Monday, January 25, 2010

Night my love

Night is dark and sometimes scary
       if it weren't for the vast voids starry.
Night is deep and intelligent
       with her wisdom, reticent.
Night is slumberous
        for some, but mostly wondrous.
Night is awake
        for the predators comes to prey.
Night is calm and peaceful
        when safe and comfortable.
Night is cold
         when in fear of danger.

The Night is not light, and when
I rest she rests with me, when
I wake she lays in me, for
the day is bright, and
I only love the night, so when
the sun shines my heart is dark with Night
and I move solemnly and slumberous, but
they say my eyes shine - that's her stars.
And her moon helps me see in different shades
And when sun sets - like happiness -
 Night pours out and she surrounds me.

Invisible

If I were invisible, I wouldn't maneuver through people,
I wouldn't search for whispered treasures
I wouldn't peep on beauty, or protect the innocent
I wouldn't scare the bold, nor aid the old
I wouldn't hop on a plane or train
I wouldn't dance in the rain
I wouldn't steal and be a thief

I wouldn't wish for visibility

I would sit on a comfortable grassy knoll
and watch, while I grow old, the young and the bold
the old and the rich, the girls who cry, and the
ones who smile, and the ones who cry inside, the boys
turn to men and back again, the poor aid the rich, the
rich become poor and rich once more
the blind aid the deaf, and life fade to death

I would love myself, for being adamant, I would love
the knoll that holds my grave, I would love the flower that grows
in between my toes, I would
love the wind as the other pea in my pod,
But for all evils or goods I was supposed to do, i could not
love god.

As a child, for now

As a child, I often believed the supernatural natural,
                and the people who ruled, gods and demigods.
 As a child, I could only see with my eyes,
                and the images that it held flee with memory.
 As a child, I could only feel with my hands,

                and the texture of skin to sand forgotten.
 As a child, the outdoors meant only playtime,
                and the trees that lay shade to me.
 As a child, I only heard with my ears,
                and storms and stories passed with their fears.
As a child, I only thought with my brain,
                and to lose that would be a shame.

Do we ever know, between sanity and insanity
Do we ever know, between good and bad
Do we ever know,between love and hate
Do we ever know,between life and death
Do we ever know if we are just dreaming?

For now - it all is as it was - to question, that is wrong ,
Because our sanity depends on supposed independence
and creativity that rattles our mind - the facts are overwhelming when
everyone agrees and on that everyone agrees.
Dare to disbelive and dare to be wrong
that is how you become strong
Dream in different shades of black and live a life untrue
- I do.

For now I believe the natural
             and god, my imaginary friend,
                           my sole salvation on you depends.
For now I see with public lenses,
              and the images sear my memory
                          until it becomes solely what I see.
For now I feel with calloused hands
              my work gives me everyday
                          until my son's skin feels like gravel and hay.
For now outdoors is for wars
              and those trees are no more,
                           than burnt hollow stumps.
For now I hear with fear
              and I block out all that is supposed evil
                            and thoughts of revolt turn to smoke.
For now I don't think
              and all I do routine and repetitive,
                            and my existence is belittled.

Sanity is collective Insanity
Good is bad on the other side of the magnifying glass
love is the hate of loneliness
death is life when not living


                              A dream is waking up,and living your other lives.                         

The Man

On an Island I stay ,alone in despaire
My love; mother, wife and friend
The bearer of a child unborn, my own heart and soul
Through trials, tribulations and poverty  -she stood by me
I took her entity, relieved her body of her soul
In a moment of jealousy I thought her fleeing
And I'm no fool and know, that free will by force
cannot be controlled or induced,
And the Island, my mind, plagued with deep holes
With every step a new memory unfolds

That knife, that knife that took her life
That knife that I stabbed in her heart

       That knife that stabbed her belly, my heart
That knife that once I admired for its jewels
That knife now lays protruding from my soul


That knife, this night I choose to end my life

As I watch the profusion, I ponder in confusion

The ruby of passion turned to blood

The solid black handle fade to gray
The gold gilded blade,chipped away
revealing that all that glitters is not gold, and if it is
look beyond to a story yet untold

