Myth

a stubborn storm
12.18.06

sleeping,
I saw a vision of the sea

sepia stillness,
a facade framed in black

then He arose,
rebuked the charade

sending
color beams piercing

kneading,
churning stagnant waters

singing:
peace be still

magenta caressing,
the wind did lull

yellow embracing,
the storm did cease

there
was tranquility

and
it was good

Stacks of Hay
1.24.07

Omaha Beach, Normandy
Summer 2006

let us not forget
12.14.06


eerily, waves wash a shrapnel shore

silence mingles with chaos that will not be quelled

this Easy Red, a prophet’s call, tombstones line the landing

upon cruel sand they fought for lodgment, endured the longest day


stunned children falter. churning. mourning,

imagining boys in the midst of a fog field dodging bullets

sun buzzing on this bloody channel begging, “remember”

flak bursting overhead, "bravery to the fore!"


a single star once lit a sky to fill our hearts with courage

birth in the line of fire celebrated under a luminary sky

one child born to execute an extraordinary mission whispers,

"will you disembark?"



39 lashes
11.05.05

time
was ticking, fission
was inevitable it had
begun

the
destructive device
was in their midst
and they were sore
afraid

so
they formulated a
defense against
Oppenheimer’s
demon:

defuse
the approaching ache

impede
an impending doom

gather
in standardized pods

chant
the conglomerate creed

wear
the prescribed uniform

but
the minds of men are
weak, for in their quest to quell
a radioactive fear they lost
sight:

39 lashes
are more than enough to
dismantle an atomic
bomb



In the 1960’s Simon and Garfunkel blended Scarborough Fair with "Canticle," to create an anti-Vietnam war song. Inspired by their harmonic storytelling and a photograph of castle ruins, “Ravenstone Canticle,” blended with Scarborough Fair laments the dilemma of institutionalized Christianity.

(Ravenstone Canticle)
10.05







(menacing stones from a faraway land)
(ruins forewarning a shadowy plague)
(a fortress is groaning as ravenwings rouse)
(sickness not born of this flesh nor of bone)

(rootless and hollow she’s beckoning souls)
(caught in the midst of spiraling time)
(tapestries echo, watchtowers aglow)

(pilgrims devoted to sleep dreamy speeches)
(refusing the call of angelic psalms)
(must march forth in courage they’ve long ago forgotten)




Are you going to Scarborough fair?
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.
Remember me to one who lives there.
She once was a true love of mine.

Tell her to make me a cambric shirt,
(menacing stones from a faraway land)
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme;
(ruins forewarning a shadowy plague)
Without no seams nor needle work,
(a fortress is groaning as ravenwings rouse)
Then she’ll be a true love of mine.
(sickness not born of this flesh nor of bone)

Tell her to find me an acre of land,
(rootless and hollow she’s beckoning souls)
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme;
(caught in the midst of spiraling time)
Between the salt water and the sea strand,
(tapestries echo, watchtowers aglow)
Then she’ll be a true love of mine.

Tell her to reap it with a sickle of leather,
(pilgrims devoted to sleep dreamy speeches)
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme;
(refusing the call of angelic psalms)
And gather it all in a bunch of heather,
(must march forth in courage they’ve long ago forgotten)
Then she’ll be a true love of mine.

Are you going to Scarborough fair?
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.
Remember me to one who lives there.
She once was a true love of mine.


light a fire
12.25.05

burn
apathetic images
look beyond
facades

touch
the untouchable

face
filth and falsehood

seek
truth in the midst of chaos

and
you will find freedom

light a fire:
born
in the midst
of a rough hewn
shit-scented shelter
swaddled and laid amongst
beasts and fodder

light a fire:
illuminate brilliance
born to bring inexplicable joy
to a weary world


dance
11.24.06

why do we seek answers
to insoluble questions
by pacing perimeters

static choreography
threatens to undo
this delicate work

delight is ours,
let us live as
dancers in the wings

life is not for telling
rather, the pursuit
of collective steps


Battle
11.22.06

We
Have been endowed
with a mind.

Through
it the world
will grip a glimpse
of the soul.

