The Symbol Piece

Why would one, beneath the earth
Where shadows watch and hide,
Near dripping hearts affection lie,
Let flowers grow beside?

And why would one, in landscape shy,
In shallow and forgotten peace,
Allow this daisy garden grow
Where wallowed loves increase?

And why would one remember days,
And not regret but to remind--
He left his folded word two times
To leave his love behind?

Sand and Snow

On this base the myth is built,
And towers rise from it;
The buried paper is guilt,
And flowers disguise it;
The silent garden exposed,
And cabana shade is gone,
And wither’d paper closed
While weeds eat the lawn.
A lake now sits where water dripped,
And no memorial was raised
Where ancient history hid the script
Of old leaked heartbeats days.

Who are we who didn't know?

Who are we who didn’t know?
Living by our artlessness--
Uncultured, we slothfully are
Subverting what we will become.
We laugh and drink till morning come,
Then eat and stink till sleep succumb.
What text has led us astray?
These pages are recklessness,
Trivial seeds--unbound, our
Loose pages lost in the west winds
And shallowing youth and romance.
We’re shaken from our staring trance.
Or was it by pure ignorance?

Sprawling Ink

The pen is the thing imagination flows
from--the mind of insanity
and the glowing words appear
as if from thin air,
as if the pen conducts a symphony
from the bony hand of a writer,
and has no intention of playing
the soon-to-be masterpiece of words
that will eventually inspire someone,
sprawling ink in an old
hand’s half cursive style
streaming consciousness.

The Wesley Album

In time for the morning dosage of pills and breakfast,
Wesley joins the mass of congregated patients.
some sit in the small cafeteria, some stand
and some wander about by the windows,
looking through the double pained plexi and asylum bars.
the wheelchair abandoned in a dark hallway corner
by the bedrooms testifies to schizophrenia,
or maybe a stomach growled too loud-

Killing Men

I saw a woman cry before,
but not with grief or pain--
her fingers stroking through his hair,
dripping red disdain.

A hummingbird suspended there,
and suckled nectar feast--
while watching I with deep rapport,
felt one with the deceased.

The Freedom Spaces

the freedom spaces
in beauty of movement
and presence presents magnificence
strong all around
this way and that way
betray what will one day be
wild wind silhouetted
opportunity

She is toil

The tanned skin from years in the sun
and the hint of gray at her temples,
and the perfect sway of hips beneath
the summer dress,
her smile squint and dimples--

The arched back of a dancer posed
and the arms outstretched to fly,
and her first time fluttered and closed
lashes and lids,
pinching tears from her eyes--

A Place of Refuge

To hide and not get caught,
rest instead of run,
be lost instead of found,
feel safe where no one else does--

somewhere I can think,
talk to myself,
A place so secret--

I search for this place that I know and trust,
But I don’t know anywhere or anyone to trust,
Or even if I trust myself with anywhere I go or anyone I know.

A place so secret--
in the dark, the cold, the night.

Lotus

Her hand passes over the flowers on the table;
picking one from the bunch
and diving her nose into the petals,
breathes in deep
the scent of compassion.

Musician

The couple at the small table by the window
Laugh loudly, and ignore the soft melodic tune
That plays only for them. The musician too
Ignoring; his instrument laughing more than
The bottles of wine at the table for two.

Saria, My Love!

Saria.
Smile my love,
today is a day to celebrate!
(wipe your tears) and forget…
Misery has too long a memory!
The parade has finished its procession,
Dew-drop footprints in the percussion
and droning voices leading the music!
A man stands by, watching
you, watching me, watching you.
His face shaded by the old and twisted
Cemetery Tree, and old memory—
Nicolas cries out to the gray sky,
Seeking comfort and glancing about
for an exaggerated display.
My Love!
(wipe your tears) and forget…
Your eyes encourage insincerity!
The young man will wait for you;
by the tree he waits, emotionless except
for a would-be glimmer in the sun.
But in the shade he waits for you,
and his watery eyes!
More admirable I think is he than you;
For what is emotion aloud but proud
and poorly written poetry?
His silent contemplation of me
and you, and him, and I,
I travel ahead, as always.
So if you must watch them bury,
Be one under the Cemetery Tree
(wipe your tears) and forget me!

