Michelin An Old reTyre

It was always a sweet ride

across the many miles

of good and bad roads

there was never a turn

that did not go somewhere

even when it could terminate

at a cul-de-sac. Who knew?

The streets, the avenues 

and circles into lanes 

and back to boulevards

throughout the cities

and towns; small villages

to metropolitan highways

and those freeways and tollways

across the world’s countries.

Dusty backroads and muddy paths

The way there is nowhere on a map?

Never ever went alone

always with three buddies

spinning along on two axis

and mini-me brother to spare

we all had great threads

because we rotate

to grip the black asphalt

or smooth out cobblestone

or nothing like cruising 

the concrete lanes and byways

to the mountains switchbacks

wow – the ziggy zags were a gas

tight turns down to the valley

and then across a covered bridge

of days of yore.

Note the height limit, driver

and how is your psi today?

Same as my first day’s ride

thirty-six on all four radials

for two hundred thousand miles

and now this old Tyre must retire

to a yard of old rubber & bad retreads.

Everyone knew me as Michelin

the reTyre At Monte Carlo-

I was the best there ever was!

Fascination on a Fulcrum

 Fascination on a Fulcrum

 

There is an obsession with broken things

found on bridges with the scattered pieces

of good intentions.

Indeed, there are many fragments

of evil perpetration too.

Perhaps, a bit more - if one is completely open.

 

And, in this enchantment of gathering life’s

futile steps and stumbles - taken along the path

to the stone church (where the stain glass wares),

the value is so much in question

at the end of the sun’s pivot upon the horizon’s ledge.

For in each step over and across the rare collections

of the daunting detritus – are found untold stories.

 

The rabbit, in the hole, knows the tale

And in a surreal sense, the seeker is found too,

in the wheels and windows

Of his mind – (the walker, I mean) – understand?

 

Yes?  Good, for he has no touch with reality.

As he collects the pieces to make the windows of stains.

Formed from the pieces, the elements and lead

that was molded in the crucibles of trial and tribulations!

 

Why would he do such a thing that

is impermanent?

Because the sun will rise

the light will find the frame

and it must be done.

What is the Hole

 

 

Along the path to somewhere

One may walk a long way

Without anything to say

Or any reason to wage or rage

Thoughts about the ease or the fray.

 

With mind in carry to the grand affair

One is neither meek nor bold

when there is nothing to hold.

The poet says, “Just turn the page”.

The frightened rabbit jumps into a hole!

 

Returning - offers up a blank stare.

For the answer offered - is an empty vase.

With beautiful form, color and space.

And the rabbit asks, “Is your mind a cage?

Or is it ready for a magical race?”

 

Said the poet, “Not here or anywhere

Are there flowers or poems for a page

And sometimes all heaven is in a rage!”

The universe too was once empty

Being neither child nor sage.

 

If one finds holes in plein air

And the canvases sit like a darkened stage;

A symphony standing mute at the podium ledge

Waits for that one moment when the notes breathe

And the hole of empty comes of age.

April's Fool

 

April, why will you change so much?

 

Always in such a volatile mood

With blustery winds biting at my nape.

At times for days and days or, in a blink; it is so rude!

Your cold nature slaps roughly at my cape.

 

Oh April, how I wait for you to bring me flowers

And set the greening snake free.

And yet, I never know how to fear your powers

Or how to worship your warm breath across the valley’s lee.

 

Set I upon the wayward path to find my enchantment

Lusting for spring’s powers of regeneration

Searching, searching for contentment

Only to be stricken still - by your biting rejection.

 

Alas, my lucid siren with blue eyes of wonder

I am a patient lover and clever to know

That waiting will please all insanity of thee yonder;

For May will be a gentler disciple to bestow.

 

 

The cold ground will come alive with river waters flowing

Into nascent colors bringing the birds and the bees

To court the panoramas naked of their secret showing

For once more - an old poet finds a soul in what he sees.

 

April, why did you change so much?

A Love Poem to Embrangle

 

Deserts that were blue oceans once,

Keep skeletons of the ships

Once conquerors of the seas.

Their keels surrendering long ago

And now covered by the quietness

Of their silken sails and abated oars.

There is found Jangle a beautiful Brigantine

That crossed every sea seeking love.

In the end, the last ocean abandoned her.

A false promise left her stilled and unloved

To become the outcast of another time

When pods of whales were her maidens.

She met her first love at the shipyard

Of Harbor’s Way where plenty was plenty.

His name Mangle was given to his disfigured head.

He was the mightiest of carriers to race the charts

With dreams and riches of hope -

His strong hull could never dip below.

And when agony for his dear Jangle

Was unbearable - Mangle set to the seas

To find his magnificent cradle.

Daring to pass into the Harbor of Entanglements

Where the inceptions were exceptions

And parsing of time that was -

Alas, the brigantine pair came together

In one last embrace and one more sail

Into the Sea of Entanglement.

