Web Log


A Home in Many Places


Three beans in a jar,
and a red ribbon on top,
Chrome-silver lid finish,
and a piggy in the backdrop.
.
Four candybears sit thinking,
on a dusty old balloon,
cobwebs strewn sideways,
and the piggy bursts into tune
.
The door's swinging weakly,
on a hinge that's paint bare,
the barnhouse roof is bending,
to let the sun light up the air
.
The horses are all a-bellow,
in the lightning thunder rain,
haysticky-stacky humid,
hollow yells still remain
.
Whistles in the night sky,
through cornfield crushed strips,
feet trailing the dry grass,
a sweaty days work off the hips
.
contagious laughter,
in a fragment sentence rhyme,
three days to Sunday,
seven ways to spend time
.
someday when im older,
ill wish i was forever here,
humming an old tune,
with piggy somewhere near.

A Home in Many Places

It was odd, I admit
to find myself a home
amidst the shelving and rot
amidst the battered old tomes.

Stories of people,
of stories, of things -
a decimal labeling
of related beings.

You punch in and out,
tag a card, worn down,
slip it into the jacket
let your mind wander round.

Once you settle in, warm,
let your mind out its cage,
do you read about the author?
or skip to the front page?

As the words weave a story,
you may once have heard,
let me twiddle your knobs,
there’s still life in this bird

in nineteen old twenties,
there once lived a man,
a nomad among nomads,
a man with no plan.

he went right in and out
of the lives he should touch
no latent relation,
that was asking too much.

when caught by the whiskers
and demanded of love,
he gave all he offered
but not a sliver above.

he dodged the resentment
of those who love, for love’s sake
he left a trail of old heartbreak
and tears in his wake.

why should I, he asked
tie myself down,
be bethrothed to another
and swear by her now?

and so thinking, he left,
every friendship half shared
it was not money, but choice,
that made this man, millionaire

he lived for his days,
by his nights he forgot,
what secret to life, then -
to forget, than to not.

So on he went, free,
caught himself thinking, one night,
I’ll look back tomorrow,
and see if I’m right.

The next day he looked back,
looked askance at himself
have I lived for a reason
or simply lived for myself?

How long have I wandered
Still how long must I roam,
I have a home in many places,
yet in no place, a home.

It’s here that I leave you,
you know stories aren’t real,
they’re text from an author
who thinks, who feels.

Those books on the shelves,
they’re windows into minds,
of people, of choices,
with an infinite rewind.

Stay with me a while,
these books we’ll divide,
a mind for you and for me
let’s read side by side.

Grayness

Whom once those wretched souls decried,
a heretic, with no plan,
now those same voices surely cried,
what an honorable man!

so time does change a mortal soul,
before the clock spins twice,
there lies a grayness far afield,
between the naughty and the nice.

A little bit of Hindi

Perhaps there’s a duality among us
a pulling, tugging breadth of rope
knotted and dyed in pastel hues
a coloured darkness in which to grope

Not held by walls or fences high
nor by earthen plot on human map
not hunkered down or standing by
not waiting long to bridge the gap

A depth of clearness held afar
by misty thought and foggy heart
squinting slightly in the dark
to apiece the story part by part -

to find an ending at the end
after a life of many starts
to live a life oft promised us,
to mend a broken heart

Snow School

There’s an unspoken peace
about a mountainous place
through valley and river and
tree covered face -

from summit to summit,
laid by a sun in a grille,
treading thin middle lines
light to darkness, at will.

A tremendous high feeling,
not a singular sound,
but the sound of your breathing
as your heart starts to pound -

Your legs turn to slack,
at your unbreakable speed
shifting unfocused,
from want onto need -

Mist on the mountains,
as the clouds each unfold,
slip fleeting each by,
each is a story untold

The trees whip the wind
into a regular pace,
a natural be-bop,
that your mind can erase -

as it grapples with changes,
beyond its command,
more life than can handle,
more love than withstand.

Statistics

He's bent over the counter,
his back arched by time
He's smiling, broad,
his face cracks into a million smiles

He's humming a creaky love song
It has such lonely words
Fingers smear the glass
with a white, faltering grip

He has no fiery ambition,
no mastery will to live,
no kindness born of affluence,
no happiness to give

He's leaning back on the wood,
it's convolutions planned,
moving back, and forward
and back. And forward

The coffee scalds his tongue,
like nitrogen and cold
giving heat, taking heat
it's all the same to him

The grease in his omelette,
she says it'll kill him someday,
he's 76 and running,
but he lets her have her way

She wipes the butter off the bun,
in a single mastered swipe,
he trembles with the sugar,
he shakes with his knife

He's a man of the ages,
but he has no tale to tell,
he spent his life and living,
try'na buy himself from hell

'Aint got no magic wisdom,
not a countryman by pride,
his weeks worth of pennies,
paid for the blanket by his side

Got a sparkle in his eye,
when he drops her some 25cents,
a quarter of his daily fare,
for her smile and innocence

