Those golden lights grace
our harbors of memory,
imbued in blue.
Night lampposts diffuse
ephemeral threads, hushed in
Waiting by the road,
listlessly taken by the
nevermore of stars.
My peace comes in breaths,
stolen from the cold, ripe air;
dreams dream of dreamers.
My own, slashed, gutted,
fed to monsters of the deep;
to the future, sung.
Wind blows on framed trees,
outside, birds flock on rooftops,
black shades upon white.
It’s a different way of thinking.
A man, his face torn and bloody,
sits on the bottom of a dark and dusty shaft.
He believes himself forgotten, displaced, so
when he cries out (which he does) his voice is
silent. He is like this for many years.
And then a hand is placed on his shoulder, and
helpless, destitute, he knows he can see, and
the shaft is filled with light.
He looks into the eyes of his savior, and he
is amazed. He is common, ordinary, but
he carries a warmth, an invisible light.
And as the old man opens himself, the warmth fills him.
They sit on their temples,
songs passing over heads, swimming
with the clouds, vanishing among
the stars, faded moon, and the sun-filled
heavens. They watch the multitudes,
in their bright and wild colors, pass.
They remark to one another: How
strange they are! How remarkable.
When midnight comes, and the darkness
envelopes even the light from their eyes,
they shudder and cry out. In
the morning, some of them are
different, as if they caught the light
of the rising sun. They stand and process.
The river, quiet. Clouds sparkle, shadowed by thick mountains.
A lone tree, shivering. The breeze is slight, traveling on a breath.
The man sits on the grass. He has green eyes,
like the forest’s bloom. He lies on his back, asleep.
Peace fills his face. Birds speak in the leaves.
The grass, the dew, the dawn sky. The sun floods the heavens,
it becomes like reeds through the clouds.
God is here, on the earth. His feet, as if a rumbling storm,
his heavy-laden voice, as if the high wind.
The man stirs in his sleep. The water of the stream bristles.
We are the men by the sea. We sleep in dreams forged by
the heavens. We hold the earth in our hands, we hold
the power given to us by God, yet we are too much of the flesh.
We cry out to him, and then shield our eyes.
The steel we have taken from the earth covers our eyes,
we are blind to him who made us. We are silent,
our mouths sewn shut by our own hearts.
We sleep by the wayside. We feel the breeze against our face.
We sleep on the green groves. We see the sun dawn the sky.
We meditate on the waves of the river, and we
listen to the song of the birds.
But his face seeks us. His face is like the brightest sun,
and through his creation, he calls to us. Through the intricate lines
in his memory, through the blood in the trees and the
feathers on the bird, through the vales in the mountains and
the lines in the river, he calls to us. As we embrace his call,
the crowing of creation flows back to us, and we are at peace.
What is in a name? By what glory
do you stand before me, and shout your
radiance? What right have you?
I am among the dead men; they
breathe and die, are reborn a second
time, and quest for the eternity of
the horizon. They smile plastic smiles,
pure smiles, lustful smiles, mad smiles,
all the while counting their toes
and dancing on thin air. They suck up
the blood of flesh, and dry their teeth
on beggars� rags. They know nothing, yet
everything. They chisel their name
on temples, and compose ballads to the sun.
The magnificance of the light beyond the sea;
we strive everyday, sacrificing our children,
like lambs upon the altar of dolls; we forget the
wisdom of our grandfathers, and in lieu,
we fight amongst the circles of time, believing
ourselves to be heralds of the coming age.
Our savior is a breath away. He dreams when
we are awake, and stirs us in our fantasies;
he has no tangible name – for it is impossible to
name love. It merely is, yet it is not dead,
like the sun or moon, with their lifeless shores;
it is alive, spinning, transforming, becoming, arriving;
we are poles to this grace; we fall into his arms.
Above the azure haze,
where the crown meets a maze of light,
little children sleep on beds of oak,
leaves browned by the summer sun
fly between shafts of light, raining
upon shattered dreams and sworn hopes,
and the little girl lying on the grass
with her heart in her teeth and
a blaze across her cheeks, her eyes
like the sun unclouded and her
laughter tolling across the green,
that glorious voice bounding across
the heavens, glittered with tyranny and
majesty, this little girl falls peacefully to sleep.
