Poem for April's Fool

 

 

Meridith, the muse that thrives in the gardens of poetry

Calls away Angst, an old poet master, from slipping into silence

As he meditates into the deep seas of ubiquity.

 

“Speak poet - hold not your heart in reticence

For the waltzing shadows of time frighten the white rabbit

Back into its black hole of imaginary nonsense!”

 

“I will speak when the common guard of habit

Ceases to hail the weird cats of uniformity

And all haikus taken explain the meanings of the Abbot.

 

For all questions are fashioned in the reply of simplicity;

And therefore, we all are sentenced to our words,

To our songs. Remember, April’s poetry is not for the sake of complexity.

 

Instead, verse is within the implications of the red roses or the bloody swords!

All submissions are Moloch’s choice to either embrangle or to liberate

From utter irrelevancy or held to be supreme lords.”

 

After some weigh, Meredith mused whether the poet would abnegate:

“Poet, of old, would you rather slip away in a silent refrain

Rather than answer the paroxysms of rejection and love’s desquamate?”

 

“’Tis not my journey to find joy nor to abstain from pain.

No, indeed, it is because of my fascination with the fulcrum’s sway

Between refinement of pleasures and the perils of fame

 

My songs are lyrical rhymes; my morphemes formed in a simple way

Explaining how the kinesthetics of the mind capture the universe

When it speaks to the mind – it is a desideratum’s journey, every day.

The Question is the Reply

 

T

 

When the storm is dangerously calm

The birds and the beasts react in a sense

As they do when a predator hovers across the sky

Or the lion’s stilled intention is at hence.

 

The air is saturated with the chemistry of fear.

Cortisol heightens the will to survive

And the internal alarms are set off to high

As pails pour out the adrenaline to keep alive.

 

Listen especially when the day is strangely quiet.

Notice that the sun has no shadows to measure

And that the shapeless clouds linger the day.

Ask why Arcadian tulips appear to be a colorless nature.

 

The universe is the totality of emptiness

Interrupted by the light of creation

And time is given a meaning without limit;

Expansion by cosmic inflation!

 

Will existence fall upon its own weight;

Has humanity accelerated its passing end?

At the sacrifice of all available resources;

Will societies and cultures offend?

  

In the delicate balance between need and want:

Will human inflation become the fatal demise?

Nature abhors a stasis; stagnation summons change.

Will expanding intelligence be an inflationary force to realize?

 

The compromise seems left to poets and rebels

To insist on the questions and not accept the politician’s lie.

Humanity’s new crutch is finding an artificial wonder

To ask, to answer and to store the reply.

 

The moment is absorbed in silence

Reframing by category and assignment.

A given truth is in the dying of the light

For truth is a reluctant lover waiting for change’s enticement.

Agonizing with Morphemes

Agonizing with Morphemes

 

All was good when trans was with port

And there were no problems whatsoever

When a trans was connected to verse.

 

Meanings were of little problem

Until transgenerational trauma

Proposed the transformation of a curse,

Of a tragedy, of a catastrophe through the eras

And shared across communities, societies, cultures

and families -

Is it Inherited pain; absorbed guilt;

or is it found in acidic blood legacies?

 

Pieces of history written with elemental components

Of language using small parts and pieces

found in any word shed – an agonizing morpheme to learn.

 

To transport is to carry oneself or something forth

Nothing to argue with here.

However, to transpire is to end or to go on – develop

a reasonable contranym.

Either word has a fundamental meaning.

 

Translation of transaction, transfer and transmit

all simple ways to submit or remit from any exchange.

 

What transit is needed to transfigure or to transmogrify

A lump of clay into a scientist or into an outer-space alienist?

Perhaps a transistor to resist all transhuman transmissions?

 

The question is elemental, Dr. Watson.

The keys are found in the morphemes

And the answers will beget a family of memes.

 

The transcript does not include – nor it entertain

The identity of a transgender being.

Nor will it consort in the intercourse

Of transsexual persistence.

Instead take the morphine or drug of choice;

The translations are in the omens of transition

and are channeled into omissions that satisfy

individual transfigurations.

Ode to Pentameter

 

Sitting down to write a verse

Requires a gifted leading line

Perhaps a stunning last curse

To upset the good gentry’s - define.

Signs of weathering days in tumult and turmoil

While keeping hope alive;

Unbridled joy at the snake’s uncoil

Using dissonance and assonance to dive.

