Greasy Monkey Poetry

Jonathan Chen, is a senior at the University of San Diego. He currently writes a column for the school newspaper. He sent the Monkey the following poems. The Monkey said, and I quote, “Go Man, GO!”.

PLAYER

I can’t live without you
you said
with a sickening yet earnest expression

You won’t die for her
No way, you said

as you awaken
she has a knife pressed against your throat Damn, you said

This can not be happening
the angels you never believed
have taken command

LOLITA

While in bed
he seems discombobulated
that she keeps repeating an unfamiliar name

He considers the option of self-denial
and ponder
with the thought of cold-blooded murder

He feels like a second-rated magician
trapped in an authentic straight-jacket

Opaque smoke and odorless stench fill the air in the light of total despair

Luckily,

he discovers his Buddha nature

NOSTALGIA

Sometimes I stare,
at the dusty trophies
The innocent times,
are of distant memory

Worries were no more than
an occasional pimple
and catching the bus on time

I try to think,
but Freud, Shopenhaur, and Nietsche
argue constantly
in a cacophany
tick tick tick tick tick tick,
Hi, I’m Ed Bradly
and I’m Andy Rooney
Tonight,
we expose the real truth of penile implants.

MARGRITTE’S PAINTINGS

His heart
a barren, deserted land

and when the seashell wept
he wept with it.

All the failed attempts
to seduce with the cliches.

The diary calls for a rewrite

Surrealistic paintings
now seem to connect with his stream of consciousness

Realism,
is the only means to the end.

EVIL TWIN BROTHER

At the entrance of hell
My twin brother
Seems a bit too innocent.

I find myself laughing,
uncontrollably.

The get the wrong guy,
repeatedly.

With a sweet smile
I look just like him,
almost magically.

B-RATED MOVIE

The film director in the beret tells you
that all this is for the sake of art
He touches you only the way you touch yourself,
they are expecting answers

The choice is yours

Microwave stardom
or doomed obscurity

The choice is yours

People volunteer for medical experiments
solely to claim some “dead presidents”

The choice is yours

The psychic frauds charge
$4.95 the first minute
$2.95 each additional minute

The choice is yours

In your dreams everybody wears rubber
the photographer couldn’t stop the shutter
The non-English speaking immigrant working at the drive-through shouts
the check out time is noon
sir,
the choice is yours

CLOCK

The muffled voice of the drive-through clown
has the effect
of making folks hyperventilate

The ridiculously diverse menu
causes us to excessively contemplate

The unknown of the universe
with total disregard to our feelings
take away time,
at the most inconvenient moment.

We look up at the constellation of the sky
and without shame but pride
believe that we are making something magnificent
from our everyday, trivial lives.

VISION

Some character from Dickens
ask you to join them.

They invite you to eat living flesh.

Despite the popular opinion
you’d rather not do this.

At the end you finally notice
that you should have read the Cliff’s Notes.

GILIGAN’S ISLAND

People who refuse to believe their own senses are particularly fond of
the curses of too much wisdom.

But your attention is drawn to the fact
that you have changed your name to boredom.

If they show the re-run one more time
I swear I am going to die.

BRING ME YET ANOTHER SCOTCH

The blue lake is as cool as your eyes

While the limit is the sky
you can’t help but wonder why

Van Gough never lived long enough
to enjoy his 15 minutes of overdue fame.

A prodigy
ain’t worth a dime
as long as he sings, dances, and breathes.

To be good
the devil says,
you should think about suicide.

The Monkey’s friend and caretaker. He spends his weekends scouring the pages of the Greasy Monkey Web Site here, for spelling errors and links that don’t work. But you know, every once in a while, he and the Monkey sit down and drag the ink pen across blank ledger pads with reckless abandon. This, Until the clock strikes that hour, when it is time to open the doors to the Greasy Monkey Poetry Reading Lounge. Go ‘head and Dig!

A Moth has wings

A moth has wings
a delicate creature
devoid of soul
A moth has wings of powder
and string and bits of
flesh
with no meaning
no valiant structure
small beauty
with no brains
A moth has wings envelop
and cocoon
a corpse alive
with summer’s night air
A moth has wings
and I
have none.

Misty, White and Old

Who will challenge the beauty
of the moon.
A misty daemon shrouded
clouded, white and old
as time itself.
We watch quite politely as
the moon revolves from
one side of sky to another
Following us, watching our eyes
with dead eyes
a million
or so.
This moon is dreamy
this moon is sublime
and no one can challenge its beauty.
None so bold
can move us like the moon.

