Poems
Ignoramus Protocol (we know nothing) [poem]
We think we know so very much
but truly we know next to nothing.
For every new discovery made
will at some later [higher] stage
be overturned or altered by another.
The smallest particle so far known
to humans in this wondrous world
is only that which has been seen till now;
(microscopic limitations standing in-between).
There must be even smaller ones to know
within this effervescent sparkle show.
Why can’t it just be Simple? [poem]
Why can’t it just be simple?
We laugh. We love. We let.
So just forget the ersatz needs
or any other bogus thought
which feeds or strokes our
ego’s ghostly cheek. No need
for expectations of what
others shouldly do or bring
or sing for love can harness
nothing ever but the wind.
Equinoctial Promise [poem]
As summer dies so beauty fully
with her sigh (sforzandolike)
and autumn’s golden smirk
falls silently as homeless leaves
drift rocking side-to-side and down
to earthen featherbedly end-of-ride
i smile through tears which mingle
with the lightsome lazy mist of dawn
The Tumbling Curtains [poem]
From the corner of his eye he saw the curtains start to fall
from stage-left — stage-right (actor standing midst it all),
a little back from where the velvet cloths would meet and
where he earlier had stood (an X marked where he’d been).
Thusly, when they fell, his act would disappear from view.
He kicked away his seat. “It’s happening on cue”, thought he.
“No place now for complacency or apathy in anything I do”.
Just for the Record [poem]
Just for the record
[if there’s anyone remaining here
who listens to some words awhile
which come in shapes of tears
{and loves to bathe therein}
and sometimes even come
in hesitating smiles],
I can absolutely guarantee
that in this frozen, crazy world
wherein we weirdly dwell,
if you swim against the tide
(by which I’m meaning ANY tide),
Continue reading…
Neverending [poem]
In the beginning there was no beginning
for beginning was a has-been blank page
blinding light-beamed stowaway
arrayed in random stardust blowing
on a wind of ceaseless change
without inception —
outside human stuckintime conception
made of matter darkly hued
& infinitely airbrushed out of sight
[and view and mind or any other signs
which under normal circumstances eyes will find]
so only those determined to apprise themselves
would reach the clues (for only clues are ever found).
When Words must Fail [poem]
The more one journeys deep within
the less one can communicate
the stunning gems one finds therein.
At least that’s what I’ve nowly found
while sounding out the innersphere
of knowingness — the fount of all
our growingness (and flowingness),
all words drowned in the waterfall.
The Last Summer [poem]
This long last Summer’s brevity
conspires with Sun’s intensity
to make it even brighter still
than all before; therefore, I will,
with passion, burn myself to dust
This August’s ashes scattered all
around my castle’s broken wall
(a brokenness I welcomed long
ago as if it was a song)
is representative of rust
Theatre of War [poem]
Bent-shapen blows of every blasted gun
I curse you to your face!
Not one of you is worth the smelter’s sweat
which fell like cold unsmiling beads of death
on hot iron’s semi-shining overdress.
Someday you’ll all backfire and then be found
without a trace — as obsolete as rusty bayonets.
Domestic Violence [poem]
Fists are made for kneading dough when baking bread,
not pummelling another’s face into a gory pulp.
What sickly minds take pleasure in a fistful fight?
To watch two men (or, worse still, women, who are
channels for the gift of life) contuse each other senseless
(though there is no sense in contests from the start)
so that punters will be satisfied, The Mob gets paid
and people think they’ve viewed a thing of worth,
is malady of soul and signals sunset times are here.
The Naked Troubadour 