Nest

It’s a lonely world
Having loved and lost,
But life is more than living and dying,
Knowing the truth and still lying.

After tickled toes curled,
After hidden fingers crossed,
After spending so much time together,
And knowing the laugh before you met her--

There sits a bird, a baby fell out of the nest,
On ground outside in quiet, unmoving rest?
I peer through the window and spy
Unprotected innocence about to die.

(between the vines a slow knell rung)
It crept behind with whispering tongue,
But I’ll lose sight if I go to save us!
So instead I watch from here and helpless

When silent song begins the morning
And wisps of smoke, the early warning,
Unfortunate babe shares mothers fate--
Gives a short cry before laying sedate.

Then appears the hawk that waited,
Oh! Then helpless babe regurgitated
And venomous one in futile fight
Is carried away in talons tight.

Consider before, what comes after
Long nights of love and laughter;
While secrets revealed to each other
Lie in the deceptive arms of another--

Out of the nest a robin chick fell,
Into the jaws of a receiving hell,
Leaving blood stained feathers cherry red--
And the ants cleaned up after the dead.

Beyond the Front Gate

Beyond the front gate lies the world, a world of ups and downs
Miles of empty roads and overgrown fields that inspire gentle music
Winds rushing inland from the coast before they scale the mountains
And a home that gives shelter from the occasional storms
But behind grows thorns, and trees all twisted ‘round the chimney
Sucking the smoke from the always burning, always Rotten
And the sofa smells of nightmare sweat…
But beyond the front gate lies responsibility—
An unfortunate Obligation

The River

in some places it slows
and sometimes shallows
but always before it reaches the lake
the rapids will show significant wake

over rocks and difficult lots
(more to live than deeper spots
where sitting still takes longer)
where faster currents feel stronger

one way winding, always running past
the roots on the banks that pass so fast
and all it flows over will decay
and eventually waste the time away

Scars of Innocence

So lonely, a song by the lying boy who in quiet meditation,
While sorrow, sorrow ineffaceable continues to empty a heart;
While waiting must suffice or satisfy the longing eyes;
While sighs provide a momentary relief from the metronome,
And reminiscent thoughts, the carriage;
Will slowly deteriorate from inside out, the passing of time.

Wishing for a word, even unfriendly, even angry,
Apologies are over and winter has begun.

The cold air, each tick and tock, refreshed, and heaving,
The temporary solace of the scene helps him forget
The temporary silence, between kinetic and potential—
My potential, wasted on worry and wasted on action.

Right then left, and back again, in and out oxygen;
A measure of time through throat, and count;
Write your song, young boy, and waste the waning clock
By measuring the lines wrote long, with every tick or tock.

Cries to the wind, your mockingbird sings
He sings to your youth, but your memory that later listens
Boy, why don’t you run from the creeping waves?
Why do you listen to the sea, itself having lost and lost again?
"Death, death, death" it whisper’d, and death the bird sung,
But having youth, you show no signs of it.

I too connect with the earth and its creatures
I too ignored and now miss their advice
And I too, a mockingbird!

I was once told the secret to happiness,
But when I left the woods I could not remember.
Remembering, a funny thing remembering.
So far it bounds, so crude the path.
I could not find the way back to the garden.

In younger years I could have navigated
To younger ears I could have sung
And under stars I would have healed the scars of innocence undone.
Between the times together, I’ve seen myself apart
In joy and sadness, sadness
And joy

A girl and pen, recluséd write
before the sun arose-
a short verse, tightly packed
haunted melancholy repose.

