“Faint Mists Paint a Maze”

is warranted as a title,

to be entitled, for a forward

to a body of work about:

highland trails, thorough haze,

brash dense brush, broken fences,

rainy bald boulders, wildflowers,

sunlight threads, down onto mosses,

log lichen, & mushrooms.

And as sea fog works so/ as a grey god’s cloaks,

far mountains are fathers.

Clinky silver rivulets

where waterbugs & yellow leaves

float off./  I can’t.  I’ve rolled off

these  fertile sheets.  & on.

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OPENING CEREMONIES

January 23, 2014

Arcing up by the bed’s edge
Waking up, Adjust my eyes
Wipe up dreamy shards
For this world seemingly happens more hard
Force my fist Up for the games
Another brother
Our own heads down
Hardly, then,
It was outrageous
Heartily now
It is gracious
Head down
Good enough my chest is all stuffed full w/blood &

Good tough

 

1968 Olympics Black Power salute, by John Dominis ?Time Inc

“Way over yonder in the minor key/ Ain’t nobody that can sing like me”

                                                                         -woody Guthrie, Billy Bragg

.

.

.I said  I’d sing

For you  some morning

We’ll wait  when nearer

Near  close your ear

I’ll sing out  without warning

It’ll be absurd  a bit

I’ll hack into  new birdsong

Exactly await  re-entry  & then

I  pipe  up 

(you can see his breath as he greets dawn)

Sheets down

.

.”The cold front couldn’t stay out front still/

I guess you can rescue

Family plants from being killed,/

Button top buttons!,

And cheat out the chill”

 

 

 

                                                                     

 

 

LAST CALL (for muses)

November 29, 2012

I’m the only one revising,

As the only sun arises,

My night’s intermittent work.

For now the mulling over is over.

For I know that  morning lover lies, & stuff

Are starting up, & Will follow.

Parting’s such “Set one up neat” sorrow

To swallow.

I said, out loud,

“He’s sad, & Proud enough.”

 

R E N E W A L

August 27, 2012

It’s the quicksand edge of a rain squall

It’s a sick man on the ledge of it all

It’s the shore shifting in a violent fright

In a midnight storm

In a maybe might/

A long winter before the glint and glimmer

of words  onto daybreak’s birdsong,

When enough  renewal’s  been suffered to,

Enough  burning  and churning and yearning

has been  laboured  through

 

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.                                                                   (2009)

It’s not been my story  to take inventory/

It’s  I can’t even fake  worry

About what I have, What I would want/

I suppose  I could pose  but I can’t/

It’s  said/

An  unexamined  life

Is  good  as  dead/

I said/

A body afloat, & solid thoughts will float too, y’know/

Lofty thoughts  not  caught  can ride

On all tides  High and low

Slighter A Wind Than

July 23, 2012

Despite  &,

With all her antics,

Winds still  move her

Like it does a half-dozen

Tiny tea roses

Before they’re right,  & hand-picked.

The slightest wind breezes

Will prove to move her

To a profound,  but protected

Melancholy…Or unexpected  joy,

Slighter a wind than

Whispered words might envoi,

Darenear  her softest skin.

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.

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.

envoy or envoi 2  (ˈɛnvɔɪ)
n
1. a brief dedicatory or explanatory stanza concluding certain forms of poetry, notably ballades
2. a postscript in other forms of verse or prose
[C14: from Old French envoye,  from envoyer  to send; see envoy 1 ]
envoi or envoi 2
n
[C14: from Old French envoye,  from envoyer  to send; see envoy 1 ]

C H E E R S

July 21, 2012

“It is the function of art to renew our perception.  What we are familiar with  we cease to see.

The writer shakes up the familiar scene, and, as if by magic, we see a new meaning in it.”

– Anais Nin

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.

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(from 2007, years ago, for laughs, we always require laughter)

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C H E E R S

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I own my own muse
uncannily, I can amuse me
it’s fairly common knowledge,I think, that some Irish may
consider a spot of poteen and a pint at the end of a well-spent day…
God’s pay for a day’s good work. Earned.
when I get home from work, mornings, I spill a half swallow of irish whiskey in my glass, turn to look out the back window,raise my glass some, and To the sunrise’s orange and yellows, To the trees & water
I’ll whisper “yes, here’s to ya,then”.Coupla nights back, I noticed there was just half a swallow in the bottle I might savor in the next morning after work, and get the empty bottle out to the recyclable bin before the early truck. Before I headed off to work
the night before though, it was apparent that my sweet & neat mate, thinking logically that the bottle was another empty to go out, the night before, took it out.
the next morning, after getting out all the rest of the trash out to the front that needed to go,walking the 30 yards back up my broken driveway to the house, I stopped. I smiled, then started laughing as I walked back to the road, all the time thinking of the imaginary guy across the street, opening his blinds for the sunrise, slippers & robe, looking out and seeing the real life guy across the street walking out to the road, lifting the top up, and reaching deep down into the bin, pulling out a bottle, unscrewing the top and tipping it back for that last swallow.

Interstitial

July 9, 2012

Her  cri de coeur,

Her  plea,  a  quieter  call

Was now  that she knew  I knew all

That she was/ That it was all

I could do

Was now

To love her?

 

Like Consequences, Early

June 18, 2012

 

As rising tides of daylight’s ocean/

Slice wide  through the blinds & the shrubs behind the blinds,/

The sun,/

Regretfilled notions/

Upset upon me   1  by  1/

Apparitions