Faith, Hope, Love

She's something else
somewhere else
quiet, wondering--
drawing faces and stories
on steamed windows.

Wondering, always
lost in spellbindings
and a haze of drugs
called hope
faith
love.

Wondering
where I have been.

And now it's my turn to wonder
why?
wonder how,
wonder what I was thinking
when I missed the window
where was it?

will it ever be open again?

The train left tonight
at 9:15
dragging faces and freight
along the cold iron tracks
passing through a land
that ancient eyes wouldn't know
by sight or smell or taste
and I'm still waiting...

Another one leaves just before day

Feeling your stories
in the tongues of our own language
like tattoos under skin on my back,
I write a Kama Sutra in blue ink
on white washed walls next to me
wondering or divining
what happened
to those old drugs
that we used to live on.

Hope you are all still with me. I'll be around soon to see you all. Really!

It's been a long time, for certain. I was out for a while with a bad tooth which had to be addressed with copious amounts of antibiotics and a root canal. It was bad enough to make me physically ill. So ill and so painful that the root canal was nothing, and I might have went without Novocaine--except that there's no need to take things that far.

In between bouts of nausea-inducing misery and a steady stream of high (cash!) paying work, I've been watching my youngest sister, Sarah, leading her hockey team, the Rebels, to the local Silver Sticks championship game (which has yet to be played). If any one thing took some sting out of the week, it was seeing her scoring goals and taking her seat in the penalty box quite often. That's my sister! Do what needs to be done, say you're sorry later.

Top: The Heart and Soul Nebula. Been saving that one for a while! Mid: Obvious symbolism, I'm sure. Bottom: The Blue Water Bridge, between Port Huron, Michigan, to Sarnia, Ontario. If I have thrown a penny off of a bridge in a wish for good luck, this is the launchpad! Current water temp, 32.9 degrees F. Even in the height of the summer, the lakes are "invigorating", to say the least. Ice flows lasting into June are not uncommon.

Florida! I could use a warm vacation.

Triumph and Defeat by the Nightstand

A man plants his waving flag
amidst dirty gray sheets
warm, new world shores
a stranger's bedroom;
triumph by the nightstand
red rivers flow wild
in the garden of Eden.

nothing falls like the beat
of a crushed heart
or brimstone tear drops
on the heads of the
unsuspecting damned.

You believe your lies.

I'll believe in mine.

I used to walk beside my love
every night
as all eyes followed us,
some in bleary reverence
some in malicious intent.

Her face was soft but shaded
a fine-detailed masterpiece,
made from sunset clouds,
even as she walks away
I see what I will always miss.

The slow-burn
kicks me in the slipshod soul
deep within my neithers,
and now I know;

Conquerors make wonderful
monuments
from which battle flags
are raised.

**********************************

Still strapped for time, cash, all that root of evil stuff. Working like a mad beast on a crass capitalistic crusade to get some debts settled.

I miss all of your glorious pages and I hope to get a chance to drop by soon. Thank you for all the comments, as they are quite inspiring and help to keep me going.

Addendum: Massive edits. You who utilize google readers know me; can't leave well enough alone, ever.

Homefire

One lone minute
or
one million more like it...

All that's needed is a spark
to keep the fire burning
another night.

What do you say?

Keep the fire burning.

Home is wherever
you sleep tonight
so tell me your dreams
as we lie in shadow--
I will guard your sleep
like a treasure of Avalon.

Give me one more minute,
and I'll have the words
for the rest of the story.

Tonight I'll be home,
and the fire will follow
like a sleepy-eyed lover
who knows no lesser god.

Above: Belly dancer in a ring of fire. Below: The Orion Nebula, photographed in the IR spectrum. Fire is my theme again, mostly because it's three degrees farenhiet at the moment.

Can I stand next to your fire? I'm pretty skinny, so I don't take up too much space--unlike the Orion Nebula, which is several parsecs across. How big is a parsec? We'll leave that until next time. As it stands, I have to get some sleep so I can aclimate to the climactic upheaval all around me.

Forever Fire

Pure liquid fire is her hair
pulled into long silk strands,
blowing in the wily winds
of a late summer's dream.

Entrancing
advancing
closer
her lips to mine
meeting
feeling
tingling
reverberating
recollections
electric emotion
of a young boy's first kiss

A picture never forgotten
often repeated
never duplicated
by other lips
by soft sighs
by long nights
not long enough
not soft enough
or the manic dreams
of a young man growing old

The summers are still windy. The air still crackles electric, and emotions still ride high on the moon's puppet string tides, falling to find their level in time--whether or not all is said, or silently left undone.

But the enchanted dance of her hair
the constellations of freckles,
each a star in my nascent sky,
each a tribute to a memory
that is untouched by what is
and what will ever be again.

I was lucky enough to talk to the woman who inspired this, the subject of this poem, earlier today. She was my old neighbor in Port Huron, Michigan, my first crush and first kiss, a year older than I, but hey, some guys do have a monopoly on the luck factor, however briefly. She now has three children and is married to her second husband. Quite a bit of kissing in the interim for the both of us.

