upright
into a high-rising sky.
The television is predicting clear sight soon.
The radio coughs, and stutters, its talk
flutters from a loose tongue.
Behind closed doors
we gather wool from clouded minds.
Ropes of rain tangle the already tangled,
yet the air is not short of fresh breath,
it recovers
in the untrammeled stems of the living.
Tawny is the hair upon the slim vixen's back,
it is as sleek as ever; she goes to the water,
to sip the last few drops of a homeless storm
long past.
Untrammeled by his Tweeting tears
His hand now explore forward gears,
Itching for a new leap,
Let ‘woods be dark and deep’,
For a hit, hard and hot,
Now or not, on the spot,
Not for naught a lone Musketeer!
_____________________________________
Happenings | 10.03.2023 | now
Poet’s Note: Musk fishes in troubled waters. Silicon Valley Bank is in trouble. He is contemplating acquiring it… soon after Tweeter. But we know, he is a lone Musketeer..
When the world was youthful
spiderwebs sang as they were spun.
Language was woven in the air
as accents of winds and trees
Untrammeled meadows annunciated
upon the lips of dens and burrows.
Fresh bathed daisies signed a speech
as they swayed,
buttercups birthed calligraphy’s of sunlight.
Words were idioms painted upon
the melodious leafage
of the up-risen and rising.
Then that shaggy brat
the primordial ape-man grunted forth,
translating its gripey gut
through a creaky tongue.
A mouth-made muse had begun.
A nascent poet boldly stood forth
rhyming would with could,
and the dumbest of his tribe
cheered him fit to bust
while the green grown world
shrugged and turned its back
in dismayed disgust.
Rain drags words out of a dark sky.
Words raw enough to grow antlers,
lightsome enough to slip between
parting flesh,
unmade words grown
from mouse ears and the stringy lips
of hollow reeds.
A long untrammeled Celtic rivering
unabridged and uttered sheer.
If I croon a cobbled nursery hymn
then that blank meaningless verse
might transmute into the ancient rattle
of pebbles on a Scottish beach,
or a seagulls blare from a bobbing coracle.
Something frail and Irish stumbles by,
size it up, seize it, snare it,
unlatch its tenuous tones, the lull and hum,
let it rest between harboring cheeks
recall itself through the hollow bones
of the fierce and fallen.
I cannot understand languages,
not broken languages and their scrabble
their luggage was ever too heavy on my tongue,
but Gaelic is a raptor in my blood
or a cuckoo born
in a ten thousand year old nest.
Here in the flood of a singing rain,
I could be damaged enough
to be what I seek,
then perhaps faraway mountains
would haunt no more.
Awoke, did I,
to trap a dream
untrammeled in its art
But hurriedly it lost its gleam,
though I drew it part by part.
How to capture,
how to keep
such singleness of soul?
Such loving rapture,
born of sleep-
'twas one of heaven's foal!
When the world was youthful
spiderwebs sang as they were spun.
Language was woven in the air
as accents of winds and trees
conveyed by an eloquent sky.
Untrammeled meadows annunciated
upon the lips of dens and burrows
scooped by shrew, mole, and vole.
Fresh bathed daisies signed a speech
as they swayed,
buttercups birthed calligraphy’s of sunlight.
Giddy rills gave voice to fritillaries
that flew to the sun or moon.
Words were idioms painted upon
the melodious leafage
of the up-risen and rising.
Then that shaggy brat
the primordial ape it grunted forth,
translating its gripey gut
through the clack of a creaky tongue.
Guttural and gregarious
it learned to babble and
belch an oral discordance.
It yapped and yawped,
yawped and yapped
until a spoken language
verbosely pivoted to prolix
polluting the very airy air.
Then it was
that a nascent poet boldly stood
rhyming would with could
until even the dumbest of his tribe
understood
and cheered him fit to bust
while the green grown world
with all its idiomatic kin
lost the will to express
as before
for the fluent earth again.
I go back,
reversing imaged time
to when I felt
and knew untrammeled internal space
responsive within external
eternally immortal times
of Earth's regenerative history.
For some,
less fortunate re-imagining,
comparing rights,
contrasting lefts
I hear no such winning exterior ecopolitics
with winning internal empowerment
and self-investment
since emerging from EarthMother's
redundant DNA nurturing womb.
But, for a few,
a time of peace
recalls a later conscious memory,
a time of courageous and curiously restoring justice
to those few relationships
showing early signs of uncreative tension.
