darkness
waits
the
trap
sprung

silence
slips
softly
between
tongues

Caution –Contains hot liquid

Down at the park
God tossed big sticks
to his favourite dogs

picking mushrooms
to boil in a tasty goulash
he invited me for supper

I had no appetite then
but wished him
bon appetit
as I sipped
a takeaway
Latte

Husband doing chores wearing his wife’s negligee

Extolling the virtues of a cynical disposition, he reclines
in his righteous dependency. Not for him the stoic indifference
of the TV judge, or the sheep like bleating from the
sporting spouse, each despised with equal smugness.

As it was or is, so shall it always be.

So they cancelled the old time dancing on account of
the weather, but Johnny Cash was playing on the radio,
which suits him fine. It’s his age though, he never used
to get these social malfunctions until they killed Saturday
night, and half buried the body so the memory would linger.

Rainy days and workdays always get me down.

His Father said as much during disagreeable lectures.
But he’s gone now, except for every morning when he
winks from the bathroom mirror. He knew all along
the old sod, but never gave the slightest warning of the
troubles to come, damn them all to hell.

The more things change the more they’ll stay the same, or not.

So he sighs, and tries to embrace what must come to pass.
But it’s all weird, political correctness gone rogue and hunted
down like a rabid bunny, what’s up doc! Now time coshes
with the blunt reminder of the tasks at hand, as he takes to
his chores wearing his wife’s negligee.

Six hundred savage defeatists
Brought about a slight change
In national morality

Gone, all the bee bop
Rogues who once stood
On every parallel corner
Twirling sweaty bandanas
Round fat pig greased fingers

Banished, all the subversive
Swingers, who terminally
Undecided, rocked the boat
One beat time too often,
And floundered with
A cheery wave ta ta

the more
I write
the less
I become

words slip
unrefined
from frail
imagination
flowers unfurl
to be molested
for literary beauty

and lovers caress
for the pleasure
of a dirty old
poet

Snowman

See the snow, how it falls like confetti
On a union of concrete and frost
And it sits like a sheet of obsession
With the comfort that comes from remorse

But the snowman you built to remind you
Holds a grin that he carries with pride
And the pipe that you gave him to ponder
Was the gun that you held at his side

So you garnished his coat with some buttons
That you bought from a charity store
And you fastened each one with a warning
How there never could be anymore

Now your snowman stands solid and silent
As he patiently waits for the thaw
That will come in the times of pretension
For he’s only a snowman, that’s all

Pass this tongue-to-tongue

I have escaped
persecution
for my contempt

oppression
for my indifference

intolerance
for my indecision

and betrayal for my
Indulgences

Gather in the Lilies white
Before they fall like snow
Upon the frosted rendezvous
We tainted long ago
Before our breath began to freeze
This promise in the air
That winter’s lonely shawl be cast
Some miles away from here

This Thing

There’s no victim of fashion
That wants to keep warm
By the fires of penance
Put out by the storm

As it blew from the mountains
Rolled in from the east
And became the great engine
That swallowed the beast

Yet the heart that it powered
Knew only to well
Of the secrets it wanted
But never would tell

To the fury that wallowed
In certain disdain
Of the love of its savior
It never could chain

And the love that they plundered
The critic’s delight
Was a star that was polished
To glow every night

Now the star that we follow
Is screwed to the line
So they know we can follow
It, time after time

One momentary lapse of precision

Reclaim something, something solid
Something that meant little
But was attractive for all its
Demure presence

Then breathe it, wash in its unimportance
But most of all treasure
It, protect and then deny it
Because it is a provocative

Thing, yet a tangible intangibility

Neverland

One hundred feet of sky

darkly sprites shimmer,
not above,
but beneath leaden feet.
Come, they murmur, seek
rest in our murk.

I don’t know why they flew

with hands clasped
like Wendy and the boys.
They claim Neverland
rewards pirates, and
encourages malcontents
to feed on crocodiles,
tic toc.

But they’re gone now

fleet as the wind,
and just as predictable.
Tinkerbelle said,
I don’t know why they flew,
Peter says there’s to be an
INVESTIGATION.

The beast begins

not in conscious mind…the intangible cut
that niggling welt of red

nor in the walking world…yet stalks darkly
past peripheral sanity loosed on tender meandering

mastering gentle slashing…strokes

The last woman I loved

So let this miracle
become your name
in keeping with my
litany of light

With prayer I will
slavishly confess
to all the little things
that I kept quiet

As quiet as my tongue
upon your tongue
let silence make its
maudlin request

of eyes that form
a question in the air
to promises that
I could love you less

Morning Song

And did you scent the
blossom on the breeze
that gently touched
the soil as you passed by

though gathered here for
love, I give you these
as proof that everything
we have will die

So take this token
now, I give to thee
for time she intimates
when we should part

and never will a
gesture offered free
become the loss that
craved a broken heart

Lucrezia, Lucrezia
I have no more time,
for writing these verses
lost years past their prime.
The pledges I sent you
they traveled one way,
first glances...forgotten,
by Borgia’s at play.

Principles of uncertain origin

Now the body of love was found dying
Of a wound that I wrote on her back
From a text that was not illustrated
With instructions not printed in black

But my plea of puerile was accepted
And the statement was carefully read
To the jury who solemnly listened
But insisted on Coleridge instead

So they sent me away in my shackles
With a note I could never appeal
Of a sentence I hardly could finish
And a verse that should never reveal

Still I work at my only redemption
Adding stresses each time that I pray
To the Angels who ponder my ravings
That I scratch on these walls every day

Sonnet in blue #8

If destiny should ever be as fair
And gentle as your touch upon the skin,
That wakes a man from slumber and regret
Of love that was reluctant to begin.

Then purify the future with a kiss
Upon the lips that whisper mystery,
Of truths we left abandoned in the past,
Consigned with all that’s gone to history.

So lay your head upon this dream of white,
And rest a little while in beggar’s arms.
Then I shall weight my sorrow on your breasts,
And tie it up with ribbons and with charms.

First one with lace, and then the next with gold,
That’s woven softly through the next lie told.

Pondering my epiphanies,
brings an overwhelming
self congratulatory

sensation, equaled only by the
certainty of their falsehoods.
Gods do not speak to me,

but merrily nudge me in the
ribs, and wink three times.
Ah, but this is my afternoon

muse, bright and airy.
Those forced out at night
are so much darker.

As the god of the lottery grabbed for the reigns

As the god of the lottery grabbed for the reigns

With the devil behind him, he reached once again

For the strength and the longing to pull in his mare

Then he grinds to a halt, but the devils still there

 

Now the god he was slippery, careful but wise

And he sang everyday in a clever disguise

O he sang of the sea, and he sang to the air

And he sang of his loss without seeming to care

 

Still the god of the lottery clung to the reigns

With the devil still chasing, and doing the same

So they ride for the morning, they ride to the night

And they ride for the chasm with manic delight

 

Now the god he was gifted with finesse and skill

And he danced everyday at the top of his hill

O he danced for the girl with the Spanish guitar 

With a promise of love that would never go far

 

But the god of the lottery clings to the reigns

As he chases his devil across endless plains

So they ride for the desert, they ride for the sea

And they ride for the thunder that’s eternity