Benny Terpin

Benny Terpin once said to me
“Go down, go down
South again and see
The old cats in all the old
rhymin’ jamming good timing
holes and haunts dark
and gaunt
See ’em blow, see ’em go –
There’s a window on your past
you don’t keep clean -”
Benny Terpin once said to me.
I packed my goods,
I closed up the joint
I headed down South
in a hurry…
I came up to all the
old rhymin’, jamming good timing haunts
looking for Jimmy Smith and
Teddy E. – Harry Sweets
and all the doors were closed, rotten,
off their hinges – the smoke had
turned to cobwebs.
I turned back on my tracks
and as I gazed deep into a wooded place
I saw Benny Terpin
or at least I
saw his name.
I saw Benny Terpin
on a piece of
granite worn and
bone white, propped
at an odd angle
on a sunken block
of Earth.
I put my jacket back
on
and started the longwalk home.

Chide Me

Chide me
Ride me, insensitive
Drive me to the nearest
brink of pain.
I stand not alone
alone only with all of you
Ride me again
to another new home
driven away alone.
Chide me insensitive
Listen only to those
moans and tears
of sad times. I dropped along
the way — insensitive today.

Babs and JFK

When the President dies
You feel your pain
and hope, despair regain
When your momma dies and your daddy dies
You’re left no hope to gain.
When your dog she dies
in cold remorse your life it holds its reigns.
She looked at me
I handed her over
to two men, she had never seen.
But she never looked at their faces
She never paused to refrain
She didn’t lick them or run about
happily greeting them, us all the same,
as everyday when meeting someone new
She looked at me and they took her from me.
She was broken, she was tired
her body was all that stood.
Her mind was there and memories
of all things to her, good.
And they pulled her away to take her down.
They took most of my heart through those doors
I never saw my dog again
I cried a rueful sorrow
I never held my dog again
I felt I had no tomorrow
When the President dies, or
is killed in hate
You sorrow once for
the hatred.
When your dog she dies
You wonder and hate how
you’ll face
so many tomorrows.

Say Something
(non poems)

Pay for your things
don’t pay for your dreams.

Lie just a little bit
and you start your own never
ending story.

Shelter is the best of all of them
and the hardest to find.

I am Rosa Clement, a wife, a mother of two girls, a computer programmer, and what I most like to be: a poet. I’m also a Brazilian who lived in Hawaii for the last five years and now has returned home. In Hawaii, I started writing poems, something I always thought of doing since I was a child, but always felt too shy to put my ideas on paper. However, one day while thinking about aging, I felt a strong impulse to write my first poem and since then I haven’t stopped.

My ideas come from observations I gather from daily life, from feelings, and from things that really touch me. Often, I include nature in my poems.

Some of my poems have been published in Poetic Eloquence, The Ebbing Tide, Seaoats, and The Parnassus Literary Journal. Three of my poems have appeared on the web pages: The Open Scroll and The Blender of Love.

Here are a few of my poems:

A GOOD TALK

A man decides it’s time to hunt,
to find a fur because it’s cold,
to risk and patiently confront
the trails along which hours unfold.

At dawn he finds a hidden cave
and thinks that if he wants to be
a hunter still alive and brave,
then he should hide behind a tree.

A hungry bear soon passes by,
and quickly understands it should
protect its fur, and also try
to find a way to get some food.

Before the nervous shootings start,
the wily bear explains and pleads,
they both should talk and be smart,
and find a way to solve their needs.

The man agrees and trusts the bear,
and happily they hug and walk
inside the cave to get the share
of what was decided in their talk.

PEERS

I like to walk defiant and nude,
To be admired along my way,
But I may hurt, also be rude,
If I choose painful words to say.

I wander with the human race,
convincing them to look at me,
To see how pretty is my face,
Although I don’t like fantasy.

I have an enemy, I know,
who wears a sparkling frail disguise
to trace my steps and hide my glow,
deluding those who are not wise.

If my rival is insincere,
And on me humans must rely,
in life we are a constant pair:
I am the truth, and it, the lie.

THE DENTISTS

The dentists like to see us twice a year.
They tell you “open wide your mouth, don’t fear,
relax, and tell me how you are my dear.”
Your mouth then holds their tools, your eyes a tear.
They ask the things they do not care to hear
since whatever you say is never clear.
They tell you “the pain will soon disappear,
and then you can smile from ear to ear.”
You leave their office faster than a spear.

