“Crescent Moon Sky”
Illustration from ispeakindreams.com
teach the dream
to the night
lest it perish
when you waken
Archives
All posts for the month August, 2013
“The Hand – Remorse”
Painting by Salvador Dali
From moma.org
teardrops bleed from your hesitant palms
sorrow lingers on all that you touch
when you hold me I glisten unhappily
marked by streaks of your seeping remorse
I pray you find means to forgive yourself
those sins now too old to affect what we have
even knowing they altered your making
with suicide seams in a skin full of sighs
we both fled here indelibly wounded and stained
but while mine turned to scars yours still openly run
let them die as they came born on wicked stealth feet
without usher or notice clandestine and part of
a yester-age banished denied my permission
to enter the house that we built on our hill
resurrectional refuge if only you dare to believe
(Someone I greatly admired.)
liquid genius still flows
from a head dead for twenty-five years
hearty stock for rich stew
made with mirepoix partons
and nanobot swarms
molecular mandibles nibbling on theories
that nourish their stature
in the science of smallness
enlarging our every
tomorrow
(Another March reblog)
it’s the children
who suffer
in a world of adults
who neglect them
ignore them
abuse them
forget them
it’s the children
who hurt most
unable to process
or reconcile pain
inflicted by either
the careless
or wicked
it’s the children
who grow bent
of character wanting
for values
untaught or
disparaged
it’s the children
whose future
is spoiled by excess
from showers
of hollow
esteem
it’s the children
who hold more
than we do the power
to build or
destroy
society
my parents had three
we in turn have our nine
who have twenty-four more
to think of
one child is
to think of the world
Iron Bridge Over Mississippi at Vicksburg
Photo from bareknucklepress.com
iron bridges
spanning ancient landscape wounds
sutured a continent
“Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse”
Illustration by Patrick Wyett
From beforeitsnews.com
there are days in this coarsened
inflammable world
so intensely repugnant
emotions collide
cracking senseless and splintered
their dagger points
raining down violence
stabbing through altarcloths
dressed for devotion
they cut into Nazarene olivewood
peace bleeding openly
veins of gold vengeance
throb molten beneath
scapes of conscience
until thy erupt hot with hatred
for even the slightest forgiveness
or turn-the-cheek teaching
consumed by fierce need
to blast sand into glass
punish terror endured
with retaliant bloodshed
entrapping humanity’s
nationless flesh with
its rag and bone dogma
in guilt-engaged gears
turning cycles of circular justice
“Sic Transit Gloria Mundi”
Painting by Philippa King
From bipolarartists.com
traced on onionskin
portraits of giants succumb
to fleeting glory
(sic transit gloria mundi)
(Another reblog from March)
blue indigo confuses my heart
it can slow it to lowing
like the wail of a wounded
forlorn tenor sax,
like a memory fading
from unseen disease
cool indigo confuses my heart
it can jump it to thumping
like a Dixieland horn
on a Bourbon Street float,
like a treasure discovered
among worthless things
in a world full of reasons
for cynics to gloat over
everywhere proof of mistrust
shouldn’t something as simply
straightforward as color
be something to count on
surprise is for younger men
disappointment for
sturdy dispassionate souls
I’m too old and mulish
too sure of opinion
for an uncertain heart
“Abstract of Love”
Artist Unknown
From modernpaintings.allalla.com
the humid heart
weeps with a sheen
only seen on the
inside where seasons
of love hide among
aching blossoms
on rungs of sweet
branches fleet birds
settle gently in snow
or in flow of dry
breezes that smile
and cry in one
single soft whimper
aloft in the same
space that beats
with the thrill of
trilled tympanum
Paris
Photo from Wikipedia.org
London
Photo from Wikipedia.org
New York
Photo from Wikipedia.org
expatriated obelisks
-
ancient stone spines
standing pagan theocracy
-
phallic designs
battle-graved with solemnity
-
pulled down by lines
run from three western capitals
-
trophies of kinds
emblematic of how power
-
always declines
**********************
could the vertical holes
our arrogant plunder
left in her sacred antiquity
be consequentially
chimneys that draught
hot internecine fires
now consuming
Egyptian tranquility
Poesy plus Polemics 