Language revealed obsession;
Luxury you kept from me,
So death and lonesome be
My eternal company.

Genius or madman considered first?
Christian or fiend who at God cursed?
And innocence lost with experience of life;
Birth or death will not restrain your strife.

For who in life ignores his death?
And who but God inspires breath?
And who told Thel to tell his story
Before she wrote his allegory?

Time to contemplate the devil’s plan
Which deceiving wrought the Fall of Man,
And innocence to corruption led
Before He crushed the serpent’s head.

I count the sways of the pendulum
And loaf instead of see the time escape from me.
The boy has left the beach and long forgot the bird;
And girl ties her poems tight with ribbons.
The Innocent was born into the world, and experience
Betrayed what all his colleagues may have heard.

I tell my story to celebrate my revelation,
But instead my reader sees my aberration,
And my desperation.

My metronome is fading, and ticks repeat,
and tocks while no one listens
While time sees past my pretense,
I gladly show my scars of innocence.

It Was Good

One tree that doesn’t belong, but still it grows
Tall and its fruit swells with ripening pulse;
Hidden in the alignment of olive groves
That shades the soil untilled and rows
Of stones that mark the perimeter garden.
The sweet nectar of Eden bound by rich skin
Bleeds forsaken immortality.

For a moment he forgot, and began his descent:
Loss of Friend and followed her. His helper and he,
Together broke, and listened to the lying serpent
That spoke, tales of knowledge with corollary.
Perfection undone and naked reveal the knowledge
Exposed no leaves could conceal the broken pledge
Or hide where Friend will always see.

Fiery sword now guards the gate, and toil, sweat
And pain became their punishment and shame;
And snake on belly crawl the earth where weeds
Will grow, and work will show, more fruit; that
One of two unable to please with offered root
Did jealous murder in field, and curse on head
He brought while brother bleeds.

L'homme marche seul

A boy one night went to sort out his mind
And his false sense of duty became his weight
His searching led his mind to the path before him
And with a pause he plunged into the darkness

His body fell behind
But his mind raced on
His thoughts grew weary
And his burden was heavy

This night he thought of what he wanted
And his need to belong became his weight
His searching led his mind to the path before him
And he paused before plunging in to the darkness

His body fell behind
But his mind raced on
His thoughts grew weary
His thoughts grew so weary
And his burden was heavy

One night this man will find what he is looking for
And his loneliness will not be his burden
And his searching will lead him home
And without a pause he will enter the light

Epitaph

In the shadows behind the cabana where water drips from faucets
And the peaceful steadiness of a leaking heartbeat becomes a puddle—
Sitting in the depression that regrets mistakes made long ago,
Lays a lonely memory of what has passed and is no more.
A single paper folded twice with one word written,
Buried beneath the earth and fading along the crease,
Lies worn with recent history among the shallow roots.
The silent garden where this planted paper hides dormant
Near the combined shade of the house and canyon walls,
Which conceal the path through the detailed landscape,
Forgets the dripping and puddles that once existed
before the sun returned to its full height in the sky,
And evaporated this word I wrote—
WHY

One Life To Live

One life to live
And two will share
Though worlds apart
Still bleeding heart
And long lost love
Till letter repair.

A peek of hope
To starting new
A chance reborn
But lover’s warn
No sweet venom
To poison you.

But distance keeps
Strong love incite
But beauty forgot
Yet woman caught
Soon to return
To hold her tight.

The day delayed
Still flower blooms
And sleepless nights
To soon delights
Will see petals bare
And smell perfumes.

Keep eyes to sea
And I to see
One love to care
Two lives to share
And fortune make
for revelry.