FAIRY TALES

How sweet it was to hear the tales
my mother told us every night,
how lovely were their details.

Outside, the songs of nightingales,
inside, the flaming candlelight…
how sweet it was to hear those tales.

We flew beyond the ridges and vales
on words that carried full delight,
so lovely were their details.

The giant who lived along the dales,
The prince who never saw the light,
How sweet it was to hear those tales.

The headless mule from forest trails,
the dolphin man and his sad plight,
so frightening were their details.

While nights fell to their darkest veils,
it blended ecstasy and fright,
but sweet it was to hear those tales,
and lovely were their details.

PENNIES!

Pennies, pennies, come to me,
fall from pockets like the rain,
shine in spots where I can see.
Pennies, pennies come to me,
fill my vases rapidly,
flow like fountains from each drain.
Pennies, pennies, come to me,
fall from pockets like the rain.

WHEN YOU LEFT

The moon has already moved to your sky,
and the mountains have covered themselves
with an opaque brown mantle,
because you have left, and the rain
preferred to follow your steps.

The sea is still,
reflecting only grey clouds,
and here, I wait to see green or blue
in its waters and sing them in my verses.

The palms have lost their waving sound,
and now are silent, bending to the ground
because a long time ago, the wind left
to take you home.

What should we do, we who love you?
Knowing you won’t return,
we want to forget or ignore,
but instead,
we just love you more.

Rosa Clement

Rosa Clement has her own Web Site called
Neblinas Amazonicas (Amazonian Mists)
give it a look!

I write and talk too much. I write and sidekick for the nationally syndicated Weekly Rear View Radio Show. I co-host the regionally syndicated “Everybody’s Cooking” on public radio. My fourth cookbook is in the works. I just completed editing and retranslating (with the author) the war diary of a 12-year-old Bosnian poet (published in two languages in Europe and being typeset for US publication.)

When I grow up wanna to be a poet; a journalist for the soul.Ê

The Fiddler and His Lady

He made his fiddle a lady
in the exhaled haze of a Dingle pub

As the drums and strums
danced the clack of Keryl’s spoons
the old men scratched their violins
But not Maguire’s lady

She cooed and sighed
as his chin so gently rested on her body
His peaceful touch drew across her
like a warm breath through hair of silk
Then the rogue Jim made her weep

til she bit us with her pain
and a drip of tears seasoned the Guinness

But he knew his lady so well
The instant he smiled and her hopes took wing
She laughed like he’d never made her grieve

Her chorts so loud they drew a curious boy
who jigged on the stains of the floor
She giggled at the jests of Macguire’s bow
and the boy floated above the hardwood
his feet occasionally tapping the floor

At closing time
Jim laid his lady in her worn velvet bed
and locked her away
as if she only wanted to sing to him
He hugged her under his arm
protecting his rare lady from the damp chill
of the Irish summer night.

van Gogh Says

van Gogh says to God “I do not like
your gawky use of trees in your landscapes so
I made my own.

You make the starry night breathe
but do not show the dynamics except
for in creeping shadows of leaves.

You pottered a flawless conch shell
a billion years ago but

what were you doing during post impressionism?”

do they?

it’s the pebbles
that make life insurmountable

boulders
we expect
but too much gravel
we trip on

when
it’s so black all day has ceased
when life is as bleak
as bleakest jet
i lie back
look to the core
of the charcoal night

i gaze deep
into the soul
of the ancient pitch
and ask “do
the stars still shine tonite?”Ê

One Strong Wing
(for Christian)

If I had one strong wing
I could fly away
said the boy with the stolen face

Burned so bad
that death was a hope
his eyes were the only thing left beautiful
the only thing left human

All looked upon this tiny charred shell
and could not see a boy
Even his parents disavowed his once-life
now a vagueness of scars

If I had one strong wing I could fly away
I could feel the soft breeze
and not this confusion of sense
on what was once my face

Someone heard
the quiet wail
He still had no wing
but he flew 5000 miles
He flew to where surgeons
were sculptors of flesh
and potters of noses

Operation
operation
operation
etc.

