The public order
of the ocean,
a blur of mist and foam.
The captive sounds
of marching throngs
so felt this far
from home.
A crushing flood
of tides and breakers,
twelve bars into song
assuage the mystic
caravan singing,
everybody
let’s get stoned.
Shrieking, cry the gulls
above the din
of skin and groans.
I toss a shell.
It’s gonna rain.
I feel it
in my bones.
The petals, her soliloquy,
quivering with imbued poise
and rapt, the mind’s quick fancy
to capture her employs.
Among the quichens grows a kree
a site-astoric flustsymbly.
A kree is there, not roneously,
but freet and gorl and groverly.
And how it came to grow just there,
the primmets wonder with atious care,
For quichens do not keep or share
their time or place or own elsewhere.
The primmets garnered brave and asked
the kree just how it came to pass
that it was given reign to mass
and live with quichens, in their class.
The kree looked puzzled, audly moussed
the primmetts had not gaged – deduced
the kree was here for years to roost
and shared it with the quichens fruste.
Sometimes, I weep, yet cannot
see the edge’s line and filigree.
Add to this – dim appeal,
obtuse affection, not fresh not real.
Creek beds flow in pouring rain
tears evolve, invoking pain.
A polish on the floor reflects
the one light on, that one affects.
A square persona, mirrored there
in lust’rous promise, staid and clear.
Such consequence – o tainted eyes
beneath a sad and milky sky.
When the leaves are swept away at night
and the chill cleaves to me,
I am reminded that I am descended
from those who worked the land.
tilled soil – tossed stone
to harvest, afford a life of
growing and yearning, splitting
and churning a song of origins
as a lantern tilted
sheds light on enclosed spaces
of circumstance. Places where poems
are seen, but not written.
Tuneful sounds once heard in the labors
of daylight, lulled by passing clouds
and mute when night comes on. Dirt is rinsed
from beneath fingernails and sleep arrives early
with a crisp quilt. Night whispers
it’s own beginning and the wind tosses aside
that which grips me.
glitter gold,
and watch reflections
patter on,
as specks surround
and attach beyond.
scintillate,
in flashing glows
the ions of your
aureate tongues.
move,
and flicker
until your crests
bestow a shade of flare-
and spread this frenzied
throe upon the night’s
affair.
glisten-
shine so bright,
open up your heart
and write
your songs. They carry on
in spite
of rumbles, chatter,
hate and fright.
envision-
all the world
in cheer
with ringing tones
-crystal clear-
a clarion for all
to hear-
a star
a beacon
-listen.
In a field of flowers, blue
she wanders free and rapt,
taking in the fragrant hues-
a path she had not mapped.
Gentle hands reach out to blooms
caressing each in passing
and her random walk resumes
in heaven, without asking.
In the same field, ambles he
who takes a different way-
Spying first the large oak tree
that lingers by the quay,
Stolid-fixed- he moves toward
a vast expanse that speaks-
an oceanside of blue has lured
him to the edge he seeks.
Each, their own entrancement made
as journeys intersect-
She, from wand’ring wood to glade
and he, from larger treks.
Both gone seeking greater things
away from their familiar,
Habitating different strings
yet seeking bonds that whisper.
And there on cliff-side, past the glen
two lovers stood, amore and yen-
led there in divergent ways
and destiny to laud and praise.
it is only this –
a single droning way,
a backdrop for breathing, luring and lively
all in red or green or blue-
pink or yellow ribbons that remind us
of someone lost.
it is only this.
a surface, serene and affable
sometimes glowing and thinned
infinite until shattered.
and you step out
bleeding a bit of color
fresh from a palate.
it is only this.
In a variegated way-
it whispers, being
between the green and cerise.
The faint curls into light
-rhapsodic.
The noise and resonant hinge-
lingered ’til the next breathing sound,
upon which it leans
-rushes-
hasty and crimson into
collections of cadence.
And hushed, redemption
mixes with the blushed-
a new shade of stillness.
********************
Poet’s note – Lest someone reading think that I can’t spell. I wrote this, and then couldn’t think of a title. The poem seemed a bit uneven to me, as I attempted blend sound and color and feeling. I’m not sure I achieved any of it. The whole thing seemed very erratic to me…oh wait… a pun. Great idea.
Taps and Ratamacues 