skeletons

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outside echoes

almost frightens me, returning to these older pieces and rewriting them entirely, save a salvageable line or two
what’s scary is how I thought the originals – when written – were halfway decent
I took this photo off my back deck a few weeks ago

ocean god

a week at the ocean is exceptionally inspiring for a hand hugging a pencil

another love poem published on the ever-inspiring FOXGLOVE JOURNAL – please share if you enjoy the read – humble thanks

illuminated with dark thoughts

this morning like so many other mornings
waiting for the sun to rise up and grant us
another opportunity to make it right
anything or anyone we may have wronged
or perhaps
more in the drama of later moonlight
the subtle possibility
we might make something of ourselves
while we are gifted here to earth
gravity holding us
balancing our bodies
we can’t do it alone
we are
each like a small sparkle
brighter than starlight
if you believe in such frivolous gaiety

I for one do not
you see
I am illuminated with dark thoughts
I am a lying pessimist
yearning for the truth of optimism
in a world peppered with road rage salt
silly in fact am I
that I would compose such a lifeless line
seasoned with black and white culinary fare
thinking how clever
how wise
three of them
one of me
guided by northern light
yea I can keep going with this crap
like I said
I am illuminated with dark thoughts
brightened only by the singular prospect
of you
in you

I am a most excellent liar
for I am not a lying pessimist
in truth
I am an eternal optimist
I am a gut-wrenching lame ass
I do believe in humanity
I do believe that behind words
cast like fishermen nets
people dwell
behind all the world’s false twinkling
the light of some truth bleeds out
through infinitesimal skin scrapes
the largest wounds

why do I believe myself an optimist
my one technological treasure
in the 1980’s when VCRs were introduced
many adults fancied themselves harbingers of theatrical doom
“there go the movie houses”
“there die our cinematic experiences”
a lame ass heart quietly rallied
the same lame ass heart always praying for white Christmases
to this day
“my local theatre won’t go out of business people need people”
“people need people”
“we want to enjoy experiences together”
“hear laughter”
“communally sob – not sad alone”
“clap”
“eat popcorn and slurp giants”
“we want to suck face in the back row”
“hold hands in the middle”
“wait for his arm to wrap my shoulder”

I am a most excellent liar
fooling my own heart into believing
if I can do this
it will bleed out
others will sense my fake joy
they might smile
it will start
this morning like so many other mornings
waiting for the sun to rise up and grant us
another opportunity to make it right
there is a sneaking warmth
creeping like crackling fire
and Christmas snow

Harem Eyes

Harem Eyes

 

listen to earth’s language

perhaps if we all spoke in simple language
rather than tongues
if we gazed with eyes
rather than expectations
what if we sang together with voices clear
frenzied rants quietly melting
if we opened ourselves to listening
blocking programmed retorts
this season
imposes upon us
the choice of reflection
the challenge of change
in ourselves
we can create magic
genuine magic
a mystical presence of benevolence
spirited on by a collective desire
to wrap our world in peace
the simplest of gifts
difficult to embrace
yet within our grasp
all we need do
is listen to earth’s language
life

Baby Elf

Baby Elf

wings of flesh

Sometimes you must dig deep. Deeper than the quartz floor of comfort’s level. Bring dental tools. Small, sharp, precise. After you bust through the impossible surface, scrape the sides of your soul especially the nasty tar embedded in the lacerations. Push away the stringy dark flesh and take a seat. Bed an organ if necessary. You’re not going anywhere. Leave eyes on the situation. Do you desire to find what you think went missing. Are you not sure about the contents, having lost your way sometime ago.

You manage to mine an encrusted voice, it’s a song you sing to help yourself fall asleep. The words are borrowed from another who sews lyrical blankets while you fumble with threads. This year you’ve gone through several skins–shedding like a snake. A biblical serpent wrapping itself around a damn tree tempting what should not be tempted. This is what you believe as the blood washes across your insides. You want wings. Hell, don’t we all. No internal evidence exists for your flying dream. All is flat and featureless. Wings belong to majestic raptors and annoying but necessary insects, fairies and dragons if you follow that fantasy.

It was Hughes who wrote of Plath, “…the end product for her was not so much a successful poem, as something that had temporarily exhausted her ingenuity….” Maybe Hughes was looking for wings after Plath flew beyond his reach. Maybe he searched in younger days while serving on the ground in the Royal Air Force. Plath sensed Hughes’ illuminated feathers when he did not. Poetic passion coaxed him to submit his first manuscript, Hawk in the Rain. Wings, raptors. Plath’s intuitive sense for flight.

The ability to ride high burrows in the lowest place you can dig out from. Raptors are not born able to fly. Neither are you. It is the steady practiced thing painfully crawling from inside your flesh until it breaks the skin and unfolds into that which lets you soar.
eagleeagle rendered last year with Tombow markers-thank you

do we know

there is a place
do we know
do they
where wind blows to sow forests
insects crawl beneath shade 
no matter beliefs
ocean waves crash back and forth
pulling and taking and giving back
circling the hands of time
moon, comets, sun
arrive and leave and return
purple sands conceal water
bombastic rocks jag the horizon
steam rises from thick emerald tangles
they have not a thought
only sheer mechanics
who scorches earth
waters gardens
holds hands and kisses mouths
cleanses injured
prays, screams, moans, mourns, laughs
with the commonality of desire
of a need
those who utter its uselessness
or lack of purpose
are liars
we all love
we do
all love
and there is a place
we might share
covered in blue
do we know
do they
sasquatch
difficult reading the newspaper some mornings
this illustration I created last year, to me this represents peace and love and kindness and humanity