They failed
to make his face a child’s

But the cleverest magician
took two toes
and made two fingers appear
on the once of a hand

If I had one strong wing
I could lift a discarded life
and make it seem mine again

But I have two near-fingers
so I cant feel anything again
anything
except my face

No Tomorrow

I have no tomorrow
but I rejoice
I know that life is but a candle flame
that can be snuffed by but a wisp

I live life as “last times”
the last time I’ll see a friend
the last time I’ll kiss my children
the last time my love and I entwine

each last time is a gift
one more gleaming chance
to hear the quiet groan of a lumbering sunrise
to sip the last drop of a melting sunset
to pocket a falling star
somewhere in the coat of your soul

I’ve seen fate
and it is but a rice paper partition
between boisterous life and voiceless death

every conversation final
make sure all is said

every question concluding
ask what you really want to know

every moment dying
cup it tight
and peek in to see the flicker
of a firelfy called life

Strings

I still hear his footsteps
They scuff slowly behind me in uncomfortable shoes

His criticisms were so matter of fact
as if they were never mentioned
but sharp praise always tasted of pride

Money couldn’t understand him
Just his presence made life an overwilling marionette
For me, my father never pulled strings

Strings were last resorts
His talk danced a circle
and a smile would cameo at the right place

All would be done

He knew I’d have to learn
to pull strings for myself
I thank him for that

Now I’m cursed to wonder:
is he pulling a few for me now?
The talk has stopped
but I hear the shoes

Time Hates Love

Time

hates love
Time

erodes the potency
of “I love you”
with each repeat
Time

steals each lovely detail from another
we burned to praise
Time

always makes “forever”
into the fattest lie

But if Time turned every word
ever spoken in love
into a hoax

it would make no difference

if somewhere
somewhen
just one kiss
were true

The Relationship

She.

He.

She, He,

She? He?
She! He!

She:He
He:She

He; She
He, She,

He.

She.

The Bubble

All of life
seemed to be in the tiny bubble
he had just blown.

His little breath gave it life
as it grew and lifted
off the wand.

A twisted rainbow danced
in the thin soap sphere
as it rose.

It glided
out a window.
It sheened in the sun.
And floated into the bluest of skies
until it vanished.

I know now for sure
it died
in a sudden burst
not far from the window.

but as a child
you could
never convince me of that.

The Day Reality Asked Dreams For a Dance

On the day Reality asked Dreams for a dance.
But Dreams declined. “You are often
crude and would step on my hopeful feet.”

Reality straightened his tie with the fate prints. “You never
take a chance. This
joyous dancefloor awaits us.
Would you let a few
sore toes get in the way
of becoming yourself?”

Dreams folded her arms. “Today yes.
Tomorrow maybe”

Reality snickered “You always talk
of tomorrow like he’ll walk in the door,
kiss your hand, and
spin you endlessly.”

Dreams turned her eyes. “He will. For I
am a passionate kiss. And you Reality,
you are but a cold fish handshake.”

Reality stretched
his neck in the stiff ivory collar. “Then I
shall dance with Yesterday.”

Dreams looked Reality straight in the eye “Yesterday
knows only one dance.”

Reality tugged his cufflinks “But
she knows it well. And once again
you’ll just sit here and watch.
Guzzling up
all the punch of Life.”

“Sipping,” murmured Dreams,
casually looking away, “slowly sipping”.

This affliction of poetry: there is no cure. It was only in remission all these years I’ve written humor on a nationally syndicated radio show. Through the numerous articles printed in Writer’s Digest Magazine where my cartoons have appeared as well. Even through the passion of writing three cookbooks. Why do we write poetry: because he have to. I thoroughly appreciate those involved with the Web poetry movement which is putting the most real of things back into our virtual world and giving us an electronic brick wall to spraypaint the graffiti of our souls.

all poems copyright 1997 by J. Kevin Wolfe. Author gives web publishing permission for free public viewing.
All rights reserved by author. One time print rights available by agreement.

J. Kevin Wolfe

Buried Love

I thought the days were going by fast,
I thought it was getting so easy, I’d forgotten,
and I thought I was getting over it, but
I’m not.

I continually shove the pain deeper
into my soul, but sometimes
I quietly allow myself to
feel the abandonment.

I won’t allow myself to show you I care,
and there’s no way in hell I’ll let you know
I’m miserable without you.

Yesterday, thoughts of us ran freely through my mind, and

it felt so good to let it all loose.
But this hole in my heart grows greater day by day,
and I’m scared it’s growing so greatly
there won’t be room for you.