She is unaware, blissfully so, of sacrifice.
She dreams of golden stars and polished temples,
she fights off demons in her sleep.
The din and echo of mortality has
faded from her innocent face; she shouts joy.
The immortality blasted across the threads of hair,
chiseled upon her serendipitous nose; the etching
of time slowing in her silk-fed hands,
all of this she is unaware of the sacrifice.
Peace comes with a price; the falling of a
blade is heralded with gifts. Joy is not free.
When she wakes, the illusory world sways
before her eyes; filigrees of hair shield
the sun from her eyes. A bird calls out from a tree.
Did you forget, my son?
Did you forget when I held the sky
for you, and stopped the storms?
Did you forget when I blew the wind
to make you cool, and grabbed
a bit of the sun to warm you
on a cold night? Did you forget?
Do not forget, my son, of the birds
in the trees whose song I made for you,
of the rumble of the clouds to awe you,
of the beauty of scales, so when light
flashes across the surface of the water
the ocean is alive with beautiful,
moving stones. Do not forget, my son.
Long ago, when I held the first light
in my grip, when I carved the mountains
from my fist, as I watched the planets align
by my song, in the dwelling of your grottos
you slept, waiting until love came to grace
the earth and fill your belly with food �
Will you forget this, my son? I am a sad
one, for I see the oscillations, the mirrors
of the future, and you my son, will forget,
and so I will provide, giving you a field
to sleep in and wheat to harvest, animals
to sleep by your side and companions to guide,
and when the time comes, to give you rules to live
and prophets to speak – and you will remember.
the realms of lofty dreams all
measured next to nothing
when compared to the light
of the future; the light that
drifts from home to home,
carried by a star, carried by
a torch, carried by the glimmer
of a man’s eye; he keeps this light
in his pocket, in his purse, in
the shelves of his wallet, waiting
for a sign, waiting for the star
that falls from heaven, all the while
his hand is burning.
While the slave, who sits among
piles of garbage and ruminates on
the shadows as stones of immaculate
grace, the star burns on his forehead,
the tempest blue, bright red, blazing
into a night sky filled with the horrors
of the day, trampled screams, fearful
hesitations, the drawing of the knife
and the wasting of the earth – he burns
through the night, and his voice is like
a field grown with honey and mint,
reaching into the folds of the soul and
measuring the wealth of a man not by
his pleasantries, but by his rule.
we laugh and play by the rocks at the sea,
we dance to the sound of the earth,
it washes against us, and we feel the tug of time.
somewhere on the beach, there is a song,
it is soft like sand, but echoes among the cliffs,
a fire roars into the night sky.
from where I stand, I see the flickers of flame,
they signal the stars and silence the watchers,
they stand in some sort of holy observance.
we are the masters of the night,
we are the pinnacles of light,
we fly as heralds of sight,
we are the might
of the night.
stars are among us.
we are the dancing comets,
the heralds of the future,
constellations make our name,
we are the children of the past,
and the descendents of our grandchildren,
we cry out to lost stones,
raise our fists to the irony of the wailing road,
and ponder the mystery of time’s last repose.
We are the child of the present,
lost in the haze of the city,
our hands and feet touch the lights of windows,
our mouths speak truths made of thorns,
our hands build monsters of pearl.
We are the future.
We are here, the living, the wanted.
waveforms on a wave, flying through the air,
curling beneath the sand, our legs drenched,
filled to the brim with starstones, dying of crystals,
we are the memory of time, slip-drunken and fled,
silenced by the moment in which we fail to understand
the intricacies of the inlaid moon, with her silver lines
and mysterious shadows; seconds pass in storms,
flush with red and violent and blue-green leaves,
while the season comes to an end, and we find ourselves
at the gate, where a pale-faced woman greets us,
asks us our name, and hands us two iron bars.