Alive into day twenty-seven of the ride

Away from the chaos and troubling change

The rhyme is a riddle; the meter is a foot and glide

What is iambic whimsical satire – how strange.

To arrange a thought inside the buzzing hive

Must find how the trochaic pace is a da-dum

A sound within a sound makes nuanced jive

The head page is all in a rage: red-rum redrum.

Drums that beat out in a cacophony 

Scatter the notes like unhinged words

A tornadic occasion before the euphony

Quiets the warrior poets and their swords.

   

Left to the Stage

 

Left to the Stage

 

Flying into the Square

well after the winterfylleth

has ceded to the greening snake

awakenings -

As blossoms of sweetness

yellow and red tulips

offering fertile pistils.

 

The walk to the cobblestone road

by way of the rainbow steps

and on to the Grand Old Dame of the Opera.

There is a stage with starlight there

to the left

where the dormouse feeds your head

with good vibes for the night

playing with the stars in delight.

 

The rabbits were all there

gathered sitting together

a fluffle in a ruffle

as one.

 

Standing tall

with a long sheet of crafted words

laid down with pace and beat –

Thoughts and verse

flying around in murmurations

of style and movement into the air.

 

There was a gentle poet

with a child on his mind

troubled or afraid – still

in the poem.

Oh, so good!

 

Poetry words work to calm

the soul

and silence

all ruckus away from the opening

beyond the fabled rabbit holes

of the rock-land labyrinth.

 

There were the songbirds

playing their strings

folks singing folk

and ballads of life

in humor; in love

and of the fire

within the cold stones

that keep away the sparks

of flight or fight

for eagles must take to the air

when there is survival

at stake.

 

The young doe left a story

of trepidations and trials

with her fawn so precocious

and audacious

a teen of four

all clichés applied

however, more than a charm

and with plenty of wit.

 

As with all good things

there is an end

when there is no audience left

all is done at the Stage

the lights dim

and the door closes.

 

Remember Mother

she owns all the seasons

and she has all her own reasons.

Rabbit Rabbit

 

Rabbit-rabbit. Where is my soul

Is it cold in that graven hole

Or is there an uplifting tale

To be told.

 

When the hare runs into the maze;

The labyrinth of craze -

Will there be a magical totem

With linear strings – unfazed.

 

The vortex in the hollow,

That of mankind’s shallow,

Will the revving mind and manic geste

Serve as a pretended halo?

 

The way out is the way in

There are wonders in the scene

And pastures with casted rainbows

Where the pawns protect the Queen.

  

Come as you are Mr. Rogue

Down the roads prorogue;

To hesitate is to be late

And is irrelevant ideologue.

  

Answer the questions out of habit

With cues that hint of the white rabbit

Asking: “Why did you leave;

were you going to meet the Abbot?”

 

For those who wear clothes of ritual

Also carry prayers that fend any residual

Perdition or castigations against ‘elf

And serves communion as a victual.

Sliping into Silence

 

In that place of noise and ruckus

Where the cyclops wears two heads

Each one sits in the opposite view

And responds to agitations on cue

Because the cause is not in focus.

 

In the realm of chaos arises the caustic threads

Of dissension, distortion and disproportion.

Step in; step out of the excursion and blaring alarms

The River Styx awaits the fools with charms;

Charon, the Ferryman, rips all return tickets to shreds.

 

Smell the ardor; breathe in the scent of apprehension

Slipping into the silence will overwhelm all dementia.

All the words; all the curses; all damnations will cease

In the realm of silence – will be mauna vrata to sit in peace.

The art of silence is the act of total cessation.

 

Nine circles of the inferno are the pathway to dystopia

From fires of treachery to the soothing fountains of limbo.

The guide is blind; the silent shepherd is your mind.

Quench the manias; set down anger and distress; find

In the wisdom of silence – that there is a brief scene of utopia.

 

Paso El Papa

 

To arise for Sunday morning blessings 

Papa, the shepherd, went out to the fields

Leaving his garments behind in their fold.

A simple wooden ship will carry him

On his quiet journey through eternity.

Fourscore and eight Easter’s had ascended.

And now, this mass will be the last farewell

A last prayer painted in aquarelle.

Jorge and Francis will walk for the poor

And heaven’s gates will welcome the humble

Provide sanctuary for the weakest

The homeless, the besieged, the immigrant.