Divine Dream

What is it to dream?
My subconscious free
Through white lilacs and atop a green grassy knoll.
I watch the blue sea mirror
As the sun shines heavily; not upon me but the sea.
And over the horizon, I see before I hear
Soul's laying atop their wooden vessel:
The fair maidens,the brothers, the early grasped children,
The souls too heavy with sin sink the canoe,
But those ,fair and true, the sea sweeps solemnly .
As they approach I see the maidens fair,
Gold, black, brown and red hair, tied by a tiara, shed
Of clouds purely white. In their hands lay bouquets
Of flowers symbolizing what of theirs they left to heirs.
The woman in front a sole rose for the sole son she left behind,
The next, three camellias of white for three pure souls.
her son, her daughter and one she claimed her own.
A man behind her, before he sank, the shine of a dagger
he wore, he took life from his wife and the child she bore.
As their numbers slimmed, they approached the shore.
The incoming dead, atop their wooden canoes

harbor into heaven and wake for the first time

Monday, January 18, 2010

Song of innocence - Father to Son - in the style of Blake


Little child, who made thee
Dost though know who made thee?
Gave thee a mind, and a great soul
Made your entity whole,
Gave thee laughter so bright
Lit your soft inner light
Gave thee such a feeble heart
You must know it is only a body part.

For your heart and my own,
Have a bond stronger than stone.
I don’t know who really made thee
But mine you must always be
For your face will come to resemble
As your characteristics assemble
Your father, the reason I’m proud
The reason I say your name out loud
Little child, who made thee
Dost though know who made thee?


Song of experience - in the style of Blake


Butterfly! Butterfly! Sitting silently
Located in a cave so tactfully
What impeccable eye sight
Could ever see you without light?

In what cold dark tomb
Where you pushed out of your womb?
On what rock do you perch
How long for you must I search?

And what evil, and what sin
Has destroyed your identical twin?
And when thy wings beat,
What empty hearts will it replete?

What beast has thrown you,
Into a land so untrue?
Did he shout and pout
When he realized that you are devout?

Butterfly! Butterfly! Sitting silently
Located in a cave so tactfully
What impeccable eye sight
Could ever see you without light?

The cellar Door



And by the cellar door I stood
I kept my feet adjacent on top of the wood
I stepped back and wondered
Does God care if I go under?
Can I hide in the darkness?
If I jump will he know, if I scream will he hear?
If I sin would it count?
And for a while I pondered
To be free, is it true?
Could I be free doing,
That when I act there is an all-knowing
And all I think and do must be aligned with what he finds true?
Then I think, what lies beneath the cellar door?
Is it darkness or much, much more?
Is it in essence all that we fear?
Or is it fate, the factor that brings me here
Upon the cellar door lays dirt
As if Mother Nature tried to cover the hurt
On its handles is rust, as if it protects hell’s fire
When god pours down water
As I open this cellar door
I find a cat, no more
And as it looks at me I see mine own eyes
Looking up at me
Looking down at me
I walk by it as if I have known me all my life
Down beneath the cellar door I wonder
Time eludes me and I go back to the top
Before I may move to reach the handles of the door
The cellar door swung open by some force
I see the cat once more
And as it looks at me I see mine own eyes
Looking down at me
Looking up at me



Wednesday, January 13, 2010

The wanderer - free verse


The wanderer he walks slowly
Because he believes walking fast is out of class
And he’s no beggar, politician or killer – he just likes the thrill of
Wandering.
The wonderer he takes the back roads
Because he believes the front roads are main shows
With monkeys, Beer and money, and the most dangerous of all
Women.
The wanderer he sees only what is real
Because he believes to see and feel are unlike
And to be real you must only feel what is inside – his sight does not
Wane.

