Marine – Welcome Home to the Dark

The confusing and piercing cracklings, all about the pristine valleys,

Would soon burst into kerosene flames of charred barbeques of human beings

As the HU_1s (the Hueys); flew by - seeking to find soldier body parts blown apart by volleys

Of bullets, shrapnel, lead fire of political misgivings

At 16th parallel; Route 9. the 1^st cav and 9th Marine grunts held ground

Until the last hand of insanity quieted the warrior’s voices to a silent sound …

And for what?  A home country filled with doubts

And to main-street-college kids - confused and full of shouts

Against both the warriors and the purveyors of war

Because no one would accept that no matter how far

The riots projected fear and anger – the wrongness was the lowest bar

That the country would fail at and so, they came home wounded; during moonless evenings.

Angels and Beasts

He turns and glances back at the shadows

That prey upon him when the mind ticks away

At the night’s endless pace;

While, the moon stares out in full face.

This is when solitude must have him

Alone for eternity; a stolen place.

Age stirs him with doubts of grace

As his body and mind bend and break with change;

What were once beautiful dreams

Blossomed now - into twisted screams

Awakening the angels and beasts

That rule his undefined soul – it seems.

Listen, the beasts have something to teach:

That without darkness there are angels

With wings of kindness

To sooth away mother’s hardness

And bring forth dawn’s kind of blue

The keeps hidden the moments of less.

Weighing in On the Last Four-bers

Weighing in On the Last Four-bers

What once was seven

Changed to append

Roman calendars tend

And so, eight became ten

And nine became eleven

And ten now stands last at the end

Of twelve so to contend

With two additions that pretend

That the beginning is now longer then

The original ten with twelve moons to contend

That one year is twelve unless – when

a thirteenth is the once in a blue-moon friend.

Waking the Rains

Something very alluring about brooding

skies

that pries out the best and the worst in me.

Standing alone against the falling

horizon

a son is shaped, by the light and the shadow, into a long black silhouette

against the faceless blue - an incomprehensible form yet, somehow a unique

profile

standing file, a lone soldier, upright against the face of the impending rains.

Yes, those rains, the ones that fill the ageless

river

that quivers and flows from the eyes of mother;

contouring deep gouged channels of rejection – into the sheared rock 

beds

of dreads; forces that rampage life crafts along her raging waters.

One must not fear the rumble of the accusing thunder nor flinch at the stinging

smite

that bites like sharp tongues striking at the highest points with arrays of jagged light.

Sister Torquemada’s sepulchral gaze crosses the room and consumes

the space

her face closes the many blinds - so to shut out the lost years.

Pupils are placed into darkness – sentenced to learn to love

silence

and defiance - becomes a way to see into the darkness of a small cave

where the light is from the candle of self-awareness and the

fire

rises higher from the edges of the night across the mountain side bringing

the valley into the dawn of a new day; a new walk; a new path.

A Moment of Pause

A Moment of Pause

Who are you there?

As time folds upon itself- closed; a prone cocoon.

A mind weighted with the aftermaths

Seeing death as vapid black-waters.

Inertia dulls

And molds the moments into formless

Freaks and demons that dominate

All senses and then chews their desiccated presence.

Something happened

 I am afraid to remember;

 for the night keeps my secrets

 and the day discusses my faults.

Heavy darkness

Evaporated as dawn’s light blinked

Awake the bemused butterfly

With wings colored of splendid rainbows.

Something happened

 I am afraid to remember;

And the wounds will all heal into scared

Lines of poetry that portray joy and pain.

Never A Dull Moment

Say do you have a moment?

No, I have not. I can not offer a moment to give; why do you ask?

Because I have lost the time.

Hmmm … and so, what time did you once have?

No-no, I mean I have the time however, I do not know the time.

Ahh – I see.  You wish for a moment from me – so to understand the time?

Yes – yes, that is exactly it; a timely point please!

Just a moment then - if you please to wait for just one more moment…

There.

There is your moment and the time is now relative, half past existential.

Was there anything else now?

Sorry, you misunderstand me.  May I have your moment at this moment?

You mean to take my momentum so to move your moment of inertia?

Well yes, but it will be momentarily – nothing more – nothing less.

I can see that we have arrived at a moment of truth; you have a moment and

you also want my moment?

Yes, any moment now will do.

You want to cease the moment.

Indeed, however only in this very moment.

Fine we will have a moment of truth while the butterfly lights upon your blooming thoughts.

Just a moment please …

There.

There is your second moment; never less a moment and never more a moment.

Thank you!  There is never a dull moment with butterflies.