For one can only fathom their place

From afar! Mangle and Jangle

Are once more a love poem to embrangle.

Eat the Power of the Flower

 

A child that walks without a shadow;

a little girl of the ages that sits alone

yet, finds that the silence is too plangent

to keep company with the mad hatter – Mr. Poe.

The dormouse came along to tease

a wonder and hint a fashion into the magic woods.

“Ligeia there are gardens of butterflies there

with blooms enough for any a table to please!

Henceforth, my sweet child, there will be fine spring flowers

to be found for a place; for a space – for a vase in place…”

and so, it came to be that Ligeia was the caretaker

of the back rows in dreams and in the throe of fantasy’s powers.

Sitting aside the women of lore - Morela, Annabel Lee and Lenore,

Ligeia sang the songs of the circling dance:

“Merry, merry-go-round and round the crescent horse of galloping parry    

round, round, and round the garden’s secret rings I adore!”

“Wait Mr. Poe, please explain these mysteries to me

before thy haunted heart beats - no more!”

“Worry not, young Ligeia, the questions are the flowers

that will become real when your eyes choose to see.”

Suddenly, the dormouse vanished like morning dreams

as the carousel of crescent horses traipsed in circles

and rainbow-colored fairies evanesced into wisps

climbing up the mad hatter’s haunting beams.

 

A Weird Cat

 

 

A Weird Cat - That Cat

 

The weird cat at my side of the room

Asked, “Are you the blogger that sweeps the floor

Because the words are just gathering dust –

Do you need to sweep out; have you no broom?”

 

“No, my dankly friend – only my straw whisk do I adore.

Perhaps you might curl around them and read

How a mortal man existed only at-the-moment

 That the hinge swung from was to will-be, at the door.”

 

Said the cool cat, “Nonsense, You swanky plebe!

Speaking these words so they play lightly; covering

Pondering, discovering that they only seem real

If they are spontaneously spread in minutia with seed.”

 

“Ahh-haa! So that is your best taunted purring -

Suggesting that blood, sweat and tears be the currency?

Don’t bother. There is no mortal man.

Always, the bleak winter turns into joys of springing!”

Kinesthesia

Deep, deep within the depths of the sea

weighs heavy a leviathan that gallivants

across time that is before knowledge.

it’s magnificent form and majestic presence

is truly nature’s finest work - life in the treacherously

cold dark waters where darkness prevails;

where even the lords of time wonder –

How? –

Where? -

Why? –

Can a beast so grand ever be so small?

And however, that a beast - greater yet,

can it swallow it whole.

A small sardine to digest – gulp!

What sense of girth, length, weight and intent

can guide such a powerful savior

of so many, so many in the forthcoming

and still,

the entropic phenomenon edges near – its extinction;

a reserved place in lore

of all the secrets of its kinesthesia.

Its Existence and Environment are no different!

The energy is entangled as one.

Now is then and when – to be found perfected knowledge!

A very deep moment – this one time

we must leave –

we must let go –

we must die

to be in the all-silent precarious stasis

a masterpiece and the opus “One”.

The leviathan is me

and I must leave to touch the universe.

Waltzing with Shadows

 

If one questions what one believes -

Then that - that was believed is in question?

Or does doubt have little else to do

Then to palaver with opposition -

Only to discover that the reservations

Are simply rhetorical glimmers - it is their nature,

Never to understand the value nor the weight of one’s word.

If what one believes that standing right or wrong

Is not a pinnacle but merely a contrary position to hold

And be dismissed as simply an opposing seat

Holding peer judgement and sending verdict

Based strictly on inward coded strains of false depth

Superficially covered with old garments of arguments

Patched quilts to please custom, tradition or worse - ignorance?

Should change befall upon you unexpectedly

And upset your basket full of idioms.

Which euphemisms should be collected

To reset broken truths that were once believed.

Or will these notions remain static as a mountain range;

Or will they be a tomorrow like open sea

To the unknown where the Pequod chased the beast.

If one lives only at night where the stars are the past

Blinking their truth about an existence into this moment

Will you see only in the shades and tones of black?

Will the prevailing shadows be your chiaroscuro painting

Depicting only what the moonlight can hint at?

Will the shadows be your only reference of life without color

If the night is your world – must you live in sleep forever?

Should the sun be always at the pivot without night?

Will you then believe only what you can see clearly as real

And all imaginations be castaways beyond this static realm

Never changing - never moving - never turning – never day or night.

What cycle will you mark if nothing is passing nor settings nor rising?

Will the uniformity become a blend of same with no shame

Because everything and everyone is always the same?

If shadows that waltz across the cave walls were cast

There by a light being swallowed by the abyss within the black hole

And persistence was only necessary to peer into the darkness;

To stare into the abyss and all the while the abyss looks back

And whatever monster, whichever beast one wrestles 

One could become its lineament – a mirror reflecting back -

For what one sees is what one may become.

