An unexpected silence startled me
and a red tinted wine glass slipped from my fingers
and crashed onto the white stone tiles of my patio
Red shards scattered along the all weather flooring
with splatters of red wine pooling in low spots
I was stunned and collapsed
crashing in piles of disjointed brittle confusion
askew in muted panic
like a red wine glass
tinted
now in a thousand pieces
Scattered shards of recognized brokenness
An unexpected silence startled me
Fruiterroriorist of the half-lemon variety
blindeaf muted fu-upped-busheet
allegedly
twenty five years
quarter sensory outsanity
F-mon le-uck
half of one
one minus a half
of a f-mon le-ucking
why can’t the mute have a voice
if a voice can squeeze a mute
into a juice box for a quarterife
deathence
redickyouless busheet
as I kick back and drink iced tea on my balcony with a slice of lemon in it
But hey
the dude may be a Turkish threat
but the evidensilliness
is just plainilly outsanity
from my point of view
buying rounds of tequila
for everyone
with a slice of lemon to suck in the fact Canada ain’t so bad in the light of lemons.
And to my Turkish missionary sister
rock on
praying for souls
but for your sake
leave the f-mon le-uckings alone
stay out of their polemonitics
and just do your missionalities
minus the sour fruitality of their centless korts
Peacenove
For what it is worth
I never told you the reason I had to go
I didn’t mean to leave you trapped
a cactus out of place near river
on the shiver of a dark storm’s lap
Arctic wind from sin borne youth
blew me to Siberia’s barren womb
an ice laced tree removed from truth
the sadness on your face
the wilt of bloom
I’m lost in disgrace
and lack of proper taste
and respect
for the beauty of your name
and the smiles exiled from our place
I do know your name
and have it shaved in my mane
like a wolf at the moon
it cries out Val
out of tune
in frozen wind
‘cross permafrost tomb
To hear your voice
bleed so much pain
I could die ten deaths
beyond insane
beyond the insanity of fate’s crude painting
where you stand by a river like cactus dry
and me as tree in Siberia
Why
I do love you
but I am sure my silent printed simple word
fall short of the symphony of your lyrical muse
I apologize
I apologize
from the dark side
of the world
For what it is worth
For what it is worth
Oxen flex muscled legs
pull through fields of wet
my mind pushes to resist
Elephants tug trees
trunks of strength
fall mighty ideals
Tanks crush protest
roll over heart’s soul
lone voice still echo
Shells silence resistance
explode life in pieces
resistance resurrects
My mind mends pain
my mind stitches flesh
my mind pushes to resist
Elephants will march
Tanks can crush
My mind defies
So many shades of blue that breathe between swift sky and sea;
between her eyes and me.
Too many shards of glass whose scream reflect split life and dream;
reflect my lie and she.
Miles of road and miles of road cross rivers and mountains and forests alone.
Winds of cold and winds of cold cause shivers and weakness and sadness of bone.
Self-banished. Self-exiled. Worn shoes. Torn sleeves. Dead end.
An ocean, Pacific, taunts, splashes tears back in my face. I cannot run. There is no more road. There is no more road. The road ends here. I collapse on the beach and
reach.
So many waves of blue that breathe between her eyes and peace;
between my cries and peace.
So many waves
of blue
that breathe.
So many waves
of truth
I breathe,
and breathe,
and breathe.
Miles of road and miles of road crossed rivers and mountains and forests
atoned.
I can live with me now.
The road starts here.
For dVerse Open Mic Tuesday.
So
there breathe lies that bruise chap lips,
And
band of white wed finger’s voice,
But
lover’s eyes remind me I’m,
a second choice.
So
paint rust stain ‘low faucet drip,
And
plumbers paid for greedy choice,
But
I must leak until my death,
a vacant voice.
Seven Moons
Three glowing globes of red hued fire
Drop
One
By
One
Below the silhouetted
Angry
Pointed peaks
Of the Prantasian mountain range.
As diminishing dashes of light
Retreat
Out
Of
Sight
Our breath crystallizes
Frozen
In short gasps
As darkness blankets our farewell.
My love’s two shining faces
Dim
In
Quiet
Expectation
Waiting for the string of seven pearls
Moons
That will
Illuminate our final kiss.
My journey waits like an executioner
Anticipating
Dawn’s
Explosive
Sunrises
When my Star-traveler
Nourishment
Launches me into the next century
In a blink of my aqua eyes.
Streaming showers of shooting stars
Streak
Unshackled
Silently
Screaming
The brevity of existence
Signaling
Nothing survives
In its present state.
Our lips quiver in expected embrace
Drawing
Closer
Touching
Exchanging
Our last expression of passion
Whispering
I’ll love
Forever, wherever, always.
My Helen will be in Heaven when I come back
Redeemed
Restored
Released
Ransomed
Waiting for my delayed return
Remembering
Our oneness
In a world we cannot see.
Traveling on tides of light’s speed
Time
Tamed
Stands
Still
My eyes will not age
Searching
For food
In a distant universe.
Pain and duty duel for dominance
Wrestling
Fighting
Debating
Warring
Deep in my embattled soul
Uncompromising
Death will determine
My bloody battle within.
But, my love’s hands caress my faces
Soothing
Hostilities
Softly
Speaking
“I will not die alone
Sweetheart
I have your love
And seed in my heart‘s womb.”
Strapped in my launch-seat I kiss
Memories
Scents
Tastes
Sounds
Of my love’s beauty
Spirit
As the power of duty prepares to
Rocket me to realms for our offspring’s future.
I wrote this as back in 2007 while I was in Denver. Thought it would work for tonight’s “Alien” theme at dVerse.
<a
You're still so young, so wet,
Bohemian strung and filled
with songs you haven't sung yet.
Morning sun still shares your journey.
Dew still dampens green canvas shoes.
Mozart is mute on a gurney for two.
Let my verse lay and age on your bare windowsill.
Leave my voice until you hear it, and feel it; not just lust my warmth, or wish my lips.
Come back to me then, and we will talk, drink tea, and quote quips from Bill.
Bring me one flower, from your garden, that's not rose red
or violet blue.
You'll know when you smell it, the perfect scent, of us, in tune.
You're still so young, so wet,
Bohemian strung and filled
with songs
you haven't sung yet.
For dverse Open Mic Tuesday
My four o:clock alarm clock yanks me out of bed and I stretch and ride my bike and shower, drink orange juice, and go to my studio, and work with my cellos and violins.
I work like this everyday. In the rain. In the snow. In the heat. In the sadness and disappointments of life. In the victories. In the sicknesses.
I work making my body and instruments one. I work to make my heart beat in time with the work of a master from another time, who worked a different schedule to work out his or her unity of creative interpretation.
This I do not get paid for. This work I do for no monetary pay. This I work for family. And tradition. And responsibility.
And for the different scent of joy this brings. A flower set in the front of the garden. An aroma of order that perfumes the work for the work.
But when it is time to play, I play, I have fun, I express joy. And I get paid. The money is good.
But the reward of work, is greater.
This is just one work, in a garden of works, I selected for this work. A work passed down to me, through blood, and a strict rod of discipline.
I have other works, but this work is family, and that is why I work this work first and protect it like a lion does his kill.
When I hear applause, and see my fellow players wipe a tear and smile, I know my work, our works, have worked to make a greater work, united … many works as one work, the majesty of works as
one work.
A garden worth the effort.
Call me Hanq 