The wanderer he has no money
Because he believes paper is best left to trees
And to fools who measure their soul with bark in green
Wads.
The wanderer he lost his family
Because he didn’t fit into society
And to us who blanket our wanderer within – we may soon feel
Woebegone
The wanderer he walks slowly
Because he believes walking fast is out of class
And he’s no beggar, politician or killer – he just likes the thrill of
Wandering.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Slow - sonnet/American

Between golden grains the mule strains
the farmer aged like fine wine
walks by his beast while his wife gazes on
their love desolate but not lonely
their life unadventurous but not boring
for the farmer wakes with la sol
makes his coffee drinks it slow
his love sleeping in lavish bed of straw
husband watching catching no flaw
he is out before she wakes but always in his mind
The slow mule ploughs as he walks behind
the farmer and the mule,close friends walk on home
sits with his wife watches the sun set low
falls asleep dreaming of lives he'll never know

Curse of Nature - Sonnet/Shakespearean


To what do I owe this divine pleasure?
A lady as beautiful as the sun
Truelly more but no real way to measure
To cease war,hit the hay and drop the gun
For you i fight and for you i cease war
The ship you have set sail is ironic
For men will fight and die in your honor
Death of the young and worthy to wed,chronic
Alive and well I stand here to woe you
Within seconds I see your beauty fade
Nature has cursed your soul with sights for two
No man before you adequately laid
To see beauty past the skin is true
To be average is to not be blue

Winters of Normandy

Background - this is from the perspective of a US soldier from Maine recalling his thoughts as he was called to duty and told he was going to storm the beaches of Normandy.



Distant sea breeze beckoning
far away you seem decadent
In the real your sand brimstone
and your amphibic haven chilling
no danger like the danger of the sea
on and off shore you seem to me
the most dangerous place to be
However far away and dreaming
The snow around me gleaming
I search to find the day's life source behind the clouds
Ominous though they may be
In Progression
     With out Succession
               Light and
                   life eludes
                        human beings
                                   till we
                                  fall upon
                           Flowery tombstones
So in the snow or by sandy sea
I can always feel your light come over me
Sandy snow and Ice cold water
Winter arrives in Normandy

Tick - Tock - free verse


Tick- Tock
the clock on the wall
Tick- Tock
ringing in my head
Tick- Tock
alone in my bed
Tick- Tock
My last words to be said
Tick- Tock
steady unchanging
unlike the heart in my chest
hurt and deflating
and if death wore tattoos
on his knuckles he would write
Tick- Tock
With ice in his lungs
and fiery lips
"I'm coming for you"
he'd whisper
Tick- Tock
you feel the end is near
Tick- Tock
Death is here

The Solemn Sheriff - free verse/story esq

In the street lay the bandit
The sheriff a man of great stature, hovered over him
As the Village watched a strange thing happened
A tear, the size of a slug, traced the sheriff's jaw
It fell upon the bullet hole on the chest of the bandit
That tear,like a bullet, pierced the heart of the villagers
For the bandit was young,and well the sheriff was old
The bandit's face was smooth, sheriff's face housed dunes of sand


















The sheriff layed down his gun
He yelled softly at all who heard
Mothers, hold your sons, give them love
Im tired of killing, tired of taking lives
tired of leaving homes to lonely wives
I am lost everywhere I go, their faces haunt my dreams,I can't eat and can't sleep
I think of taking my life every time I close my eyes and see your sons
I think of the bang, the silence, the peace
But I can't for I am too weak
So Ill take my horse, leave my gun
Im going to the desert to sleep with the sun

Heaven - free verse


White clouds yet shades under trees
Violins in the distand
and glistering trees
The weather is fair
and sunshine mild
pink border line between river and sky
No rules and the mind is just right
Sleep comes easy and without a fright
Mountains in the distance
The grass is perfectly green
The greenest across two fences or maybe even three
You know it is a lie but you don't care
For the wonders of heaven lead you everywhere


