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Thursday, April 6, 2017

OH OMRAN AND YOUR BLOODY BUDDIES



OH OMRAN AND YOUR BLOODY BUDDIES
Oh Omran and your bloody buddies
the grownups play at messages, missiles
and airplanes – gassing up and guessing
gawking at convulsing pre-rigormortised
contortions – Oh Omaran, they’re talking
and shocked at the pictures of hoses and
water trying to wash away the sin and
stain … talking about strategies and coming
consequences, droning on about droning
and force, playing at messages and missiles
when you know – you know that all it would
take would be to pull up the tanks to the border
open doors and arms wide and pull you all up –
gather you all and drive off to safe sanctuary
leave those who play at murder alone –
allow your still living buddies the breath of
unsullied air into far flung freedom – for it
would be they who would blossom across
this globe until those who revel in death and
destruction dried, abandoned in the rubble
of their creation consigned to wander without
target for lunatic rage. Oh Omran, and your
bloody buddies – move over – for I must sit for
a while, pulling at my own hair – staring blankly
in helpless confusion at my own blood- stained
fingertips – typing words into an unchanging wind –
military might -
but rescue is certain –
If this seems ungrateful...
catch a surviving speck of
ash floating in the histories
of six million and far far more
Ask the ghosts which they choose
Oh Omran and your bloody buddies....
You know.

Saturday, April 1, 2017

Nostalgia

Nostalgia 





First

To that primal place I follow ...
into the garden of youth – rise in
conflagrated- creation of shadow and
shame – come near – reach - eyes
touching - the base of an other throat
with first kiss –
burst 
to flame



Sunday, March 26, 2017

Casked



Casked

I am the cask and the imbimber
Come to a stop at the base of
your rolling foothills resting on
velvety sweet green on this morn
Come to a stop at the base of
your rolling foothills of this long
journey – months falling into years
longing for a whisper through my
slatted boards, longing for a passing
touch – day to day – month to month
adds molten time to the burgeoning
pain – I can feel the blood red of me
bubble through a slivered crack here
and there – once I was the vine - the 
wine - the beginning and all for you -
loved you and was loved in return – 
now I lay pulped strained -
     Cask and imbiber of all that was and
     all that seems will never be …trapped
     here at the foothills of your indifference
     left to inhale the scents of the stew
       of life swirling outside – I exist on sips
       of perhaps…here hidden in the sunshine
       history and future-decomposing in a field
       of butterflies and smoke


The Sunday Whirl
Photo -Peter Griffin

Thursday, March 23, 2017

Looking Glass





Looking Glass 

I ask no questions of you 
yet you speak-in silvered
tongues wavery watery 
versions fall - one atop
the other – no truest –
chubby cheeks give way
to koal-lined glimmer –
Ebon - sun shot hair then
now platinum stranded –
there an infant blinks
held to see his first look – 
ask no questions - yet you
speak – incessant murmur
watery, wavery, forever
flickers – there in just
the right light – with a
soft self-kind smile – 
all reflected back and
forward to 
peering me..
all except 
what lies 
beyond…



(photo by Piotr Siedlecki / www)

Sunday, March 5, 2017

Time bend or The Railroad Goes





Time bend or The Railroad Goes

Miss the bits of you-
blue smoke drifting
parenthetical arcs
around your words -
Miss all you turned
  my head to see 
waiting
until I saw -
the flat calm
of a lake at sunrise  - 
the brilliant flash 
of a jay's cocked eye - 
watching -
all of it -
leaks 
in the solid
temple that was you - 
left
I swing 
between each sense
of you - off track - 
your smoke trailing over the
horizon - as you clatter off
heading toward an unseen
curve - a dip -an ultimate
 vanishment-
until then -
I miss the bits and 
hold the smoke ...



Thursday, February 23, 2017

Gone where?





Gone where?

Where have you gone
baby boy – the scent
of you – turns my head
looking – your skin slips
silk against my chest –
I feel the hot imprint of you
curled as though you would
melt back into me and again
we would be one – where - oh
where have you gone –
 baby boy – you linger
in the air –
now
grown
flown
still
for-
ever
held







Wednesday 

Sunday, February 19, 2017

Boom

Blinding Sun Related Keywords & Suggestions - 



Boom

She woke a tiny girl in a large apartment
marooned on a canopy bed high in the sky
Walls of glass – far above this new concrete
city -silently scurrying far far below -her bed
piled high with pillows – a cover to be called
a duvet – as though it made all the difference.
Her mother took her swing, made a good deal,
accepted as a sign from a divine Universe the
tall man who kept coming back to Do-Drop-In
diner and finally after thousand cups of coffee
and steamy side-wise smiles took them away
to here –Her mother now wore shoes with high
heels and bright red lipstick – lifted a little finger
when she sipped wine – from a closet filled with 
fancy glasses – all the same – all sorts of repeat 
things like that here – fat stuffed animals choked
with neck bows glassy-eyed on the window seat 
like one of those infinity mirrors things repeating –
on and on in this endless apartment -a pinned up 
butterfly behind glass walls –she lay marooned on
this canopy bed high in the sky and -it was wrong 
selfish wrong -she knew it-but she could not deny 
that she ached for the small stream at the end of 
the dirt road behind the school where she used to 
stop on the way home - looking for tadpoles and 
the glint of copper pennies -she knew it was wrong 
to look for a line that would draw them back – back
to wish each thing to vanish into a vacuum of never-
had-happened – for time to fly back to the then-when
she walked on ground - bare feet in the soft warm dirt 
of home – hope a thing that was only an ache in her 
mother’s eye.



Sunday, February 12, 2017

Re-sound Melody










Re-sound Melody

Who shall sing my song when all that is
left are scattered rhythms
Who shall gather scraps and stand face
to the wind upright in the gales and sing
rag to a bloodied eye - torch still aflame
root of all that was and can still be right
Who shall sing my song?







Sunday, January 29, 2017

Call to Midwives All Dedicated to Valarie Kaur*




Call to Midwives All
Dedicated to Valarie Kur *

time to shoulder the burden of birth
of heart, soul and hope
time to march on this soft earth
of all creatures, creed, and life
time to cope, to touch, to give,
to reach toward the light ...
time to shoulder the burden of birth
of this more perfect nation world -
struggling to be born not from the
"darkness of the tomb" but from the
"darkness of the womb"
"breathe then
 push... "*


Valarie Kaur is a brilliant and wonderfully articulate young attorney activitist - 
her words at a particular multi-cultural NewYear's gathering left me breathless .. 

Sunday, January 8, 2017

Coming through the fog

Morning Fog 







Coming through the fog

Ah 
my siren 
felt feeble – 
the plumped 
preen lean – 
yet 
now in spite 
of this single stab 
seeped fulfillment 
cheat – I shake 
the sodden to leap -
truth emblazoned 
on my soul – 
to climb the 
mountain – 
flee fear 
hold tight 
to my
chest 
the reap 
of all 
that is 
righteous- 
past to  
future – 
see them – 
feel them 
feel us -
standing- 
shimmering, 
warming chilled blood - 
bolstering burgeoning 
this ever unquenchable happening of hope 
gathering – here, there, everywhere,
coming through the fog, coming through the fog