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The Doves

A dove
with bomb
tied tight
to wing
in flight.
Circles
over
projects of brick
and lack.
A Stran-
ger, peace
on streets
of win-
ter night.
One child
alone
hides from
implod-
ing black.

It’s sad
this traitor, Peace,
a hunter trained;
Borne from
old wombs
of greed
and a-
ged wine.
Would hunt to spill its mother’s breast
for gain;
And kill
its twin
before
she lives
her life.

But scream so loud Heaven will shake and wake
and scream again so Hell knows well you’re there
and rend your clothes and stand naked and wait
and see and hear if angels trumpets blare.

A lightning bolt
will burn the dove
to dust.
And traitor, Peace,
will drown
in tears
and rust.

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When Floods Collide

I am a flood 

I do not taste prejudice cups of coffee or

the bloating eye ignored by sunlight

But one spicy bean soup steaming hot and

bowled in smoked glass cupped hands

warming ingredients for my winter

ailments – bashing, blood, and bruise

Rasped howling slashes cursing exploration’s

intervention to stop boiling angers

Where hated orchids rooted in old swamps

spit on my face

spit on my race

I am the rain-crying murder

louder than a flood flashing

Ripping my faith foundation

Forgotten by the death of war

I am a flood

 

For dVerse Open Mic Tuesday

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Blue House

Perched blue house
anchored
crowns of granite
incrustations
surround
the sound of satisfaction
grins under surrendered blue sky sighs
weathers pretenders like Juan without a twitch
a champion’s chin
standing over a contender’s crumpled eastern gulf stream wind
out of breath
beaten back
again

Perched blue house

Lobsters
red
twisting to guitar riffs
in boiling pots
dancing from life to dead
party crustacean
steaming hot
give me a bib
some butter and garlic
mixed
play that sh*t again
Kid

Lobsters
red

I’m just a man
that dreams
in flavored creams
of
Nova Scotia summer
blue sky strumming
hummer’s bumming
gas price stunning
but I don’t care
it’s life’s two weeks notice
leave me the … (momma taught me not to say some words)
alone
listen to the rock
from the rocks
that mock the shock
from Atlantic swells of
schizophrenia
and flocks of
double crested cormorants
inland hiding
until their time to fly good bye
for awhile
again

Perched blue house

Lobsters
red

My Nova Scotia Summer

H*ll yes

Barkeep
Give me a double shot
of that dream on rocks
and tell Kid to play that sh*t
again

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Dream Gold

Mining for pay streak
big poke full of color
flour gold float
my sluice box dreams

Troy ounces to the twelfth
Workin’ some bedrock
‘bove birthing veins of rich
staking my claim

in the black sands
in the BADlands

Belly to the gravel bar
drink big poke full color
in my sluice box dreams

___________

For dverse with a raspy gulf coast cold and a cheap Logitech mic and too much echooooooo on my ancient but faithful travel one ton laptop; can survive any trip. Yes, any excuse for lack of talent.

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Sprung

 

One pearl is barred from a pasture of sod.

It will blame doubt, like dying from cook’s oil;

It scatters from a brightness, like the booze of toil

Flushed. When do gems then bleed heart red with fraud?

Accusations half flawed, half flawed, half flawed;

And straw is smeared with jade; jeered, steared to spoil;

And stone stands judged and stares past hell: old soil

Is new now, for man’s soul feels, being god.

 

And from womb’s bliss, babies are heaven’s scent;

Prayer gives the rarest, truest, fresh gold rings;

And slow the fast nights cough the brushed west spent

See, dawning, as the bronze glaze eastward, sings – –

Applaud the holy pearl’s lone assent

Jeweled harps with worn crests cry with awe!  sprung strings.

 

A weak attempt at Sprung Rhythm for dVerse

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Inwardly

 

Two faces of attractive twins wave over a Quebec apartment like full moons.

 

They are not Siamese, but their soul has divided into separate blooms.

 

A cello is rarely heard playing in a honky-tonk.

 

But these twin faces can party anywhere; though only one is inwardly happy.

 

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Eyes

 

Eyes empty visions of life from the forest. Eyes empty wide rivers.

Eyes empty tree carved canoes washed up under weeping willows.

Unplugged blue eyes erase love;

Eyes close to the groans of technical ecstasy in 4G.

 

Unemployed eyes wither in winter’s white noise.

Eyes search for acoustic faith.

Eyes drown in whirlpools of blindness.

Eyes starve below default blue screen seas.

 

Oblitus oculos mori lento mortem.

(Forgotten eyes die a slow death)

 

 

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