I hear her cry herself to sleep
and she tells me how much
she misses your touch.

Nights are the worst for her.
I can hear her whispering your name hoping
some how, some way you’ll hear her and
through some miracle you’ll care.

This heart of mine, she’s such a fool really.

She only listens when she wants, only cares when she’s
able.
She doesn’t understand why you left her,
why you no longer love her,
and why she lost her best friend,
your heart.

She reminisces about a time when
she and yours called to each other, and
secretly giggled while making love.
She recalls your heart crying out to her
in a time of need or despair, and
it comforts her.

She knows it wasn’t always good, but
for one reason or another she doesn’t really seem to care
about the bad times.

All she knows is she misses her lover and friend.
She told me today.
She’ll slowly heal, but earlier
she angrily warned me not to break her into pieces
again.

She screams at me and says
she needs time, and tells me not to allow
anyone into her, not yet.

She says if I do,
she’ll kill herself and
I’ll never know love like ours again,
as long as I shall live.

What I need to figure out the answer to is,
“Do I want to?”

Camden Smith

All the way from Flint, Michigan Pam Padilla once again croons these smooth and gentle sounds. The Monkey – he grins behind his vintage 1930 Ray Ban glasses. He loves her style.

CONTRAST

They saw for the first time
the beauty of a rainbow.
They asked all the little kid
questions, how – what – why?
I told of legends
and of magic.
To them with gazes
transfixed to the heavens,
my answer was enough.
As we looked
at this mystical arch,
the prism of colors,
I thought deeper of
our magnificent friend.
Of darkness and light,
of stormy skies and
brilliant sun.
How even once in a while
they work side by side,
removing differences
they see in each other,
defying the fact of
how opposite they are.
How in doing so,
they unknowingly create
such a rare and exquisite
beauty of contrast.

Up Close Distance

Sometimes I can feel you
reach through the years,
across the miles
your hands, your heart
stretching, feeling, grasping
for me.

Sometimes you touch
me, pulling me within
your invisible hold,
making me remember, urging me
to imagine
what could have been.

Sometimes I resist
the years and miles
are so distant now.
You, unheard and unseen
for so very long are not more
than my pleasant yet unpleasant
past.

Sometimes I allow the dream
the feeling to play out its role.
You’re holding me again
I am letting you. Your arms

quiver as they embrace, your
eyes search deep
into mine, wondering
am I real in your delicate hold
or just a distant dream.

Middle of the Night

I hear the crickets
while I write.
Tonight is different,
as I look out, a perfect
half moon’s presence
is with me.
I even take the time
to look at this yellow
half circle and it
gives me hope-
for what I do not know
but I feel it all the same.
I hangs there steady
and lets me wonder,
lets me daydream at night
of my life, my now
my future, my past.
Wish though
that it could give
answers to all
the questions which
this perfect half moon
has brought to mind.

Poem’s by Marlene Groth

Roses Of Sunset Blush

Two rose bushes grew side by side,
Mother planted pink and yellow with pride,
I helped secure the red and white,
A rose garden conversation day and night,
Each sherbert fragrance will enhance,
A true admirer, of a rose entrance.

Each was meant to grow with harmony,
Lovers, gifts of fragrance and power,
Two picked for faith and passion’s hour,
Faith as a promise from the first day to grow,
Passion’s for holding a gold locket to know,
Petals tossed in Mirror Lake,
Riding with the ricochette,
Promises carried from yesterday.

Walking from the library,
Shaded from the grand Oak tree,
A Monarch butterfly on the yellow rose,
He reached for the amber as it grows,
Holding the jubilence of the sun,
Smiles and joy to beam inside,
Love from light that could not hide.

Innocence comes from a heart’s leap of little creations
From a rose to a mountain laural to a song bird’s elation,
Eyes reflection from all that is pure and divine.
The white rose was held for purity,
Wisdom and love with hearts combine.

Fun flying fast with the youth of an eagle’s wing,
Laughter and smiles and a journey fling,
Pink rose was pruned,
With the pastel setting sun in the sky,
My love shimmering for you and reasons why.

The red rose was picked in a passion’s season in time,
Dreams rode like chariots with a wedding bell chime,
The color of Scarlet in Gone With the Wind,
Love caught in a whirlwind, begging to begin.