Contention

When found a dogma to follow and song to show faith
A generation will turn and begin its blazon.
The not-so-subtle revolution.
Parents press their morals and morality sinks low
When children’s quarrels become violent in war.
These simple differences cause so much destruction:
From depression to recession and billions of bones,
The modern incapacity to overcome possessions,
The idealized neglect of life and limb only to die.
But when hope of a better world is introduced
And the youthful megalomaniacal fantasies lost
There becomes a movement toward religion.
Something beyond this world of disappointment,
When your body in the next life can’t decease.
And suddenly…
Being a fanatic for what you believe isn’t held in high regard
And the world would rather repeat its past than purge itself.

Our Time Will Fade

A new day will come
But not for us
Not here

Our time will fade

Only a few will make the difference
And new worlds will grow from their deeds
Pray for those few-
future generations depend on them.

New Heights

You can not move but wind will carry your leaves far from where you are rooted
And you will see though them those who have climbed past the corners of the earth.
Your fleeting life will scatter new ones further than you could stretch your branches
And young men will outgrow those that came before and shade the survivors of storms.
I listen to old men and their groaning stories of swaying, and lies of standing tallest
But now men will prune those that threaten to block the sunshine from green lawns
And in summer will curse you because you can’t shade their eyes that look up to you.
Animals hide their secrets behind your scars that used to hold hammocks.
Men who rise above the rest will soon realize no one protects them from the rain
And when they fall, they destroy the lives and bodies of everyone around them.
Most men desire to be tall, raising their arms and soaking up the sunlight
But those men will never see the children who will enjoy your life only for a short time.
Eventually a year will come when your bare arms can no longer entertain spring
And your shadows will scatter between the rays of life and light will permeate through.
I know there is joy in the planks nailed to my hands and ropes that swing from my arms
So I dip my branches low so children can climb to heights their parents never could.

Old Authors Notes

I don’t know how prepared I’ll be when the test begins…
Facing a fight never let me down, but I am all alone this time
and whatever it is that I know let him find you
before voices and vibrations could take you.
Now I know I’ll go poor finding beats of where you will be
before my attention to old Authors notes that hypnotize the minutes awake
crashes quick raps and short stacks of neatness and jumbled words.
Here’s what’s left: not enough.
I lose myself in feeling, I miss you, I need you.
By now no one under the moon
knows the desert well enough to see your mirage.
So somber, what we won’t dare do or where we won’t dare go,
while acoustic guitars serenade my search
I borrow breadcrumbs to leave false trails
but they eat my hints before he follows
and monsters meet in the darkness around campfires
eating my bread and plotting stories that dead men have written
and win prizes for plagiarism and corrupt ideas of superiority.
I see elaborate columns and papyrus aging yellow
and before I can stop them from devouring my own ideas
I become a part of the imagination they have stolen.
Metallic instruments cloud my ears with strange music
and deep synthesizers mouth intangible words to my eyes,
but I hear sounds of revolution and an overthrow of the monsters
when music douses fires and chases the thieves away
before picking crumbs from the beards of the real Authors.

Signs of Emotion

*Inspired by Painting (Alex Grey, 1998)
http://i111.photobucket.com/albums/n138/crawdad317/n6414449_31622983_4397.jpg

When strokes illuminate an ordinary canvas
To expose the complexity beneath naked form and function,
A light from within can not be contained by any means of systems.
And the circular flaw of man is his passion for aesthetics;
For paint flows through his veins, and eyes interpret the rhythms
When his heart pumps this pleasure through the whole body.
While colors run together and pour off the palette,
The artist animates new creativity as observing eyes scrutinize
And look with helpless jealousy toward the august artist.
A vision even an audience of gods and demons can not corrupt
Inspires a connection deep into the artwork of man;
And only those who can not see the masterpiece are impressed
Because the artist’s abilities may be less perfect than his insight.
Yet still, the radiance of the intricate form
Distracts from frowning faces and the auguries of misfortune.

