I dream in hieroglyphics
and ink the walls of caves;
eschew the honorifics,
the accolades, the raves.
It’s all for fun, and all for free-
I’ll never make a buck.
Matter of fact, I’m in the hole,
but still I run amok.
Tag Archives: thoughts
No back talk
I sit, folded into a flypaper chair. No one refills my coffee. I speak to google, and she answers. Sometimes tritely, and other times voluminously. Phrasing is important. She has a programmed sense of humor. We never mention Alexa, that bitch.
Conflagration
I’ve always thought that you had an eye for fire. An affinity for flame. It’s curious that we meet, unplanned, at these worshippings. And if by chance I see you in the cold air, your strange eyes tell of blue smoke.
***
Fortress
The sun was in beams
through the travelling trees,
like a ruby- a lasering strobe,
as I did a drive
in convertible breeze,
well abreast of the darkening road.
And “Houses of cloud”
(did I say, out aloud?)
in the lamps of the settling sun,
for I pictured a fortress- a bastion endowed
with the flags from the battles it won.
In a panoply breeze over netherworld seas,
its colours flew proudly and brave,
and its adamant towers with secretive keys
rose in battlements out of the wave.
And none could assail it, and naught but a ghost
could appear in its echoing halls,
or master in battle that heavenly host
by its buttress of resolute walls.
Art: Imjur.com
Out of whole cloth
A cloak is dreamt.
It is long, hooded, and heavy-
as iridescent as a fish.
Its imagined scales are of many colors.
They resemble organ stops, tombstones,
or pats of plastered paint.
When donned, its weight makes one stumble-
Accretions from an empath’s trove.
A brain, a heart, and courage
You must’ve been a big man in the schoolyard.
Yes- that is what I think when I watch you with others.
Did you lie in wait for that puny kid who wouldn’t fight back-
who perhaps thought that this was how their life was supposed to be;
who made up stories as to why they came home cut or bruised,
or thought that maybe they really were Ugly, Stupid, Fat?
And I wonder, now, what friends you have,
suspecting that they are of the dime-a-dozen gang,
and how many gatherings you go to and push- push with your loudness.
But you see-
some of us who were moulded in quietness and shame
have kept diaries, physical or spiritual,
speaking at first to some imagined angel who would cry for us,
then draw a sword of flame.
And you see-
some of us have found each other. Yes.
And some of us are Writers.
Something you will never be.
And we have blossomed with a quiet courage,
not of vengeance, but of strength.
So, have a care-
lest you become the one who stands away,
wishing that recess would end.
***
Image: Aleutie/Thinkstock
Asleep in sway
Refuse in the oceans.
God’s things caught in its mire.
In a come-lately penance,
I think of small atonements,
futile fixes.
If a poem had power, had sway,
or could be born of a prophet,
sleep might come more easily.
Still, I count the sheep of days,
the fish in a river’s flow…
***
image: https://pixabay.com/users/a_different_perspective-2135817/
The speeder
I have threads, vignettes.
Some fleshed out.
Others at loose ends.
This unseemly train has lost its brakes-
can’t stop at ancient stations.
Those sad confreres are left stranded,
waving.
***
image credit: https://pixabay.com/users/sjb3949-533112/
Hearth and home
City bustle-
swimmers in the deep air,
all alive as bees.
Urgent fetchings,
bound soon for night homes.
Closed curtains, cold hearths.
***
Image credit: https://pixabay.com/users/stocksnap-894430/
That man
Of late, he takes good care of me- that man with the hand in the darkness. He is perfumed with loam and grassiness, and says ~Stay down to this Earth. Look not to the lights above, for you are borrowed from them. What you long for is not in the faraway, but in yourself.~
***
Image credit: https://pixabay.com/users/jacksondavid-1857643/
Aremyfeetofftheground 