Chiron’s dream

*
Spent from worldly toil and strife
undertaken on behalf of lessers

beholden, as one of dual loves:
on earth below and sky above

"is there any place to lay a head?"
both ennobled and erstwhile set

in destined fate yet unabated
to lust for love yet harbor hate

for past events whose die was cast
at break of dawn to what effect

collecting tolls from every gate
to gather succor’d graven lucre

for oblations to the higher realm
whose wisdom wafts down unassailed

by minions ‘neath the holy veil
who journey forth and unapprised

of winged string-pullers staged beyond
who guides all thru to final acts

"oh, to live unscripted for a day!"
in fancied freedom’s snug embrace

could there but be another form
to wind the road on days endured

too proud by half to fathom dying
to dishonor breath’s unmerited gift

so in this pause to take a breath
he rests his mind in brief respite

to sleep, perchance…or so it may seem -

and awoke to find himself Chikara
of another time - and place - and dream…
*

(Source: lebuc, via lebuc)

Chikara’s fever

*
Blanketing sky, serene friend of mine
remain in my sight through the evening time

centaur in mind, from whence - cannot say
kicking about in buffeting and bray

anathema’d, arsed, with an odious spray
take him away, else take me away

me/him - him/me - me/him/it - who
am i? further to the point, who are you?

a red tossed die lies under a one-eyed head
and eight and fourpence is a loaf of bread

ice is now hot and hell hath cooled off
kava kava kava - kava kava kav

'tis a fine day for maggots and mud
floating thru the sky in an airborning flood

barren cloudy dust, groundswell of blue
scuttle shuffle troubling and bugagaboo

in and out am i - or so you can say
am i really here and is here really clay?

potter man, potter man can you truly be
& no one, no one can mottle over me

i deny you thrice suppressing a neigh
how long exactly - have i been this way?

and shall i wake and my true self overtake?
water - please, water! water, water….cake!
*

(Source: lebuc)

nothing much

*
I was walking in the park 
one afternoon, when I looked back -
thought i heard someone call my name
I stepped on a rock and fell sideways
into a small half-dried pond
near the pathway

found myself sitting hip-deep
in a pool of warm, sticky muck.
I looked around for a place to 
put my hands to try to get out
with some sense of style
and dignity intact;

then the sky darkened and
i heard booms, not of thunder,
like fireworks exploding overhead
with sparks as far as I could see;

I began to detect 
a heightening scent of a pollinated fragrance 
bursting, no exploding -
from the variety of flowers and bushes all around 

while the now brightening sky
was pierced by an intense, refracting sunlight 
projecting shifting rainbow colored shards of light
on the trees, the buildings and the people walking by;
and vivid streaming and pulsing hues 
strewn across the skies
as a visual backdrop to the fireworks; 

then, angelic male and female voices
could be heard from everywhere at once,
weaving in and out of the thundering booms of timpani
accompanying, then replacing the fireworks’ sound,
with a sudden rise of woodwinds and violins
seemingly motioned not by human effort
but the lilting and undulating breezes of the surrounding air…

I spied some folks who happened to be walking by
asked for a hand up -
so I could better ‘take in’ everything  

one of them looked at me and asked,
“Why do you want to get up?”

“We were actually just coming
to sit here with you -
we’re bored,
that mud looks kinda inviting.”

blinking unbelievably,
i looked from person to person in astonishment,
as one continued, 

“Might as well. 
Nothing much ever happens around here, anyway”.

image

Sunset Spectrum - c/o:
Matt Molloy’s Gorgeous Smeared Skies

(Source: lebuc, via lebuc)

flan

*
flan i made
didn’t turn out as hoped
it’s not bad, per se,
just not that rich texture
and balance of spice;
more like a pudding
an okay pudding–
just not flan.

rich, smooth…
made it a few times before
when i’m not trying too hard
for perfection;
know the ingredients,
how long to cook, bake
then it’s perfect–
as it can be

other times
not so perfect,
just
pudding.

i have a confession, friend;
i’m not talking about dessert.

in my humble opinion
this poem
approaches flan.
*

(Source: lebuc, via lebuc)

respect

*
the lyric unsung,
refusing to signify
except on its own merit,
defiant and assured

yet outside the parameters
of melody and rhythm
and the song it was
written to occupy

*

the meaning
unwritten words can’t embody
in their lexical canon,

lurking in exhalation
between letters and phrases
hovering above and below the lines

hiding from paragraphs
which would give them context

*

the emotion, subceived

as the unspoken
in gestures and
face to face conversation,

the gentle intimations,
insistent impressions
we find ineffable
yet palpable;

respect to them all.
*
10/14

(Source: lebuc)