Now I found my true love with prayer,
Sitting by the roses, in my garden lace chair,
Watercolors of roses rushed from Mirror Lake,
Each rose afloat to the hush to a horizen,
With a sunsets simmering roses, picked two by two,
Teaching us secrets and colors of hues,
Sherbert melted rainbow roses in the sky,
God painted a picture of promises on high,
Fusias, oranges, yellow and white,
Keeping His word and love for might.

Mother’s wisdom of fifty four years,
Our God who loves and mends all tears,
Rose bushes planted side by side,
Beautiful as new buds will grow and reside.

Comments on Roses of Sunset Blush

Dear Greasy Monkey,
Love can be a many splendored thing or it can be a many splintered thing. Certainly when you combine love with our Creator’s love and wisdom for life, it has more of a chance to grow in splendor than to shatter and splinter. I happen to think sunsets of pastel are beautiful and each one is God’s gift of watercolor to remind us that He alone is the painter, sculptor and artist of our lives if we’d only take some time to watch, we’d see what picture is about to be created for our special purpose for life and love.

Procrastination and the Praying Mantis

Procrastination is like the Praying Mantis balancing on a thin limb,
Waiting with anticipation for mandibles to consume a pest within,
He waits
He waits
In the meantime he waits,
Forelegs folded in a prayerful stance
Camouflaged unnoticed in flora and fauna,
Paralized still with a hypnotic glance,
His body thin and waning,
His deliberation dripping to diminish,
Procrastination and this vagabond’s vacation never finish,
And the wind comes whistling west through the leaves and bow,
The mantis neither holds or hides with the blowing gale now,
His decision must be made with conviction unafraid,
Or an aimless wind carries him through every grass and blade,
For when procrastination and the Praying Mantis hang around,
It’s without a doubt the wind will bring them down.

Inspired by the Blizzard of ’96

Blizzard

Silent with snow
Still and serene
Frozen trees stood petrified
Trying to whisper of seasons past
Singing the songs of the artic breeze
Begging the auroras to bestow their rainbow
Pure, white and dignified
Frozen but not forgotten.

Mr. Blizzard Man

Snowballs flying furious and fast
Forming ice creatures hoping to last
Snowball glistening, gleaming tall
Oh, Mr. Blizzard Man, don’t melt at all.

This last poem was accompanied by the picture of the snowman (above) that my fourth graders made right after the blizzard when school was in session for about a day before we were out the next with another big storm. I often write for them and we have fun posting our activities through verse.

Marlene Groth

Winter Pears

On a wooden swing hanging
From the highest bough
Of his back yard pear tree
We learned to fly at the
Speed of dreams on summer
Afternoons, leaning back
And gripping rusted
Chains and looking far up
Into thick foliage that hid
The dark limbs that held us.

From the tall tree that grew
Small winter pears
I’d fly with him across the
Summers and briefly
Forget for a moment
My parent’s marriage,
The family finances,
My sister’s sickness.
In quick motion sweeping us
Upward, we learned to fly.

Before I knew of fallen fruit
Or how spring winds
Waste pear blossoms,
I knew him. He flew
Unfettered and without
Cares where dreams
Grew slow like winter pears
On the highest branches
To ripen and fall only
In late summer.

Today, under a pear tree
Drooping with fruit
I dreamt him here.

(c)1996 Doug Tanoury

Finches II

On a narrow ledge

Under the front porch

Awning

Families of finches
Have built three
Nests

Sloppy and unkempt
With tangled strands
Blowing

This way and that
Like three women in a
Convertible

Driving with the top down
Along the Interstate on
June afternoon

(c) 1996 Doug Tanoury

David Sutherland is lead editor for a publication called “Recursive Angel” which looks for poetry, fiction and art on the net. Additionally, He has had the good fortune of seeing his own works in a number of publications with recent pieces appearing in “The Trincoll Review” and “The Poetry Forum”. David is a member of “The Academy Of American Poets” with his first book of verse due out early next year.

SUBITO

Tense the little muscles that
pour over shedding locks of
undisturbed hair and
pure and bright are the
vast energies that rise
to a setting sunset
at days start,
and days end.

Burnt magentas’
drawn like lips in silence.
Wilderness, desert, depth,
a whole canvas of fears shed to
an eternity and coined
to a calendar finishing month.

And cold,
cold the sharp porcelain of Winter
bluff and crags of
unfinished..months

Months
before Springs’ navel rings to count its
rinse of tears on stone and
marauding ephesias twitch indolence in the
eyes of sudden..Life

Life,
fierce your almost
tangible bliss of
soft,
softly spoken words.