Piddlesticks, fiddlesticks, cats on a popsicle,
Swing low, swing high, swing sickleful,
Words are a merry band of high browed zen,
drunk on their own men, filled to the brink now and then,
but on their own they are waveless as sorrowful crows,
spilling onto a field in bombastic blows,
fleeing into the silence of the rows.
left alone, left alone,
beside the tunnels of the soul,
we sing among the golden alleys
and lift the thorns from heavenly melodies,
but too late, too late,
the time has come
for mocking’s sweet sigh,
cradling in high,
the unborn waves upon the sand,
the wind and tails of a forgotten land.
Locked in, transparently
held by my own hand;
wearisome, the toil of
eyes placed over and
around my throat.
Vapid smiles, rancid
in the fog, corporate steeples
pledge their souls
to alien words.
Lifted slightly, sunbeams
crashing into the shore;
sand grown on the
back of kings; scepters
lying in the river, alone.
when you go to sleep, sleeply dream,
dream of berries bright, heavy with delight,
dream of blessings, son, don’t ever play the sun,
for earthly things are mortal, mortals be,
away from darkly lit, the skies are hallowed see,
mill the words of old, and seek the holy fawn,
who sleeps in sleepless dreams,
among the glades of men,
yet within the barrows lost,
lie mysteries unforgot,
and heaven lies in wait,
for he whom tomorrow takes.
Generations come and go, but
we remain. We remain silent,
the ones behind, the ones with
the philosophy of wayward souls:
but words like this mean nothing,
they care not for weary tirades
or serendipity and souless skies.
It is like a dark blade of grass
under a new morning, the sun
shedding her light over the
phosphoresence, the glisten of
the dayfire shuddering across
the tip of green.
Alive and well, it seems.
I stamp in the ether,
my feet making fog-holes,
the clappity-clappity muck
sound frogging the effervesence.
Wherefore art the single-minded?
Where has the poem gone?
Into the netherworld, the solemn
and dark land of delights, chocolate,
and cream fingers.
Where are the juke-boxes?
Where are the simpletons in
the plastic hats, waving their arms
and singing folk tunes while
carrying backpacks of rocks and
burning the land in their wake?
I saw a lad not long ago,
he sat by the fire in Tomble-Toe.
He drank a glass in one hand-right,
and strung his soul with eyes of light,
he filled the room with music fatly,
while the world outside burned luminescently.
He�s a bard yes, of that terrible time,
one of the pack, they said, who roamed
the land with string in hand and voice
of silk, who could capture your soul with
just one note, and wait until the world outside,
became as ash of a dark, dark day.
They pass, as they always have, but
their shadows turn to figures, and those
figures taken upon the earth, gathering up
within the ash and taking form, to play
the lyre once again, the music of the earth.
In a world of memorable skylights,
of jumping rat-a-tats and chorusing
larks, the invisible sits beside the stone,
fingers mimicrying shadowmen,
the honey oozing from the eyes,
flooding the hall with light.
We stand beside the invisible,
contemplating the source of song.
We stand behind desks, holding
lightbulb pens, penciling out cursive
recitals to our unknown gods and
playing moss-laden flutes, while
the world in memory shudders by,
jumping in juxtaposed flashes of light,
time as indefinable as an empty star.
We are the flight-birds, wheeling our cries
over a stark and barren world.
We have wings of steel and eyes of pale
moonlight, and we hunt in the noon-time
for chariots and herons, not having
slept during the night for fear
that our dreams would come and haunt
us during the day.
After we hunt, we sleep amongst
a pile of stones, sapphire, basalt,
concrete, and ruby, and we see the world
as it always was, but could never be dreamt.
Morning calls on the zenith
of our lives; stars wheel above;
the Master watches us in repose,
and we are slights to his gaze.
Memory serves its purpose…
hissing through the clouds,
heady on the invisible wine,
man speaks volumes of rubies,
spilling into a bowl outside of time.
Glowing, the fires of manna,
they fall like dazed and
awestruck children, spilt like
stains over velvet carpets;
the cajolers cajol in their romanticism,
while I am alone in my mind.
Time exists outside;
the snap of a fishes jaw,
the scent of a burnt rose;
these are inside me; explosions.
The crackle of fire against glass,
the sound of a whistling kitchen,
steam pouring out in raptured breath,
and yet, even so, the words never end.