For the boy, the man, the priest and a Pope

Will speak of peace and of goodwill for all.

And now, his rosary of gentleness

Will be remembered as his blessedness.

 

 

 

 

Taking the Haiku - There

 

 

How odd is the pair

which one has the even leg;

Bilaterians?

 

If in symmetry

where is the opposition

when there is movement?

 

When in harmony

is there syntax in labyrinth

between child and old?

 

is there a threshold

at epistemology

or analogy;

 

is entanglement

what is in the empty vase

or is it the vase

 

of this metaphor

annihilation; free of

perverted nonsense?

 

The kid with quests -rests

when the old man closed his mind;

heaven is in rage!

Swimming in the Waters of Ubiquity

 

 

To wade into the waters of ubiquity

can be the cost and the reward

of swimming beyond the safe shore.

 

For treasures are hidden deep

and the rigors of the sea

demand stamina and patience.

 

There are lessons to be learned

and trials to be won - for everything

there is a moment of stillness

to allow the universe its time

to bring and remove all ambiguity.

 

From the darkness was begot light

And within that light –

is found a deepness;

a spark that defines

the silence,

the empty,

the unknown

and the hope for endless sight.

 

   

 

Words to Sentence

 

 

Flags and flutes were in the air

Calling for dissentience and essence

With swords sheathed in words that matter.

Sound the trumpets on stage: the mad hatter

She swirls in colors and slams with flair.

 

Words to sentence and a sentence for words.

Word. Word. Word.

 

Paladins of poetry arrived one by one

The well-versed travelers seek truth alone

For pentameters are measures in good intention

and delivered without false pretension

With snappy couplets; fashioned tercets or in a clever pun.

 

Words to sentence and a sentence for words.

Word. Word. Word.

 

Paladin swords hardened into sharp poetry prongs

Yet, carry songs of love and anthems of lore.

Their red shields hardened by poetic justice

Flying white banners with words of grace: Trust Us.

The stage is set and open to set right all wrongs.

 

Words to sentence and a sentence for words.

Word. Word. Word.

 

The Paladin Night of Poetry celebrated with Flair

Professor Jessica will lead the way and say,

The Book of God and Grudges is “flagrantly alive”.

Terry follows with words that touch in deep dive.

Poets gather from near and far – a performance affair!

 

Words to sentence and a sentence for words.

Word. Word. Word.

 

November stands at twenty-one and cold

The gray skies have only nostalgia left

And so, the curtain falls, and the stage lights dims.

Close your poetry books and store away antonyms and synonyms.

Put away those wistful haikus and the wizened sonnets of old.

 

Words to sentence

and a sentence for words.

Word.

Word.

Word.

 

  

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Master's Peace

 

The old master entered the arena

With a pocket full of aces

And carefully selected faces

That no hand could cover.

 

They say the maestro is a lover

His smirk is quick: calls every play.

Never blinking; no matter what the fray.

Never feared any hand guised as a bluff.

 

A young groundling with eyes full of stuff

Jude sat in, at the table of losing hands -

A shark Intending to make poker friends

Across the land of broken players.

 

The long night turned into prayers

As the novice was winning every pot.

Calling every bet - doubling like hangman’s knot;

As the horizon arose on Easter Sunday.

 

The darkened space brighten; a radiant display

And a new wizard stood to take the first chair’s place

Until the renaissance man announced quietly, “High ace

Royal diamond flush – too bad kid.”

 

Terror inflamed the rookie's bid.

His four aces went up in a flame.

As the old connoisseur proclaimed, “Kid, it’s a shame.

Arise and come back when you become an old hand.”

 

The maestro stood adjusting his grand

Cape by waving his cane with a flair

As the stone door rolled open to Sunday’s air

With songs of a hand’s resurrection; a losing redemption.

Tale of John Esther

 

 

The ground was his bed

And his dog was a pillow

To rest his weary head

Sleeping underneath the willow.

 

The breezes came to cool

The night’s high degree

As rain flowed into a pool

Soaking Miss Polly

The brown pet squirrel

That had befriended Molly

The Labrador with black and pearl

Ears and a half missing tail

Lost in a brawl with two pit bulls.

John held them both as his totem whale;

His spirit guides away from the fools

And masters who could not accept

him - for his last name was Esther.

A name that no one could forget

Any easier than his thick hair of alabaster

Or those deep vacant green eyes

That seem to be staring into the abyss.

