Poetry
Shape of things
Let light bend
And leave behind
darkening gold dust
Let light take its short breath
Skinning sheets of age and lust
A hunger for space and air
Fighting and folding
Through small fractures
Before suffocating on trees
and window shades its holding
A golden repair
The Spider & the Honeybee
The ghosts have come out, the ghosts have come out!
Hark! they are handing out
lush candy
To the young ones.
But nobody shouts.
The ghosts have come out, the ghosts have come out!
Hark! When the haunting nectar hangs up its drapery,
the hollow shell falls
and claps the floor. Twisting and swirling,
Bitter shrapnel lines
the frozen door-staining the bland sweetness
that ran its rotting halls.
The ghosts have come out, the ghosts have come out!
Hark! The ragged edges of their cement teeth
crackle louder than the children's shrieks
Lots of hands are stirring
But no feet skittle.
The ghosts have come out! The ghosts have-When we get stuck in your
silky, dingy nets, when you tangle
my sought retreat, remember! My eternal hum-
A minute of sweet buzzing.
The Postman in the Red Cap
Most people don't
See the stork in the redcap
Who writes
pithy poems on postcards.
a bleeding blanket
in the wavering wind,
he slices
the envelope
with his inked bayonet
and all the words
come prancing out.
Then he snatches
the swinging words with his claws
Which he hides elegantly beneath his black-tipped wings
keeping them to himself for an instant
Then Unrolls
his wimpled wings
leaving them
in the layers of the mailbox
Making sure the whirling words
Just slightly evade his hand.
The man's wife
Wanders to the mailbox scratching his head
Who wrote this poem? He ponders
The stork in the red cap
keeps the dancing words to himself
Awkwardly drifting
-feathering- into the sky.
Sweet, Special Thank You.
What should I call a day as preposterous as night?
The eye of sky dews dear in divine dark,
its bloating snow sucks sight from tree's blight,
And her woods brim with sound of shading bark.
Still time's lease loosens in winter's sixteenth-
Light's embers kindle when wanton bequeaths!
Nobody knew of the sky's double tongue;
More memories numb after frost forgets.
Dreams asphyxiate in chambers of lung,
And fairy's finger's wrap into time's nets.
Life's limbs illusion more than night's liars
As stories of boundless sea drown desire.
But some stories dance more temperate than eyes,
For that my mouth translates no world but thanks,
Since divine dreams chink before life's grand prize.
For the short winter is endless with pranks,
The mind conjures more till death dies in dusk
Oh! My tempest will gust to thou under the dust.
The Darkness of Valour
in "The Church at Auvers"
One crook'd cross pleated in parted prayer:
"Freedom beyond control!" moans dirty dirge from vain spire.
Swooning seas of stars shaft their laden share,
Though stained glass and taller choir chairs call "another!"
Now stars descend on the hooves of east earth,
Conflagrating ego and echo of deafening bells
Salve the dying heirloom of waning worth.
From remnants of their twinkling coffin births the sky's grain,
Blustering winds ordain clouds to deplume
Pied flower's sun-stolen glory and bleeding bright reign.
Enthroned golden at noon, now pecked to prune,
Again hunts man's pure ecstasy with the Great Gawain!
Convulsing with all their pomp and power,
All wan and wry, their corpse deserts a dry wrinkled dour.
Hispaniola, October 1937
He had no friends willing to tell his tale,
The plight of justice which led the assail.
He attended to harlots of criollos,
Conformed to banal tunes of orioles,
Slashed the undulating flag across stands,
And clenched the white priest's fistful of commands.
Yet convictions don't have riches volute,
twenty years were toiled to restitute.
The economy of heavens costly,
Run on faithful sympathy for Nazis.
Hastened hymns of oriole overtures
More full than nature's silencing features.
Butterflies can't blossom from their bud
if caterpillars grow on glib cud.
Chocolate's Plain Secret
Almonds under brown licour's Possessing
Erodes my mountain's apt to Estimate
Oh! How desert thirsts for God's releasing!
When all thy path lay indeterminate,
Fox and Cockroach are given God's Granting
Haunting those who sin in deserving;
Myth stray truth for Wandering Wanting
Send Salty Seas of Gold to tongue's swerving!
Yet without the precipice myth's knowing,
The Bare, the full are all but mistaking,
With Chocolate Garden of Eden growing!
Washed away are the sculptor's first makings,
Shakespeare's stage shadows the porter's flatter
Gorged shadows make even empty matter.