These, unusually blessed
with resilient confluence,
may not recognize each other
and yet search for their potential bodhisattva peers,
returning to these childhood experiences
to remember slowly regrowing what went right
and vulnerably wrong
for restoring peace-filled justice
within and without
ego/eco-empowering tipping points,
wealth of healthy co-redemption
For all wombs,
their plantings and yieldings,
now still searching
through past generations
still incarnate in wounds and reweavings
birthing future health-seeking regenerations.
Though justification may be in faith,
And hope sustain us through all trouble,
Greater still than either is agape,
The love that comes from God,
The concern for our fellow creatures
Which acknowledges our oneness.
We call it love or charity; in fact
It transcends both those words.
It is at base an unjudgmental affirmation
Of our shared human nature; unlike
Ordinary love, agape flows untrammeled,
No strings attached, no conditions stipulated,
A free-bestowed outpouring of compassion
Unqualified, and seeking no reciprocation.
When we open ourselves to God’s love
And freely yield us up to be its instrument,
Then love’s paradox is plainly seen:
The more we give, the more it lives in us.
October 14, 2019
Written for Regina Riddle's "1st Corinthians 13:13 Inspiration Contest"
'Tis I, your ruin ...
I, the scourge, unseen ... the "C" word
I am death's abettor, the bête noire
So do your worst, in my ruthless wake
The cold chaos of cells that rages rampant
Weaponizing blood and bone and marrow ... and breath
Seething untrammeled as the burn of abandon, afire
I play no favorites, I see no chalk or choice
Health is the meat of my prerogative, the blood of my intent
I strip vitality and strength from bones like a butcher
And hang them raw to be branded ... "terror"
I scrape beauty and flesh to maim motherhood, passion
I divest masculinity of its vital seed, choke the air from lungs, gasping
I ravage little lives before they begin, to glaze their sparkling eyes
I plunder and rape and kill in a thousand myriad fashions
One no less callous or malevolent than the other
And the only weapons you have to raise against me - your only hopes
Are near as vicious and unappeasable as I am, (smiling)
Oh, hear me and fear me, humankind ...
I am chasing, relentless ... your ruin.
~ 5th Place ~ in the "Topic Of Cancer" Poetry Contest, Craig Cornish, Judge & Sponsor.
Shuttling beyond the lay
Of the land that may
End at the water,
Splash and fish, tide and otter.
War birds knocking stars from Heaven,
Wolf packs moving, six or seven
Or eight, the modern metabolic rate,
Society redeems the weight of hate.
Reversions to no merry mean,
We wash to make the world unclean,
We wash to upraise our station,
We wash to conclude causation.
Taking my place within the past,
An epic form of gratification,
I won't outlast, the die is cast,
So let's get on with vilification.
Bright sunny days, untrammeled ways or
Other poets' words so light,
Yet I shift and stray, I make the play for
The coming armies of the night.
...for Leonard Cohen
They unweave the web of lies for you,
lay platters of forgiveness at your feet,
intrigue falters, and the taint of greed,
their soft embraces dutiful and sweet.
They walk you through the fire with measured gait,
distilling all the hatred and the fear,
'til cleansed and ready for the test of faith
you pass through Heaven's gate without a tear.
Emulsified, the portrait of a waif
takes shape, as if transfigured by the Light,
within the crucible you coruscate,
and glow unhindered, gentled by their might.
A waif in Heaven's eyes is like a king,
untrammeled by the trappings of the crown,
in rags, yet fortified by trust and love,
the Sisters pray, you lay your burdens down.
...for Leonard Cohen
They unweave the web of lies for you,
lay platters of forgiveness at your feet,
intrigue falters, and the taint of greed,
their soft embraces dutiful and sweet.
They walk you through the fire with measured gait,
distilling all the hatred and the fear,
'til cleansed and ready for the test of faith
you pass through Heaven's gate without a tear.
Emulsified, the portrait of a waif
takes shape, as if transfigured by the Light,
within the crucible you coruscate,
and glow unhindered, gentled by their might.
A waif in Heaven's eyes is like a king,
untrammeled by the trappings of the crown,
in rags, yet fortified by trust and love,
the Sisters pray, you lay your burdens down.
...for Leonard Cohen
They undo the web of lies for you,
lay platters of forgiveness at your feet,
intrigue falters, and the taint of greed,
their soft embraces dutiful and sweet.
They walk you through the fire with measured gait,
distilling all the hatred and the fear,
'til cleansed and ready for the test of faith
you pass through Heaven's gate without a tear.
Emulsified, the portrait of a waif
takes shape, as if transfigured by the Light,
within the crucible you coruscate,
and glow unhindered, gentled by their might.
A waif in Heaven's eyes is like a king,
untrammeled by the trappings of the crown,
in rags, yet fortified by trust and love,
the Sisters pray, you lay your burdens down.
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