And yet this man is dreaming,
of a future, of a time,
his cookie jar is full with pennies,
his meals rid of crime

And tonight he'll lie waiting,
for the brand new year to dawn,
he's got the best seat in the house,
by the bridge, on someone else's lawn

Artificial Man

I know your darkest secrets,
the long forgotten kind,
I know your deepest regrets,
the ones you’d left behind.
We’ve told our tales with laughter,
and felt its deepest touch,
and slept in silence after,
before it was all too much.
We rounded up the holly,
the snow white cake and cream,
the music all so jolly
the chef bursting at the seams.
And it didn’t really matter,
that our friendship then was gone
we watched our old bonds shatter,
as a brand new love was born.
And then I heard them whisper,
soft into my ears,
every time I kissed her
repeat my only fears.
The voices in my head grew,
grew louder, as we went,
I heard them in your head too,
with all the time that we spent.
The swing by the hut swaying,
to an angry sounding wind,
the distant bells were saying,
forgive me, I have sinned.
We found our primate solitude,
in each other’s company,
our only hope together
was to let each other be.
I hear the lies they tell you,
and I hope you understand,
I’m not the kind they sell you,
I’m no artificial man.

Summer Solstice

Where stark blue night,
wages war against yellow day,
and dandelions wait on the sun,
And the moon stands silent,
enveloped in darkness that is
invaded by a halo of light,
And wisps of white sail
across a field of pink
pungent, effeminate,
And bees buzz timeless,
working for a queen,
a lazy hypocrite,
And little drops of dew,
are slapped off strips,
of infinite green,
by enthusiastic feet,
that need step twice,
to cover a distance,
a distance plot by a man.
Caravans, led by weary
injured horses,that step,
forward, intermittently,
knowing their toil,
can not be without reason,
and their hope, fiery,
leads them on, to move,
struggle against the wind,
the heat, and the incessant prodding.
Parched desert, held from change,
by massive walls of concrete,
and prisoner of sizzling tar
where rubber slashes mercilessly,
against the ground; speeding
toward just another destination.
But giggles fill the quiet,
of the countryside morning,
and the breeze runs merrily on,
merrily on, carrying tidings of peace.

Misfit Gallery

There's a room at a temple
behind the idols and the arch
past the fire, round the chariot
the backstage of the gods.
Where cluttered lie the torches
and the robes and the food
and long forgotten plaques
honor faithful generosity.
In this narrow twilight,
a four walled insulation
unsuspecting children cross
blithely from side to side.
A room in which to toss
all your spare and lonely parts
unbecoming, incongruous
a misfit gallery.

Krsnavilas

Pinkmellow yellow on a cashewnut tree
coffeewet mud and a cottage at sea.

Bluewalled bedroom opened out to a scene
creakywood furnace and a halfnaked teen.

little red pot and its coldwater glasses
portrait on a wall that everyone passes.

Redribbon sunsets and faraway trees
a hot bellied scumwell,its dreaded disease.

thick fiery carpet, patched in six places
leathery boots and their leathery laces.

woodboard walls for a posterhappy boy
sequined shawls sunsparkling with joy.

icky green fungi along the compound rocks
4 meddly faces of grandfather('s) clocks

two pensive boys on a glass ventilator
stand in competition, the longer the greater

drop down, crash bang,blood wound gory
giggles on the skyline, sob sob story

blackout fade in fade out, no pain no gain
whitenoise whiterain whitewater whitepain

happy sad good bad, love hate, go free
my home,my darling, my only, mine. me.

Plaintext Poetry

And look at my words,
lying plain on this page.
No picture. No painting,
no outpouring rage.

Just cliche and fragment
and tedious rhyme
A rhythm gone stagnant
and a restrictive Design.

I could write about flowers,
or greenery trees,
I could ramble repugnant,
or tickle and please.

I could draw you a picture,
with worlds of my making,
drinkmellow, cloud yellow
and tender lifequaking.

But beauty and beast
are in the eye of the beholder,
can a blind person see -
what no-one has told her?

And so I lie staring,
out this open-flat book,
my taker has taken
all that was to be took.

But some are still reading,
their eyes small and greedy,
and I wonder, briefly,
what makes us so freaking needy,

that we ascribe meaning,
to all that we see,
to paintings. to pictures,
and plaintext poetry.

Fiddly Diddly

I’ve got a cereal alpha-beta
and a knick-knack kangaroo
A seven line senorita,
and her ballet dancers too

We’ve got the bright pink furry ponies,
and the sparkles and the wine,
the bouncers and their cronies,
and the seating and the clime

It’s a two day jumping Jackson,
and a curried up slice and dice,
get in on all the action,
come on, we’re all so nice!

I’ve got a gulfstream mumbo jumbo,
and the wing tips come in twos,
the Italian candy gumbo,
they won’t stop with the booze

Forget about your worries,
and all that down low stuff,
theres winter in snow flurries,
and all the Christmas fluff

I’ve got a cereal alpha-beta
and a knick-knack kangaroo
My seven line senorita,
She’s got me by a noose