Weakness and strength
wage war:

Let the games begin!






momentum
12.30.06

it’s an upstream
endeavor

here at the mouth of
Ensor’s carnival

mobs lurk
behind masks

cruel calculated
fomentation

clowns crushing
our steps

subjects
of misunderstanding

moving within
mayhem

a halo
awaits

bearing
momentum

Pop

Mary J
Inspired by One
09-01-06

Portrait

an inexorable woman
05.08.06

she enters the
building.

what had
become

a tepid
drone

recoils at
first

sight of the
messenger.

angel of
mercy

branded a
thug

in the midst
of

another perfect
muddle .

concerned, she
intones,

“smoke.”

what is one to do
with

an inexorable
woman?

ignorance threatens her
sanity.

narrowly rejecting
madness

she employs
truth,

“fire!”

as the drone smolders
on

one swift
turn

becomes her unassailable
testament.



endure
05.12.05

pain
pain
pain
rain rain rain rain rain rain

and she
reaches raggedly
like storm fraught petal pink
into the arms of gentleness



time to tilt
Inspired by Emily Dickinson
11.01.06

she sang,
“There’s a certain slant of light,”
a heft in our midst–
holy customs gone awry

will we heed her ballad cry?

mindful of the imperial mantra
journeymen flank formality
with eyes scrunched shut

soul scars invisibly
squelch our earth

weary of this dismal
landscape, scorched
by slanted light,
this mounted rider
joust in hand, implores
“Time to tilt!”



an offering
11.19.06

beside her
an ambling stream

she removes her apron
splattered like an Impressionist’s sunset
with paint

tenderly bathes
her brush
in flowing water

infusing its soul
with color



Someone’s Sister
08.17.05

Somewhere over the hill
after midnight and before dawn
someone’s sister vacantly services
her designated station.

She,

not discerning that customers seek more
than the pale shelter of another greasy spoon,

is about to throw in her towel.

She,

blind to poverty sandwiched
between the orders of displaced persons,

cannot bear the empty pang of prescriptive words.

She,

unaware of souls queuing
at the tips of her fingers,

longs for purpose.

Somewhere over the hill
night after night
someone’s sister at the end of her shift
drives madly into darkness.



The Psalmist’s Arrow
05.06

The psalmist’s words
Rushed in steadily
Soothing a wave worn soul

Gentle goodness set
Upon a breath of kindness,
Serenity’s soothing balm

And I am grateful for her arrow



green gable
02.02.06

a
shock of hair
gone green
high atop
an orphan head
is the gable of her
long forgotten
home



Another Rainfall
10/16/05

Rain was falling
like so many
stormy days she had
endured, so numerous
that she scarcely noticed
water, let alone merriment
tapping her on the shoulder.

Then the boy arrived
bearing a belated gift:

“Look!” “ Look!”
“It’s raining!”

(Elated gestures
cannot be portrayed
with mere words)

Head tilting up, lids tickled
eyes open.

Sweet wetness falling
from the heavens moisten
her world-weary soul with
long forgotten delight.

Will we dare to bolster
people whose gift is
turning joyless heads
skyward?




too many rungs
(based on a true story)
summer.05

rung after rung
one foot up then another
it was going well when
suddenly small legs froze

“GO!”
“I can’t believe you!”

and it’s up another
few rungs dread exuding
from wobbly legs

“GET UP!”

pink humiliation
painted her son’s face


“Listen, we can try the dive next lesson.”

To the coach, “He’s being stupid.”
Turning to her child, “Do it, NOW.”


head hanging, heart sunk
he ascends one more rung
but that is all the small swimmer
can muster before dejectedly
descending the ladder

the ranting mother’s cruel
criticism nears crescendo
as she marches her crestfallen
son toward the locker room



God Bless the Freaks
Inspired by Tom on Oparah’s couch
06.05

He may not be right,
Nonetheless, it took
A freak like Tom Cruise
To stir it up

Declaring his
So called “love”
While bouncing
On Oprah’s couch

Blasting his
Loaded finger
In the face
Of glib lemmings
Set on a fixed course

Outnumbered,
He challenged
Sleepy voices
To rise up and shout

Brazen.
Coarse.
Arrogant.