Purpose of Life

The purpose of life was lost to knowledge--And forgot the human condition
For I, still in youth, have seen my death--
But knowing is not what makes me better--It’s my journey of how I get there

-I-
I cannot say why I hunt a man I do not know
Or know what he did
But the pursuit is the first of three…

A tower rises above the trees in a deep wood
It’s here where he escapes

To the highest tier I followed him
And out the window
Where he fell to his freedom

-II-
I cannot say why I elude a man I do not know
Or know what I did
But the flight is the second of three…

A cave opens between the trees in a deep wood
It’s here where I escape

To the deepest cavern I led him
And into the darkness
Where I descend to my freedom

-III-
I cannot say who neither of us knew
Or knew what we did
But both our deaths were number three…

A river cut through the trees in a deep wood
It’s here where we were caught

Through rocky rapids the current led us
And down to the waterfall
Where our bodies float to freedom

But knowing is not what makes me better--
For when you see the way you die--There is no escape
And the third time--When the river takes me--
I overcome my obsession with death--As the water slaloms toward its tomb
And pours into the chasm--Of infinite slumber and regret
Where I dreamed--Beneath shadows cast by tall pines

To the Old Man

Maybe the eighty-fifth day you will be lucky
When you set out to see
If your old body remembers what it used to be
Maybe three days of struggling will bring “your brother” in
And the journey back won’t devour him

Maybe you won’t have to carry your cross
And tourists will see
That the bones were once considered family
Maybe the boy will wake you to hear where you have been
And one day relay the story you told him

One day I will give you a reason to boast
So dream, my friend, of the African coast

Here's to you
To the Old Man
Who never thought your bad luck would be
What finally brings home a prize in 1953

Papa POW

Too much for only five senses…

Seeing the clouds form in shapes that remind you of the animals
from the Aesop’s Fables you read as a child—
Smelling the air that once dried a desert before it fell
into the valley from where it now blows—
Hearing the thunder pound once, more powerful
than the many lighting strikes that preceded—
Feeling the earth shake, the ’89 earthquake
is a small aftershock compared to this hell—
And Tasting the ash that lingers in the air long after the explosion
—Papa witnessed on August 6, 1945

Orion

Everything seems in place
But too many lights are out
In this imperfect silent space
Where happed murder’d shout:

“Too long I hunted Zodiac beast
Only to become Scorpio’s feast!”
For Taurus is protected by
Hera, Artemis, and Gemini

My sins my fatal fate did spawn:
I am victim of my own crimes
And now in debt to Charon
I circle Hades nine times.

But now only bones can show
Through mirrors and a lens
The body laying far and glow
On points where his belt bends.

…Too many eyes have seen
The horror in the skies
For an “execution” has been
Committed where Orion lies

Bad Beat

A man I met deceived with guise
To trap a famed apache he planned
And city decriminalize

Beginner playing for a prize
Beating—out playing methods banned
Captures other players’ surprise

Final table he makes and buys
In the lead with a “Dead Man’s hand”
Staring straight with unblinking lies

First player checks with beady eyes
The second makes the pot expand
Then tells the third his plans devise

Man unwilling to compromise
Refused the Parisian demand
And unwound the dealer’s demise

The killers loss, the hand despise
And the members display their brand
Others stand and a pistol cries
Money, commotion, then he dies

The Cost

-I-
To the One who led His people from captivity
I have always believed You—
“Ehyeh Asher Ehyeh¹”
Even for the man who disbelieved, You parted the sea
How has he seen Your glory and not I?

To the One who interpreted the dreams of a king
“And the stone cut out of the mountain without hands
Crushed the iron, the brass, the clay, the silver, and the gold²”
Even for a servant to the king, You gave great power
How has he seen Your glory and not I?