Poetry Garden

 

I made a poetry garden

To plan for poems to say

For there is so much to give

And calling old friends to play

Went hard cultivating poets

From back in the old days

When five flowers was all we had

But it didn’t matter much – it’s okay

There was an old paladin poet

Sitting at the gate in full cogitate

The mood was easy - no need for strain

If it’s open to just ruminate

I saw a rose by any other name

Sitting by herself showing stems with thorns

For beauty is only to see; it’s all just the same

Yellow, pink or red dress she adorns

Then came the old dog slammer

Friend of the old woods 

No one knew their hammer

Nor could we see they were user dudes

Their songs went fast and rhythmic

As the poetry party rose to a wayward lee

And love poems flowed into the garden

When the yellow tulips all stood to see

There was trouble in the garden party

For there came dandelions no one knew

They soon elaborated beyond meaning

And caused the place much ado

Oh me, oh my! – it’s just a poetry garden

It don’t matter much who is Queen

And there is no king flower

Bees and butterflies is the scene

Went to a garden party

Seeing who was there

And found only winter’s hand

Had taken its cold stare

And so, we play in the garden

Once again - once more

Poets come and lovers go

And the old poet is still lore.

(tribute to Ricky Nelson/Garden Party)

Calling Waters

The ease of flow in the waters -

Currents moving - cascading - falling;

Gently puddling, forming, gathering -

Hasten the beaconing waters: go beyond the edge.

Eddies where inertia swirls and turns into brooks

Streaming into rampaging rivers resounding

Beyond majesties and behemoths standing

Tall along the canyons and gorges.   

Skies that transform from delightful blue

Clear and clean while the air is sick and thickening.

Grays skies began boiling into a rage - threatening

While the future awaits in a distant queue.

Thunderbolts launch - slamming the heavy air!

Everyone with dreams of immortality praying

For emancipation from death’s calling…

The consuming quietness, a portent of destruction.

The winds of change take aim in full rage

Their intentions and power are demanding

Full annihilation of all life standing.

Long hours huddled inside a hole that is a soul.

A peaceful silence awakens the new dawn

As daylight’s gentle light is redeeming.

A full sunrise begins with blue birds singing:

Alive! – we are alive to rebuild a new world. 

The ease of flow in the waters rises

While the currents cascade into the falling.

Gentle forms gather at their puddling

Hastened by the beaconing waters: Seek the edge.

  

Wonder of a Mystery in Uniformity

 

Bring me that broken chalice

Along with your harbored malice

On this one day for foils and fools -

This noted first day for charm

And trickery and foolery sans harm.

What story, what mockery, which lore

Could be more incredible than this war

Of nonsense and ridiculous caveats

Wrapped in misinformation; tied with red ribbons

And sold by the fox of misgivings. 

So, tease away all that you see

Strip clean all values and sell them for a fee.

Put on your best brown uniform

Along with the black boots of repression.

Learn to salute with that vile arm extension. 

 

Become a true wonder of a mystery in uniformity

Bend and twist your self-worth into conformity! 

I’ll stand here between chaos and cohesiveness –

And resist the oceans and conquer the mountains

Not in silence but in harmony with freedom’s fountains.

Winter Scene

 

Intersecting shadows of forms and lines

Within a mind’s muse that invites allusion

Of profound legacies and fore divines

That one might know in seclusion. 

Of incredible views; moments

 Under the deepest blue canopy,

With degrees of radiant adornments

Casted on snowed fields sans panoply.

The incalculable signs lost to a mind

That fails and falls to his bane

For his thoughts race to find

A friendly face; a familiar voice - in vain.

An empty scene except for a sounding chime

The engaging piece in a peculiar diorama

Standing pointless without rhyme

While encompassing every panorama.

Nuance is a kind visitor – a long shadow

That trembles as it traverses the quietness

And stands alone along the narrow

Line of trees of an infinite wildness.

Circles and Spheres

Why do you wonder so;

    what is that path you seek;

where will that circling flow

end?    -     Upon a strong perch; or a meek

    edge at the abyss, outside the sphere?

How will you know there - is not here?

When - has no face; has no place.

    For only for a blink will time hold your ink.

Fitting Broken Pieces

 

Broken pieces that don't fit?

You say they don't- make sense?

It's a jigsaw puzzle to knit.

Otherwise - it is pretense.

A fractured painting

a perfect contradiction

The rhetoric has fainting

ideas that hint at redemption.

Herd the Madness

 

A meandering mind will soon enough find conformity -

and within that herd spreads a madness of uniformity

as the rails merge the obsequious fawns to fill the stalls

with kindred humans - listen, to silence of the calls.

See Me - See

 

I see only me

What genius I be.

Fools bend the knee

and ask to see

this - my anarchy.

(Image: Narcissus by Caravaggio)

(Image: Narcissus by Caravaggio)