God made us,
All kinds

And that gives
A freak like me
Great hope.



little boy looks
11.01.04

little boy looks

blown glass moon
and darkness seep through trees
night calls her lights to stage wings

little boy looks

front door moon
like Galileo imagining
a vast round world

little boy looks

back door moon
hangs gleaming trinkets
in the goodnight sky

little boy lets heavy lids rest
nods his sweet head
and drifts to dreamland
cradled by the light of his moon



Lex Rex
04.07.06

Lex Rex wrecks words.
Lex Rex, I am vexed!
Wreckless Lex Rex!

What will Rex wreck next?
Tex Mex?
Sex?

Lex Rex are you hexed?
Can you wreck less, Rex?
Please, wreck less Rex.

Lex Rex gets new specs.
See Rex wreck less.



Hazmat Man
04.07.06

Chemical Analysis:

Unfounded fear
hangs like a toxic cloud
holding her in a
forlorn quarantine

She struggles to sterilize
the situation, all for naught.

Sounds like a job for
Hazmat Man!

He can remove hazardous material
and neutralize that nasty pH
with one flick of the wrist.

So, why not call toll free today?



discretion
1.29.06

for
the capacity to
translate images

liberate
wretched words
without war

pluck
luscious fruit
from arabesque branches

I
will close my
eyes, walk toward

the
shadowy chasm, and
reach for

a
hand to
hold



Peace Dove
Spring.03

Towards home
Picasso’s peace dove
Presses toward promise
And so my heart hopes
Even as haunting images,
Words that do not stand
And crawling contradictions,
Hang as storm clouds
Threatening this New York calm

Towards home
Across the clouds
Black and white blend
Into common grayness
Please dove, Peace Dove
Direct this bird on its journey

Towards home
Simply this:
Courage
In the tangled midst
Of half-truths
And thoughtless knives
To persevere

Landscape

gloaming
01.13.06

each day cycles
light blazing
sunrise to
setting sun
while eyes
lock with darkness

copper bursts
flicker and burn
on glass towering
above stubborn blindness

we brace ourselves
on the brink of
another gloaming

shackled
in a mass of tin
on rubber, a
head tilts up and
eyes, instantly rapt,
reach for the song
smoldering in
soliloquy embers



I See
11.17.05

I
see
tenement
towers
brick
glass.
mortar
brimming
with
broken
life

as a man on this swarming subway
admirably angry, collects coins
from three willing hands



A Thwarted Retreat
Summer.05

Some people read,
I prefer to look.

Sitting on the throne
In that chic lavatory
Naturally, I looked up.

An air vent donning masking tape–
Brittle yellow edges, corners gone,
Transmitted a cryptic message
Scrawled by some foreign hand:


“BIRD OR Something
In “Vent” Beware
“makes noises” when off
[sic / emphasis theirs]


Blast, another wrecked reverie!
“Not now!”
I shouted to the grotesque interruption.
Sorry to say, it was a standoff.

Strange,
That damned piece of tape
Shrewdly illuminated my
Vacation Villa charade.

And the moral of the story?
We are, all of us,
Mortal beings blindly
Crawling through muck
In search of
One true throne.



blackbirds on a wire
03.16.06

blackbirds scurry
painting chaotic script
before these clumsy eyes

wings flap like
a rushing river scourging
my naked shoulders

their black roar
echoes through
a stagnant canyon

all around
this city
they’re waiting

perched on wires
above my head
black-winged, watching

as melancholy
blankets this chill
with unsolicited comfort

wing to wing
blackbirds upon a wire
banish such nonsense

instinct sets wings aflutter,
implores unchained down to
mingle like rain with blue

all around
this city
they cry

black-winged
above my head:
“Fly!”




desolate demand
Bodie, CA
1.29.06

sacred hills shelter this
once upon a time
land of luminous lust

hedonistic tales.
historic tragedy.
bitter facades murmur

houses of ill repute
crumble on
insatiable earth

count the cost:
mining for riches
striking poverty




window moon
01.15.06

waxing moon
quietly suspended
oddly close, splendid

window watching
moonglow warming
nearly touching lunar texture
with yearning fingertips

light bulb crudely clinging
paints her portrait on glass
with nowhere near the distinction
of a crisp breathing flaxen moon
gliding serenely with the passing of night