-II-
We have survived a tribulation no people should face
And You, “Palet³” have not delivered
We are leaving now still as captives
And we see no sign of a Savior

-III-
Notimetothinknotimetotalkonlytimetorun
Breatherunrun

Finally I drop to the dust that bore me and will take me where I want⁴
To the finale, where my weak bones finally rest
I crumple into a pile
A man runs behind shouting and when I do not stand, he fires
A blast that burns my flesh and breaks bone
My sternum looks as though I am trying to hide a dagger beneath my skin
I bleed into my left lung, gargling with every heaving breath
Then my muscles relax

Only a few memories flash before me
Moving to Warsaw to be with family
The Yellow Badge
Then the camps

The rest have gone on running and breathing and dying
While the others follow with obedient motivation
Fingers pull triggers and the Red Sea parts
For bodies of my brothers
As I lie here I wonder what it would be like to see the end
To see the faces when freedom arrives
If it arrives
As I stare at the sky, the black blanket that blocks us from His view
I drift further away from faith
And slowly die


__________________________________________________

1. “Ehyeh-Asher-Ehyeh” – (Exodus 3:14) “I am that I am” (God)
2. Nebuchadnezzar’s dream (Daniel 2)
3. Palet – (Psalm 18:2) Deliverer (God)
4. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust (Genesis 3:19)

** “Seven hundred prisoners were killed during one ten-day march of 8,000 Jews, including 6,000 women, who were being moved from camps in the Danzig region, which is bordered on the north by the Baltic Sea. Those still alive when the marchers reached the coast were forced into the sea and shot.”

-United States Holocaust Memorial Museum

The Diner

There is this Diner that I frequent where the waitresses are always friendly.
The food always comes slow but I don’t mind.

I don’t wait to be seated anymore,
They know what time I come in and my booth is always empty.
The silverware wrapped tightly in the paper napkin sits on the table, next to the menu.

When I sit down, I always tighten the salt and pepper caps.
There must be a family with children who frequent like me,
but the children will never know that I always ruin their trap
and no one at this booth will ever dump the entire shakers contents.

My Wednesday waitress quietly slips from the kitchen and over to my booth;
and no matter how many times I order “the usual,” she always asks.

I try to ignore the couple in the corner booth,
but they are speaking loud so I listen to their conversation
while I pretend to read the menu, even though I’ve already ordered.

By the time their conversation turns to politics, I am already distracted;
and my cross-eyed stare at the door to the kitchen
and my half-sipped ice-water leaving wet rings on the table
seem to be hints at the hundreds of thoughts in my head.

My Wednesday finally brings my food, and a smile.
And in that moment I can’t help but think—
She is the only reason I come to the Diner
And I might be the only reason she works here.

The Weapons of Winter

The clouds shoot rain—machine guns
driving ants from their kingdoms—into kitchens.
Bullets overflow gutters—leaving shells
no one can pick up—only catch.

Puddles shy from high ground—landmines
poorly hidden and placed—harmless.
Explosions from potholes— like cannon balls
in swimming pools—and soaked pant legs.

Creeks run quickly—soldiers retreating
to fight another day—but never return.
Reservoirs full then empty—the belly
of an alcoholic veteran—sober.

Ammunition pumped to our faucets—
and weapons in our homes—
Weapons children can play with—spilling
water instead of blood—

Lady Promiscuity

I was told to stop living in the past,
but the memory of the day
when the Time was just right
holds a certain significance to who I have become.

Your smell, your touch, your beauty—
a collage unequaled even by nature.
I choose to remember the you I knew,
not the you I know

because my memories are sweeter
than your now sour kiss, but my mind
still blames you for my loneliness.

Oh I remember the day
when the Time was just right.
I remember that day you hinted now haunt.
Now you display your sexual flaunt
to the man with no soul,
no heart—
the both of you.

There once was a hero

You used to whisper stories
Each new one continued the old
And I was the hero in every adventure
Of the endless journey you told

I traveled to distant planets
Fighting new villains each time
And even through their evil powers
You still made victory mine

I enjoyed each adventure you imagined
And remembered each tale I heard
But now that I’ve grown up I’ve become
A hero not remembered

There once was a hero who fought across space
And one who cared about a kid
Now you’re gone and I’m too busy for stories
And there are no more heroes