Above: Flaming red hair. No, she didn't look quite like that, but close enough. In remembrance, she looked a wild world better. Below: The Red Square nebula in the constellation Serpens, an unusually symmetrical object about five thousand light years away. Photograph was taken in IR. Those cheaters! I thought we paid NASA for the facts, noty a bunch of starry eyed bull. Leave that to me!

I'm going to be gone for quite a while longer, as I found some high paying side work, and the car is till not done yet. But I will be around when I can, so be patient. Not that you all are chomping at the bit for my long winded comments. But they will be back soon, I promise this. Thank you for all the sweet and insightful and hillarious comments. Peace out.

Living Places

There are places alive with energy,
bright beaches hidden far away
in the back of clockwork minds,
dark places in alleys, on corners
in deserts, tundra, in the clouds of
planets remote and undiscovered
by keening eyes that would know
if only their heart could feel them.

Places
that know living days of warmth
unnumbered, unnamed,
places

that know storming chiaroscurro

tantrums of weather,
places

where night-long death sequences
are punctuated by resurrection
on the path of the new dawn,

Nature favors the circle
in all its greater and lesser forms

because...

ergo--

however...

and ever
and ever

Will be the questions, the answers
of nature's voice on the west wind
as my new love's lips envelop me
tonight by the shores of the river,

This place is alive--

We await the next resurrection
like we await our next breath.

Just went to get on line and say hi, and this poem came tumbling out like secrets from a snitch. I'll be away from home on family business for the rest of the week, but I'll be getting around slowly to say hi to all of you when I can throughout the week. If you are wondering, I'm putting a new engine in my car to replace the one that burst into flames a few weeks back with the help of a friend who knows what they are doing. In return, I'm painting and doing drywall in their house and garage in return, so the slate will be even. You all take care and I'll talk to you soon.

An Accusation

You did it...
You crept through
mile high grasses tonight,
Cheshire leopardess queen
changing your spots in
perfect symmetry and hue.

I read the swaying leaves,
felt your ocean's breeze
as my eyes opened up
a bottle or two,
and were drunk from your
electric grace--
lovelight undercover,
your evocative brew.

It could only be you,
behind the gold curtain
pulling these heart strings,
flipping the switches--
tick tock right through,
made my eternity now,
and right then I knew...

Brown eyes forever
trump my fallen blues,

An angel in the light
you say this I am,
and I say that you
wear my guilt like
a charm bangle
jangling our tune.

I knew it was you--
mystery shadow dancer
breathless new view,

Tell me again...
to fill the intimate spaces
between these moments
and tomorrow's risen blue,
Tell me again...
how you always just knew
that love's light is born
from the darkness
again and again
and again...

It was you.


I Never thought it would come to this, but I have done it. I had to create an lolpet at the glorious I Can Has Cheezburger. Then I made another. I need help. Anyway, click on one or both of the pictures to go there and vote, if you care for such silliness.

Top: You did it.

Middle: Sandy, thank you for providing wonderful images, that one was perfect.

Bellow: Seems awfully familiar... Run Away!

Bottom: Monorail Cat nearly stood up to the the fierce Chicken of Bristol, and has little to no fear of the bloodthirsty Beast of Bannockburn.


Of course, the first time I saw one of these creations was at Contains Mild Peril*. I introduce to you, not for the first time and probably not the last, Monorail Cat, President of the world. Exact change only, as well as proper English. Ultra Toast Mosha God hates txt spk beyond the realm of passion.


I'll be away all weekend, but talk to you all when I get back. Peace out.

Grail, Snail--Everything's Holy to Somebody

I was once turned into a newt.

By a pretty, young witch, pointy hat, clad in black stockings. I thought all was well, but obviously, I thought wrong.

She told me that one day I'd get betta, cackled, whacked me with her broom for good measure.

I had to do something, so I decided to evolve. First, I became a snake, which was no good. Snakes can't write. And it got old talking women into eating apples all the time.

So I made a u turn back into a newt, then a lizard (a lounge lizard, to be precise!), then a rat, stuck in a race going nowhere. Sometimes, a piece of cheese, but more often than not I was pulling my tail from trap after trap.

Then I evolved into a monkey, a sort of baboon, really. I made a living for a time doing George W. Bush impersonations, complete with powder blue suit and a god-awful red tie, scratching my bum, smacking my lips. Lots of laughs, good times all around.

When the novelty wore off, I was chased out of the capital with only one banana to my name, smelling of rotten fruit, the Congressional bouquet, Eau de Toilet. That's when I knew it was time to evolve into the full-fledged bum poet you see before you today.

In the end, I can't blame the witch. I was kind of asking for trouble from the moment I slipped her my number to the moment she slipped me that potion. I thought it was champaign. It was our reception, after all...

And I never did get betta.

Above: Does the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch need an introduction? I think not.

Middle: Promo for Monty Python's Spamalot, the musical. Good lord, nothing is sacred, is it?

Below: "It has teef like dis." Ah, yes. The great and terrible Beast of Bannockburn. Many a knight has met his demise at the paws of this unassuming fellow. "Run away!" Advice one would take care to note.

