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

Cold

I am cold -

That I am naked; alone

A silhouette across the moon’s face.

You are cold -

Within your white woven coat

A cocoon waiting to evolve wings.

It is cold -

Names and places forgotten

For nostalgia is bittersweet tea.

Night is cold -

And the discussions white noise

For cold revelers speak randomness.

Prayers and Prayers

in one way or another

we are each other’s orphans

by way of society's natural

lines of separation

victims and

perpetrators reflections in a circle

a predator draws power

from his prey’s fear

and death

becomes the end of each

prayers and prayers

lined up like silent thoughts

sitting in empty chairs

waiting for the eulogy

to explain

what everyone already knows

Moment of Inertia

If I were not so casted I’d be in a real funk

Were I a smart crease – I’d not be in a rumpled drunk

Were I able to comprehend

The parallel axis theory

Then I might possibly understand

Why the moment of inertia is so eerie

I might also explain why we live in the rain

And yet, never complain about all the dry pain

Can a poet who can no longer rhyme

Be executed for a writing crime

Hey, you there in the back corner

Are you here to collect for the coroner

The covers of darkness drape

Knotted together like a bow tie across the nape

Tonight the morning waits fate

All the ghosts stayed late - for Bordeaux’s sate.

Stardust Falling

at the end of the road

at the end of the day

near the glacial

woods

near the glacial

moods

there is mute

eyes

there is mute

cries

seeking much

to see

seeking much

to be

at the end

of the road

at the end

of the day

is that stardust

falling from the skies

is that stardust

failing at Ziggy's cries

AZUL Collection of Poems

Azul

Blue River flows
from the depths of my soul
through sanity’s darkness
beyond vision’s crest
to where faith glows;
gather at the watering spools
rise above the maelstrom’s toll
consume metamorphosis of Azul.

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