              Your observation is a matter of perception for the obtuse transformation

   of the chrysalis becomes a keen moment for the butterfly. 

More or Less a Moment

More or Less a Moment  

How does being lost fit within the ancient map lines?

Grids and contours that vicariously form the directions and paths to take leave

Or plot out the forgotten places with the unfamiliar names

To forget once again - in the blink of a moment.

And, if in that moment 

One escapes from the present moment –

Then is now more

Or less then existence?

Saving time to have more; 

Or killing time to have less?

The insanity of those notions allows for the deception

That ego somehow controls time with invention of the clock dial

And that somehow time has a face and hands

That tell of time and measure life – nice and neatly.

When indeed, the bull will gore you;

The bear will consume you;

The fall will maim you.

And yet, waiting will waste you

While anticipating a pot to boil.

However, on the other hand, time flies

When the executioner counts the seconds

To complete the appointed deed.

It is often quoted, “Carpe Diem”

Cease the moment!

As if it were an ice cream cone

Or the verge of a leap that invites

Carefree or careless; Impulse…

I suppose that the consequence or outcome

Determines whether damnation or praise will be eulogized.

The view and sentiment is all arbitrary

And completely contrary!

Because being in the moment 

Is when one becomes one

With unreachable forces such as

The Wind - Blue Skies - the Song of birds.

These each are however attainable - romantically,

With love and respect of the moment

And the place

On this infinite timeline

That exists only in the sentient mind.

An imaginary moment

Of the moment

At the moment.

Listen, silence is the speak of the universe

And nothingness is never more

Or is ever less than this very moment.

Moment To Transform

Moment to Transform

If you can catch papilio

Then you can ask,

“Did you conform?”.

If you can stop a moment

Then you might find

That less and more do not make form.

If you can define duration

Then life may not measure

The form, or sense the transform nor anticipate the reform.

If you understand why the butterfly

And not flowers; nor the hours;

Then, the moment is the source of the storm.

If in dreams the subconscious obeys no physical or spiritual limits

And fear of reality hesitates with faulting doubts

Then, this is the very moment (the moment of truth) to transform.

Sonnet: Moment

Sonnet: Moment

Flutters along without measured straight lines

Abides by no plan nor complies with time

Other than to pursue the flowered rhymes

There is no more; there is no less - design

As each moment fails and wins each moment

Ephemeral there - to here and to there

Chasing thoughts is losing what was meant

Having no schemes - one can pursue nowhere

For butterflies are transformational

Their place and reason - divine resonance

Between moments of sweet assignation

The duration is a fleeting romance

Shall the moment’s purpose be less or more    

Need life be longer than a moment’s store

Colors and Illusions

Colors and Illusions

No one ever asked me if the sky is really blue.

Nor did anyone exclaim about the dark changes in hue.

Nor do blind children alarm at gathering storms in clouds of black.

And what romantic seafarer could not wonder about the reds,

“Is the horizon bursting into flames as it is consumed by the sun’s threads?"

Of all the times one travels, to then sit and ponder the moment’s worth;

the journey itself, is made more precious by the fellow travelers one shares mirth

and folly with while discovering along the wondering way that fear is an illusion

and that happiness is but a chance encounter of perception, in a time and a place,

where one understands that geography itself, blends into a oneness without a face.

Day and Night: irresistible forces each conceding to the other’s presence

and so, time slips by leaving behind whatever was;

tempting the Now with the illusion that time is of the essence.

Here we are in the moment. There is enterprise here -

between the graying strands of daylight

and the moonless night

before the ancient overseer

and beyond the sky blue light...

Home, is as intimate as inner prayer

or as distant as an unreachable horizon;

monoliths formed with stones of romance and nightmare

before disintegrating within the stores of memory’s ware.

Loss, any loss has a familiar story

however, each one is set in unfamiliar circumstance; so sorry

grieving is hard - even as loss drives the heart to hell in a blank trance

waiting for the forgiving words that are somehow estranged in the scars of the heart

as the rivers of tears drown out the questions of the illusionary art

asking, “Is there blue in the waters or is the blue all in your mind?"

Memorial Day Threnody

War’s snarling parodies –

And, swirling flags for threnodies.

Oh red, foreign fields of red.

Oh white, home crosses of white.

Oh blue, blessed heavens of blue.

Keep a moment today; honor the dead

Sons and daughters who stood the fight;

Won the right for the red, white and blue

To fly for all Americans be they red -

be they black – be they brown or white -

a soldier does not ask if; a soldier serves true.

And, swirling flags for threnodies.

It Wasn't There

It Wasn’t There

It is morning now - the mares

Run after what isn’t there;

Fading into the night’s torment.