There were no more dreams, but he tries

For Molly and Polly are his family and his bliss

 

 

And as his last breath left his soul

Like a bubble floating away

To a place that is told to hold

His name in good blessing today.

 

Crossing the Desideratum

 

Crossing the Desideratum

 

How is it that in the wilderness of the mind

There are so many certainties that mislead

Only to arrive at exactly the wrong place

And at the worst time - to rewind.

 

The crossings are a series of the figure eight

Swirling and changing along the way

And are otherwise, a long view of hope

It can seem like a bright or a bleak sight.

 

One cannot always trust what one thinks.

One cannot believe what one sees.

For eyes are easily beguiled by beauty

Or astounded by a mysterious golden sphinx.

 

Keeping balance on a moving track

While drinking the merriment of youth

Is left only for old men to relish

And offer up at death’s bedside tack.

 

As the winds of legacy invoke

Upon years spent flying sails of desire;

Walking on the bridges made of rope

Strung across the valley of gray smoke.

If only there was a place to gather

Before the rampage of rage and madness

Overwhelms like a ship of fools -

Said the voice: lifeboats won’t hold together.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Moloch's Howl

 

From the quiet streams of Azul

Came a rippling tone

That lingered in deep timbre,

A clarinet note standing long

And followed along by mellow notes

That no luthier could comprehend

For the cellos spoke in labored tones

As the stage and the moment came forward

And unto the place where the rebels and poets

Gathered to a great palaver.

 

“What is happening with Moloch’s howl?”

 

The voices were stained to speak their truths

Yet, the constraints were a self-made noose

Weaved and fashioned threads of ego

And wetted tightly by the hot oils of personalities.

 

“Who is Moloch?”

 

And where is the orator of verse?

Has anyone seen the tower bells

sway so violently

calling for a rampage of rage?

Listen – be still, heed the alarum:

 

“Gather the best words

Bring your nouns of renown

And add adjectives

that flare and flair the affair!

Strike fiercely and accurately with acute verbs

That all will ignite poetry

and bring light to the darkness of doubt

bring vision to those blinded by the mirror

bring understanding to those who are stunted

bring acceptance into the room of exception

bring Moloch; sing Moloch; sting Moloch!”

 

This is the new anthem of the old fray.

Stand back and stand aside –

Moloch has entered the arena.

Paroxysm of Rejection

 

 

Answering the call from Charon,

For the mad king’s tongue spits.

The paladins arrived one by one

To the fury of angry and hateful fits.

 

What maze befalls the citizens?

The track is a winding figure eight.

Find the wordsmiths with sharp pens.

Look to psychopomps to navigate.

 

For the waters are dark and rancorous

With a wild and foreboding twisted turnaround.

The ship’s flippant rudder is completely indecorous;

The notorious charlatan is morbidly unsound.

 

One hundred days of turmoil and rue.

The guidelines of decency and respect erased.

The nation is in the hands of a fool without a clue

Feeding on small minds entangled with the idiot’s craze.

 

The noise and rumble in the airwaves and on the streets

Portend trouble, upheaval and calls for revolution.

The train to madness arrives with nothing discrete.

Listen, the whistle sounds off in a paroxysm of rejection.

Sentenced to a Contranym

 

 

The staid notions and wild hysterias

Were, by intention, woven into a ball.

Not just any ball –

a woven sphere of strings

with a multitude of colors and lengths;

a diverse choice of materials

that neither blended nor pretended

to uniformity for this form in particular

or for that matter, any conform.

 

There are silk to hemp strings;

cotton to plastic lengths and pieces  

all tightly intertwined and twisted

to make a ball - a unit of conformity.

 

All of it entangled around a core

value or a premise of simplicity;

a cortex of natural progression

of language and dialect.

By design to be vicarious -

for uncertainty is the ultimate force,

the energy that causes all things

into motion and wave frequencies

and that abhor the static realms of stillness.

 

Chaos wears the clothing of peace and harmony.

Thus, to unravel the mysteries,

one must be willing to explore

the woods for the fear and the unknown.

For understandings can be found and lost

like ethereal wisps of fresh air,

once breathed or consumed,

absorb the unraveling of the lines of dogmas.

 

The beginning of life’s ravel

in the unraveling of the entanglement

of universal wisdom,

the question always inquires:

“Do you mind?”