Coat of Many Arms

During the summer when the warm winds blow In an instant rapture comes instant sorrow At 3:00 am I am awakening by your ghost Your breath and your voice in my ear It is ecstasy and torture, no lover of mine At 8:00 am the day begins And in the song of the sparrow and crow I feel your hands upon my hips Gliding towards the passage that you only know Around 4:00 pm after tea I understand the feeling of being lost The stories of towers, fair maidens and dragons Of being conquered and subtle exposure to fresh water

Temple

Placed in a hole, I’m waiting for a beacon to shine its light upon my hand. To look at you straight into eyes, cast down up cement memories. Black harp and morning doves, I keep this silence of mine together. In case any whispering become voices, they heard right. Sanctuary is the temple I seek from your lips.

Unknown

Half monsters awake with the dawn, painted lips and drawn faces Scooting by on a fraction of a second. The time of need sees false land and conquers. It breeds till the years are filled and the last of the water taken. children drown from the lack of air. It is hope for all who look up, or those who look down, both depths hold mysteries.

Remind

He told me I would always remind him of autumn. The way the leaves turned, the line between decaying leaves and cool breezes, the way the fog rolls over the roof tops. “You are not so independent when the air turns cold”, He said. You seek the comfort of warmth to see what might unfold. Gustav Klimt

Photographic Mind

He said lose the photographic mind, Let those images swirl into imagination and break free. Those who take their photos have the memory on disk and paper. But will they remember it when the fires no longer keep them warm? Does it matter when we cherish all that comes during our time? The old papers turn yellow and crumble at the touch. I don’t mind when the sun sets or when the sun rises. It bleeds into one.

Breaking the Shell

Not so long ago when lollipops where her favorite treat, A little girl sang of trip wires and horse manure. She sulked in the corner when her dolls didn’t hum back, till she pushed them into the darkest corner for tea and punishment. Ages it would seem as she marched to her bedroom; 100 degrees in a great plains house with no air conditioner. Until Mr. Ghost wasp came to chase her bringing winter. A sudden fall and a tumble down her side of the icy hill, She soon discovered she was the queen of broken ornaments. Spring brought laughter and storms approached. The girl hid from lightening cowering under covers. Until the last gust of wind carried her away and turned her into caramel colored dust.

Subtle Language

There is no language like that of singing The subtle notes of landings of each vibration that comfort me I have walked towards all fleeting moments of joy and when they pass I sing, When the days are lit but still covered with a light veil to remind me that all is not well I still hum through quiet tears.

Trip Wire

The labyrinth of past souls are awakened
if only they could see the illusion from the fog

They writhe with ecstasy and vines dripping with sweet rain
They know only euphoria that is welcomed with open arms

And into the passing of grey comes the opening of the skies
The first drop of light that captures all that is real
and laughter that is left behind

The Wayward Dove

The wayward dove drove to paradise.
Under split wings and partial decay,
under the wooden steps she took her last flight in a Cadillac.

She spoke her secret to no one and the mumbled, fumbled words
transpired into hums from her throat.

Oh Lord!

Forgive me for being on this fast track,
This train keeps passing the stations I’m suppose to be getting off.
A night here in paradise has my soul tumbling down a muddy hole.
Talking to the spirits that might be around.
With a candle lit, tears are muddled with super nova voices I can’t seem to hear.

Knowing

In the tide of once was
In the forest of once knowing
That further from the light was the truth
That swallowed such kings whole

No minister sprang words from his throat
Nor wolves gnashing their teeth at new born babes
It is the words of such foolish tales that keep men at bay

Agents of Despair

We are the agents of despair knocking on your door.
If you answer you will see a sickle and scythe,
We are not malicious nor will we come after your children,
We will leave that torture to society.

We are the agents of despair,
Knocking upon an old man's door.
Bound to a wheelchair and breathing device.
He is harmless and feeble but has lived a good life.
But ask him what he did with his fascist uniform from 1944.

We are the agents of despair opening the gates to swollen oceans
and burning skies.
People may fear us but we are just the beginning,
The real beasts have only begun to take shape and awaken.

Winter Fingers

We all expect the nights to be long
As we concoon ourselves inside our homes
Nothing to disturb the daily slumber except for winter's invisible
knife cutting life’s cord

We long for longer days and sunshine
To come out of the den fattened and ready to run
We expect nothing to change but for great things ahead
Except for the slow tapping of the skeleton fingers upon one's window

Winter's fingers are coming to embrace life's forgotten joy
So embrace it's little tricks and fancies before winter's skeleton becomes your own

Conjuring the Eternal

The flames rise higher,
Higher and swirling they entwine.
Together and masking the forest dance of so many divine.

It begins with the first blast of cold, the shield covers the faces
And beckons those chanting the fire song to sing in unison.

The last figure it sees is upon the moon and in this cocoon of warmth,
The last note of the fire song dies in unison.

Invisible

There is no solace in the attic,
There are foot prints of mice and spiders that call it their home.

I have known of gatherings that would turn the blood cold.

Come back home when the moon begins to wane, to unfold the letters where
horror stories are written.

Dearest old beast who hides in the invisible house.

The Collage of The Professor’s Mind

Dwelling deep in his studies.
He writes and ponders, pen taping on blank sheets of paper.
The words flow from memories of old text books from the 1800’s.

His last lesson was botany.
Botany?
He was not suppose to be in this field.
He dreamt of carrying guns when he was young.
Cowboys and Indians fashioning an Oklahoman accent.

That “Good Ol Boy” is tucked away behind his rib cage.
His mind becomes muddled with grading papers and wine.

Black

Fear comes from a shadow in the dark

A stranger who approaches us from around the corner,

Lightening, thunder and hail that sends a child under the bed



The fear of drowning

The fear of age

The fear of debt

The fear of not having enough

The fear of germs

The fear of terrorism

The fear of cultures who we don’t understand



Fear comes from insecurity

Fear of speaking our minds when we know we should

Fear of not standing up to those who would keep us down



The fear of being alone

The fear of being too happy

The fear of being too confident

The fear of feeling too small

The fear of feeling ugly

The fear of eye contact in the age of instant messaging



Fear is what we believe it to be

The blanket that keeps humanity shivering.