Now, the sun calls out to seek

A perfect moment.

And so, off to the fair.

It wasn’t there.

Then paused for liquid blues

Everyone looking too, drinking booze.

It wasn’t there.

Running hard; going fast past wounded fields

The road is open; the road is closed

A cemetery where the dead ends

No one there has any more friends.

Stopped to a place with plenty of figures

That tip and balance their character triggers

While the day withers away into night

The mares pawing at the ground, awaiting

The bugler’s call to the next page; translating

A man’s fright.

It wasn’t there.

Final Call

Final Call

this stranger who bleeds thru the wall

walking slowly up the downstairs hall

hearing everything that his thoughts say

finding plenty of reasons not to stay

the frames upon the panels are in disarray

the spectators frozen still in feigned appall

while the artist hides quietly in his desolation

then said, “how absurd this aberration”

the patron wondered, “why is melody's seat

in this place of music so temperamental?”

the old master replied, “it is the beat -

that teaches young interlopers a fundamental

truth - these found within lines and conforms”

and thus, the room emptied the lightness

into a space of total darkness

to hide the hideous thoughts in a strange pall

one more reason; one more point - to enthrall

the black star fooled them all

‘twas David’s final call

Two Men

Two men crossed the foggy path, wide

In front of me - on their way to find lost.

And, when I opened the windshield

The frames changed - as do the winds

When death wants to sit aside

Singing; humming canticles of god’s field

As life’s muse has cast off suffering’s cost.

One man lived by the shutter’s eye

Capturing many faces -

Found smiling;

or sorrowing

In many places.

They each paid a price,

without borrowing,

By simply being – interesting.

The other man lived in fiction

Selling life’s tenets at a small fraction

Piece by piece; with little lies that speak

A eulogy of a man both strong and weak.

Now, I must hurry along and run from the freaks -

Somewhere in desolation

is a temporary aberration.

Believing in Mrs Gilley

Knock

Who is there - at the door, Mrs Gilley?

Knock - Knock

Who is it - that steps upon our threshold

And disturbs our very pleasant morning, Mrs Gilley?

Why!   It is the Taxman

Who presents himself

At the brink of duty.

Shall we invite his soul in for tea Mr Gilley?

Knock - Knock - Knock

Why Mr Verge foolishly eases so much closer upon the edge.

Can you see his eyes, Mrs Gilley?

Do they contain the light of human kindness?

Dear Mr Gilley, I don’t believe they are invested in such notions.

After all, he was,

He is and he will always

Hold to his tasks as the Taxman.

Dearest Mrs Gilley go forth and discover thy purse of lamb’s ear

And hold it secret to your luscious bosom’s warmth –

Knock - Knock – Knock - Knock

Ahh, Mr Verge,

I wouldn’t be so persistent to cross this portal

If thee knew of trusty Old Tom’s double barrels

That rest upon my arms

Waiting and primed to pay

Leaded loads upon you, the Taxman.

Mr Gilley please, before you meet with the devil’s hand –

Go off with me out the back door –

Hand in hand, my dearest love.

Oh! how sweet you are my beautiful wife.

How lovely that would be - to fall away with you

As I do each morning whence,

I envision the deep - deep blue of your eyes!

Knock - Knock – Knock – Knock – Knock

But Alas, there is nowhere else to flee, Mrs Gilley.

And, we are too old, frail and shall not be for long.

I’ll see to it that Mr Verge and Old Tom

Come to a final understanding.

Knock _

\BAM

\BAM

There - it is done.

Mrs Gilley, shall we have another cup of tea

Before we complete this day?  

Very well, Mr Gilley, let us have one more tea and lemon. 

The day mustn’t end before we reach our destiny.

Do you still remember the way there, Mr Gilley?

Why, my love, I could walk there if I were blind,

Crawl myself there - if I lacked my legs,

I would merely follow the sweet sweet

Lilac bouquet of your golden hair.

Mrs Gilley, it is time –

Here, hold my hand, dearest love.

 I shall never - ever let you go again,

For missing you has been my agony to bear

And now, we will be together, once again.

Mrs Gilley.

Yes, Mr Gilley.

Do you believe in me, Mrs Gilley - as I believe in you?

Complicate Complicated

it's complicated

he says-

yes, it is complicated

too complicated

he explains-

yes, it has complexity

complex is complicated

she says-

is less complicated

simply better

better is not complicated

she says-

is better a metaphor

better is complex

so is a metaphor

within a metaphor

complex

a one metaphor is better

than a two metaphor

it's complicated

he says-

yes, it is complicated

that is a metaphor

write it complex

it's complicated

but - is it better