Sunday, December 29, 2013

Night Song



Think!" she whispers, a blast of air singing the tip of his cocked ear
We must synchronize our steps softly,
map a path through pavements
The soft tint of mother's oft sung Tincture-of-Red-Finger
Rising already - rages
Ready to write with gnarled fingers our fated-answer
to the Integral-Feared-Question we must face ...

"Think!" she whispers, voice dangerously climbing
"Think-cool, in this hellish heated night as
the satanic soft tint rises teasing toward conflagration,
blazes all chance of our survival, surrendering us forever
to this unyielding pavement as the sleeping giants stir, wake
and snatch us with their big sticks, charred and forever lost

"Think! and remember The Way, as we run from mother's
stillness, her bloodied fur rippling in the moonlight breeze
crested waves on this sea of ceaseless, sad, silent solitude
Now, from her open ignominious grave, slack-jawed empty-eyed
She  importunes us, her only offspring,
to throw back our heads,
in the sages-holy-howl-at-the-luminous-orb and run,
Run! - as you, the elder, were taught as a tumbling pup
Run, to the safety of the waiting woods waving us,
to the soft moss, to slake our thirst in the cool creek
and fall together, muzzles dripping, breathing slow-heaving

Sunday, December 22, 2013

filling the spider cracks...

filling the spider cracks...

In the clear echo of the faint morning song of sun
the child in the pale dawn does listen
until the night does split from day
sun rays rise to pulverize
and a small shuttle-cock floats with bright feathers
erasing all remnants of the dark to fly into yesterday
as the child sits in the sparkled dew of day
watching the level field ribbon into the distance
as each spider crack of night is soaked through
with sunshine of this soaring new day
all sparkling as dew drops in the strands of the universal
web connecting each blade of grass, each butterfly rising
into the triumphant morning song of sun
blazing, singing, glorious, proclaiming
this new hope, this new promise
this new day

Saturday, December 14, 2013


pkp - st thomas , usvi 


Under the cover of moon the child crept
in clandestine hope - to snatch lost love from those
waves seen crashing over her pair of petulant parents
To lift the buried box of lies from sticky clay
To rend apart sealed serious lips
To seek and find the Angel Hope tossing
sparkling moon-lit smiles
To catch an armful and run on soft silent soft bare soles
back home under the cover of moon - soft- night
To find, to return and to fix in forever-place her parents’
drifting, floating, fragmented all but filamented love ….
and bask blissful in the dawn, soaked in the  
the rising pure peals of her parents’ joined joyous laughter.

The Sunday Whirl

Saturday, December 7, 2013

In pursuit of Venus


In pursuit of Venus 

In pursuit of Venus I flee
I flee this persimmon pulsed prison
of goods, cash and thwarted passion
I fling off my cloak, gather my
skirt fast-held for flight in one firm fist
and run
In pursuit of Venus I flee
feet flying into the wild wooded luminous lens
into that eye of wanton white whirling light
Possessions. Past. All now tumbled irrelevancies,
dropped, discarded, already forgotten falsities -
Here in the lush madness of mossy green
I toss my shoes and feel the wet earth
cool, calm and welcoming under the arch of
my soul and arrive, -
panting- slowed – at the edge of that
oft envisioned clearing
At last.
Bathed in the glory of Venus,
Reflected in the lens of the Goddess
Borne on wings of desire into being
bare arms flung wide
in rapacious anticipation