whispers

*
whispers
from within and without
settled imperceptibly
on my clavicles
like dust
gathering
and growing
beneath the horizon
of a vision or
a sweeping
up into
a gazing
upon a glassy grove
at this far edge of the globe
where shadows love to linger, even
in the shuttered chilly cubicles
of a once mansioned
hacienda
given over
to the likes
of a time-weary tarring
by a tired town of tatters
told in tall tales over
shorties
lagr’d
until there,
the number four
on the outer door
hangs diagonal-like
now dipping beyond
all measured horizons
as do the procession of
nocturnal nomads
suffering from too
much sun and
too little sleep
on the lawn
as was
normaitve
in the years that
began with a number one
if memory serves or if
conscience taps or if
harbingers of doubt
linger
with the robustness
of remembered revelries
in patina’d palaces
of plastic covered sofas
ornate ash trays
in no smoking zones
underpinned
by the finest shag or
the coldest linoleum two
pair of feet could ever hope
to encounter, causing
yelps or shouts,
most unlike
whispers,
just whispers
that seem to settle
on my clavicles
scarcely noticed
like dust.
*
10/14

cosmic boomers

*
to an ostinato beat of the drumming drums
accompanied in sync by the humming of hums
of the hundreds who gladhand off-site, instead

and dread the coming of the lord of the ringing
echoing onto the mountains and the streamed beaming
of our wilderness visions of ten dreamers dreaming

gleaning a protean sheen covering all we see
with green - being symbolic of fecundity, classless
stripped bare and revealed as punditry to the masses

in a marketing melange so darn seductive
you think of solange in a barn, yet conductive
of her under radar reining as a queen of these in-crypted ages

on digital muslin where grey matta, data and static strata wages
clash with cash in a cosmic boom boom batta, batta swing
and a miss, hold it tightly in your fists, now succumb to the bliss

and the sensation of a numbing aggravation over your present station
where the express train’s just left, leaving you also steamed and bereft
of meaning in life, with the million other bricks in the wall

wondering when the riggered mortar will give, and cause the great fall,
fabled, unchaining the brothers once labeled like cain and dissed abel’d
ain’t it romantic? how your heart’s now a house, chez pedantic

where the girl gets the girl you thought would rock your world
while webbed with wide-eyed wishes ebbed, now without a flow
you’re all pent up with nowhere to glow re: gloried hallowed losers -

so tell us - you with the posers or with the choosers?
*

(Source: lebuc, via lebuc-reblogs)

draped

*
your story drapes you.

like the tousled oversized shirt
of your ex you wear

for its’ feel and their smell

and inhabit willingly, but
somehow as if

you don’t fully own it
even as you revel in its aura

in the idea that you possess
something of its’ owner

as dear to you as anything
you already have…

you’ll arise one morning
go to your closet

pick out the suit you bought
for a special occasion

the one you saved up to get
because you wanted it so badly

the one which subtracts ten pounds
adds an inch of height

put it on over a crisp white shirt
stroll out the door

into your life, draped
with your story

which, though incomplete
looks so very good on you.
*
10/14

Anonymous said: Is Ethan a writer too, like your daughter?

heh, he has written before, but he’s much more interested in making origami and playing minecraft…

Tags: Anonymous

Anonymous said: What is the overall inspiration for your work?

the overall inspiration for my work is joy, wonder, and gratitude for having been given the gift of life - which emotions or states i love to experience or create as much of as possible - and by my expressions try to counteract their opposites which, unfortunately, are also a part of this life. 

Tags: Anonymous

his path to home

*
an october wind
blew through the trees
shaking water from their leaves
onto my head
as i walked, hoodless–
on a path to home

i turned the corner
& the smell of taco
slapped my nose
ouch….mmm…

steps later
i heard the twang
of a blues guitar
from windows
to my left and right
or was there an echo somewhere?
(somewhere, somewhere…)

i sliced through traffic
crossing the street
dropping
decision node choices
to my left and right, swiftly
like a ninja scout
on a route

me & my stealth backpack
gonna ‘chill
like a boss’
when we get there.
*
( my son, Ethan: co-composer )
*
10/14

stoked

*
let’s gather
and warm our hearts
near the open fire

bring tinder
we’ll maybe do smores
you get the grahams?

we’ll keep the flame lit
with dried leaves
of varied shapes, sizes, colors
once oh so green
& full of life

how fortunate to find
though fallen
we’re yet able
to burn anew–

to warm hearts
stoked
by an open fire.
*
10/14

next

*
under cover of
a fickle indigo

a sequence of sins
born as parasites

reinforce, regroup to
capture my world

as toy soldiers
invading towns

clearing fields
a step at a time

grenades at
their sides, wary

advancing,
bayonets drawn

against a pliant
army of mores,

precepts on
walkers,

dialogs turned
monologue,

prayers on
crutches,

mental constructs,
digitized

& dying hard
on binary battlefields.
*
10/14

Anonymous said: ...you’ve got the intonation, the pace and tone set that weaves and outlines the balance of highs and lows within speech, the mood(s) tinging the edges, your writing is gorgeous.

i appreciate these kind words and thoughts, truly.  

bright-eyed

*
gonna take a minute
for me to mine my soul

lots of old you
to trash

& some old me
to boot

now that you’re gone

like old wives tales
and maxims

i later learned
were for those who believed

who fell asleep
waiting for santa

but only saw
cookie crumbs on the plate
in the morning

and decided
that was proof enough.

gonna take a minute

to clear a soul
to become
bright-eyed again.
*
10/14

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