BALD-POINT

In spite of the
many parts moving,
rolling joints wrapping-up
Life’s dull expressions in
quiet dismay.

There are
shortfalls,
hairline cracks of
sudden un-becomings,
alignments shot in geometric clarity,
to the perfect angles of
cause-effect which
balance nature on reality’s Mean as
concrete actualities subsume this
fragile framework of Mind.

And Mind has
no edge against
rigorous calamity,
naked shock.

This thing is perditious judgement goes bereft as
sadly we slip, slip, slip on
insignificant signs whose
turing valves vent in force then
bloom and
Boom! similarly
your lack of warning, bravely my refuse of knowledge
irrelevant,
its done.

EROS ELUDED

Vague the threat of consciousness
muffled words,
pretentious sounds,
choke-starts failing as ambitions’
misplaced hopefuls orphan-bound.

And ears that hear close in dissension,
and eyes that see cut back in spite,
as breath like stones
fall on each other
discord(cord) alibis soft lies;

Remain(main) chasten to the body
This moon heaves crescents to my side
a frailness wells is lost to recall
interned tonight;

they burn a candle
purports wind to scattered ash
seal the veil of sensuality
in mortared eyes of pebbled glass,

with skin soft paper apparition
skull like trophy on its side
shape lips, soft voice and broken symbols
fare(well) in time.

Soon, Worlds that spin,
spin in contrition
and dream like mist,like rain, subsides
as pangs like teething lose their comfort,
evade this silent passerby.

MINERVA IN PASTEL

Her dark-tweed matte lay
frame to searching eyes,
words canvas almost speak
across beige mottled isles.

of weave or hue, birth lines
A sentinel guards waste
forth form, pastel and lace.

Minerva, all we know
takes hint between each tone
sad glimpse into your smile,

and colors you..
in stray magenta’s,
auburn lights descending crowns.
Life colors you,

in rouge and charpet
paramours and stifled loves,
the lockets’ blush on flesh cool tinder,
the song of thrush spent on a winter,
a wanton lover, near
and unheard
colors you.

NULLIPARA

Life is
beating a fast retreat this winter
behind bluffs that bleed thin are
highs scattered behind grace,
receding, receding,
I lisp into suicide
lash out in daze,
then

Scorn these organs..
belly and groin grow
bloom on opposite walls of steel;
stuck in an off-sided game of trump.

And to soon I become loom,
hung on cottoned apparition,
eyes railline, teats votive,
fertile for a pretty boy
or a kill or
another grind of promise…
to pass me by.

CAROUSEL

Tour of force is a breeze lifting the gauze
of wound cooled by contraband.
And wars’ never;
and peace never,
makes mirth or

sense the ground
rising up in jump
rope
rhythm,
bleating out these
mournful skies over
hop-scotch fields,
quilted daisies,
blown crazy eights.

And hope’s never;
and dreams never…
Circummure poles,

spill out from tight
circling currents of
desperate mass.

Canvas of flesh,
sphere of illusion and
lilly and cholera and laughter and bedlam,
ever-thickening yoke
hold me.

And lifes’ never;
and loves’ never..

EMPTY PAGE

Like a medieval monk on manuscript,
or French novelist
quick and fluent maneuvers up sen-
tence. Hind right on balcony,
sorting through pieces of colored glass,
note by note and shape by shape of
written word..

Never a writer would pen
Flaubert, Bovary, Plath whose
poisoned tongue sought immortal passage.
The engineered page

swears fanatical control,
as passion or dream – drives,
devours metaphor and

surely this outworn image
finds me lucid in it throes,
seduced to catch a feeble phrase which is
somewhat wrenched on return as

a lifetime of poise melts in
a brilliant conflagration
transcribed in sparks.

A Winter Memory

Late January

His wandering eye
roams me like an intrigued
stranger, amused and

aloof – urbane in a
farmtown. I pull back
my hair and – shoulders

straight as the lone white
birch pensive near the
barn – rashly, staunchly
warrant his investigation.
My shadow lies, its
edges unwavering.

If cut, would this perfect
indigo reflection, this
silhouettemystery, be

a colder, purely violet me?
Our conversation
swerves like the ski tracks

that wind their slender,
symmetrical, iceblue
way down, out of sight –

now – lost to the pines.

Lany