No, I haven't lost my mind--just thought it was the right time for something completely different. I'll have a good poem for you all come the morning.

Director's Cut

On the hot couch
movies playing
cool on the wall
in our heads
in our words
cars drive by
they don't know
what we know
I know and
you know

our hands talking
articulate mouths
new sibilant pictures
outlining the action
emphasis on what is
and what will be

words
are something
actions
are everything

scripts waiting
to be written,
to be continued
born on the couch
on the plush floor
under the palm tree
Christmas in July
and other urban
legends abound;
cliched whispers
in the dark...

tell me all about
your favorite dream
tonight,
or right now--
and I'll write you
the part of a lifetime

my plane leaves soon
but lets stay in Rio,
in your backyard
pouring margaritas
like a salty rain

waiting
waiting
waiting
on the call...

hold,
and--
action.


Top: A circle of hands, green lights and shadows.

Bottom: The Crab Nebula, a supernova remnant first seen at the turn of the first millennium. At that time it could be seen in broad daylight, it was so bright. Action, indeed.

An Erstwhile Sky

The winds will blow
and the sky will turn
from ash of dead fires
to the blue of your soul
--royal
and true
as the new day's blush,
the pageantry and view
of an erstwhile sky.

The sky will be purged,
the darkness of the night
before the lightness
of the coming dawn
filling me with your laugh
filling me with your peace
laying me down still to lie
laying me down in the grass
of this valley
below a new blue--
an erstwhile sky.

Feel that? (you do.)

It's love and desire,
waiting on the winds...

New days of new promise
and new light in your eyes,
light that grows strong
from love to love
and wind to wind,
blushed shades
of a new dawn
rising high,

as a newborn blue star

an erstwhile sky.

Above: The Pleiades, the seven sisters, a cluster of newborn blue stars still enveloped in the reflective dust and gas clouds that gave them life. The red star in the middle of the picture stands out in both appearance and age. The blue stars are only fifty to seventy thousand years old, and already they have reached half of their life span. The red star's age is measured in the billions, and will shine on long after its hot young companion stars burn up in spectacular fashion.

Below: The Aurora Borealis over a high northern mountain lake. You Canadian bloggers have such a great view. I'd trade you Detroit for a little piece of tundra or rocky surface any time.

A Man in Black

On a jet plane to old Vietnam,
it's not my war
not my time
my place
my way.

I'm filing past the boys... Men, as they say they are, but boys all the same--peach fuzz stubble, eyes darting past everything around them, toward the the front to a future they do not quite know how to meet.

And the man in black is among us, we all know he's near...

Taking a seat by the window,
I buckle in for the long flight.
Johnny Cash is there with us,
singing into a hanging sunset.

He tells me this is the first sunset he's seen since he don't know when don't know when--it's to this that I relate.

The sun departs in pink haze, but this modern iron bird will catch it, pass it on our way west to the war-torn east out of the rising sun. Time itself is an old man playing old games, over and over again. Time marches through the underbrush far below, stalking day and night, knowing that our hands are tied, that the seconds move forward and backward, left and right. We stand beside it and watch the train go by, bullets with names on their shells ripping through the boiling air around us. A bugle morns mourns a thousand days down--names, ranks, and serial numbers linger in its wail.

Johnny sings to me:
"Life ain't easy
for a boy named Sue"

I could cry blood and tears if I weren't a boy with standing orders to be a man.

The air gathers us to its expansive, windblown breast, our last kiss goodbye, goodnight.

Johnny leans in so close
I can smell the whiskey
stale smoke of dead nights
and I'm there in that cell
with him as he sings to me
a requiem of the blues.

"Smoke em' if you got'em, kid"
he says through his scratchy
Marlboro and scotched voice.

He sings his song to the boy-men living for the moment as today becomes tomorrow somewhere over the Pacific. We, the citizens of this flying prison cell, ironbird cage, a gunboat on the river Styx, hold copper coins in shaking hands to pay our way to Hades in the jungle of a foreign land. On strict orders to take life and death as they come, we salute him.

The man in black soon falls silent the rest of the way in country.

As we step down onto the broken land we are told to die for, waving good by to the coffin as it takes off to fetch more living dead boy-men. We march with steel barrels clutched in hands and held at our our backs--guns pointed at every creeping shadow, we, the boys to men to bodies alone in the peace of pine boxes, burnt up in a ring of hellfire fire, perpetuated by some Neo-Napoleon, some Johnson or other Bush.

A man in black sheds one tear for each of us, living or dead,
and for those of us left in the void between.

And a man in black who knows the day,
the hour, the minute, the second
of the end...

Is waiting to call us to his cold breast.


I would like to thank all the men and women of the armed forces who have sacrificed their time, their freedom or their life in service to this country. Many of my own family are among these. It's the struggle for peaceful solutions, the struggle with surviving in hostile lands, both for their generation and ours that inspires this work. Many have given much and all for something they did not agree with--but still they did what they had to do. The blessing given me by my uncles who served, as well as my aunts who waited for them with staccato heartbeats, is something I'll always respect. It is they who so often wish they could not remember what they have seen that I have written this for.

Peace and love, y'all.