old words still ring true....

This is some older work.

First four lines were from a 20 yr journal fragment...remembered after seeing the trailer for TV movie "Sins of the Father" dealing w/ Selma Church bombingsin the '60's .The image was the Mother talking to the Son, in the bath covered w/ bruises telling him that he didn't have to be his Father...I thought about how film soundtracks obscure the ugly w/ smoky sounds...

Banners
The dark side of the cresent moons
that colored your body
like slits cut in banners
to let air pass through,
heralded in tones of ebony and aubergine
events in a minor key.
A rhapsody ofruptured dreams,
improvised in blue notes,
smoke-filled greys
and brittle brass rings;
Covert colors.

The altoed moan,
an arpeggio run amok.
Whose fingers played complex tatoos
across your soul?
Minor abrasion mark time.
Rests, respites in this mournful freefall.
Tones brighten,
optimistic counterpoints
sap green flutters canary trills
Seductive sax pulls you back, back to
Paris, April.
Many bars later...
a final lapis note.
Held
breath.

coda: (wounded eyes blinded in spotlight.)
12/2001

About the only photograph taken of me @ 15 that I liked. one of my WOS pics "Powerpoint"from Fla-da is of this place

The Point
Tires crunch on limestone gravel.
Greys, ivories and green
greet my return.
The path, mulch-strewn,
draws me through cypress and pine
past the fortifications
of other soul's lives.
History stacked upon itself
in the shade of live oaks>and spanish moss.
You can smell the salt-
feel the mists from two rivers that
seek their source.
Two paths converge,
converge and rise
to a lone cypress, wind gnarled,
on a small bluff.
My feet travel backward two score minus ten
to deerskin boots,
drawn to the rim,
scrabbling softly
down limestone,grabbing past the roots,
downward to the island rocks
below nestled in a rooted crook,
to speak with my family.
I watch and wait for their tidal return.
Feel the wind, listen to the rushes and seabirds.
1/2002

A conversation with an ex-lover on renovating his house. I ended up withth flu a few hours later, sick for 10 days!! This was published in Java Monkey Speaks Anthology I,

5am Rain Dream
I sleep outside your window,
poised on knife-edged sill,
Pane, transparent barrier.
Rain rattles at the bones
of my dream's rosy glow.
Life, inside the glazier's force field,
a cold beckoning to a fire;
Flickering red cellophane,
no heat, only magpie glitter
to feather my sad nest.
Painted shut, your window,
layer, upon crazed layer
of lime and chalk,
wears the oil-slicked patina
of past tenancies;
A film, shone on a mirror, self-reflects.
Can you see outside?
Can you see the rain glisten
off leaves and rooftops?
Can you smell the wet promise?
I pluck strings from
your coat of solitude, an entwined hair,
organic love knot,
To build my house of twigs and castoffs.
My precarious perch, neither in nor out,
makes sleep a one-eyed event.
Surreptitious flutters to dry wings and prepare for flight.
Spring will come.
With your chisel in hand,
the years' seal broken,
a rush of dust and regret:
That moment before sleep
brings the fingers of jasmine,
soft trills and
quiet breath.

1/23/02

On the chakra meditation, Blowing roses good for letting go of attachments and resentments.
Blowing Roses
When you shone at me,
late summer's rose,
I bobbled top-heavy in the glass
seeking still the sun.
Aroma heavy, fetid,
slightly stale.
An ambered incense
that clings,
breath from a ritual holy,
but not wholly my own.
Full-blown I quivered,
detached, rootless
plucked at that moment
before perfection
a gift to the blind.
Unfolded in a vacuum,
this velvet stasis,
an hermetic memory,
it's seal cracked,
turned flesh to rubied dust.
Actions too harsh,
indifferent to its waning prime
saw remaining fragments fall,
dry paper and leaves.
Pricked by thorn,
only the pips cling
stubbornly to a dry stalk.
12/2001

Someone told me I didn't write "POETRY" cause it
didn't rhyme...
Re: location

Your move: Moving,
movements, to be moved.
Moving pictures, moving trucks,
Move it Mack.
Mackintosh for sheading fears
like water off (man)drake's root or hazel's switch,
the water witch that divined,
divinely creating something... bigger.
Bigger, digger, gold or souled
Dig not too deep into depths untold.
No gold's fool, no black gold oil
to be struck like a gong,
or sold yard by yard, soil,
simply soil.
Soiled, dirty, dug too deep
to find gold, guts, or the glory
of God's doors to
Goddesses' temples closed.
Closed with peepholes peeped.
Pricks of light, insight into interiors
Furnished by fancy's flight
hiding thee from me.
Me to thee, addled, asea,
Treading possibility.
Kneading luxury.
Luxury's horizon,
a lifeline tossed,
or a well-defined sea wall,
grey green haze
on horizons I found in your eyeline
to set my sights for.
We are not lost.
We have sighted a lantern,
distant beacon to warn shoals
that may scuttle our plans,
so Dear,
your move.

3/10/02

Someone asked about our end...I don't know if you>remember the canoe trip...hope I spelled "crack" right
I loved you, still...I knew. I'm glad I did...you
wouldn't have found Karen...

The Barst

You navigated uncharted waters,
Clearly not seeing the
dangers in those crystaline wilds,
unexplored except in your dreams.
You navigated those spaces
undiscovered in submarine floorplans,
to futures unfinished?
You navigated with an obstinancy
that circled you
round and round
Those creatures
with a prehistoric heart
watched while you created
that whirlpool,
unending eddy,
the pressure that
blew the barst
in your glass bottom boat.

The catfish respectfully request your presence at dinner.