3/8/06

Night - free verse


Take one step back from everything,
let nature take its toll
And bloom the flowers which
Glisten in the day light
Yet never die out throw the night
The night with high tides rolling through
Starry skies meet wondrous, ponderous eyes of what could fall through
Of the heavens nothing is left but what we see
The night sky is black and blue with white every so where
No eyes can resist the beauty of the sky
So beautiful it may be
The moon like a ball of cheese
or head on knees
a place for comfort and sorrow relaxation
O what a temptation
To fall through and go where one desires
heaven or hell
and no one can tell
The Beauty of the night sky

3/8/06

Untitled 1 - free verse

Weather might fright politicians,
as cats scare mice
and of mice and men we place ourselves
And in our right mind
This would not be happening
This storm that brewed
could have been settled long ago
But if it weren't for the collection of hate
I wouldn't sit and ponder my fate


Yet I'll stand, a mountain of a man
No cloud high enough to challenge me
No element too strong to conquer me
but love melts my insides
like a volcano I brew
For I sit now, hot, and under pressure
reach out for life's only pleasure
and your love is a buried treasure
of pirates, goons and madmen
but my grasp is not long enough to reach
the only thing I have left to preach


My love for you is undying
In a deathly sick sort of way
one which wounded and hurt
yet will never die
and I am still a mountain
only my heart of stone has melted
and reshaped to the sight of your soul
only you can make this mountain whole

A Rose for the one I love


It had been a long and stressful year; no one seemed to care about me. I was completely alone and isolated and my job took me away from my home for eight hours every day and it took all my energy from me. I would come home and sit around for an hour, read a book, sometimes relax with a beer but mostly just waiting for my dreams to take me away. A year in the boots of a robot can actually tell you a lot about yourself. I was in fantastic shape at least, I tell myself. I was a lumberjack and in love with the atmosphere of it. The intensity of everyday physical exertion always attracted me. However, after eleven months of intense work, the local shrink and my only friend in the town ordered me to find time to find myself or he’ll write a recommendation stating mental instability and a general danger to all those who work around me.
            I had a month or so, four weeks to be exact. It was the month of January in Alaska, outside was not exactly the ideal place to find myself.  I went back to my friend and ridiculed him on his choice of timing. He laughed and gave me a peculiar challenge. “The attic of the house is the easiest representation of the human mind, unclutter it, I challenge you to utilize every object in your attic within the next three and a half weeks.” He said. I left pretty angry at the rather arduous task but I was kind of amused at the thought of what may be in store for me.
            Upon the clutter that was my attic floor lay objects of intense peculiarity. I had never really paid attention to anything here, some were mine from earlier years, some my fathers and a few that came with the house. The way they were together reminded me of the statue outside of Princeton that they called abstract art. I was starting to get it though, it’s just representation of the randomness of life and how it can look beautiful. There were some boxes in accordance with my past economic ventures, some suitcases, a green lawnmower, scissors, roses, coloring boxes, a camera, a lantern, ice skates and a deer head.
            I took the ice skates as my first adventure, I was dressed warmly and there was still light outside. The lake was a frozen reflection of heaven and my skates the pen that wrote its stories. At first I stayed near the shore but when I was finally comfortable that the ice would hold my weight I ventured out further. I twirled and sped and jumped. On my way back to the shore I got gutsy and decided to twist in the air. Last time I did anything even close to that was eight years ago trying to impress a few girls at the mall rink. I jumped and twisted in the air, so carelessly – so beautifully. I crashed on my butt and couldn’t stop laughing. I laughed the entire night, at one point I don’t remember what I was laughing at or even when the last time I laughed was. I laughed at jokes in bars but I really never laughed so carelessly since Mary left me three years ago.
The next day I took it easy as my back was hurting from my fall. I took the roses and the camera and decided to take some cool photography. At first I would place it on inanimate objects and watch them become livelier with these plastic roses. My coffee table stopped becoming just a coffee table and became a holder of life, and apart from that it became homier. I gathered my courage and headed to town. The cold left many people inside so I went to the nearest pub. At first I asked the employees to hold the rose, next I went to the sweet old people. I knew I was attracting attention and many people wanted to be in my picture but wouldn’t approach me. I approached a rather drunk middle aged woman and gave it to her. Before I said anything she jumped on the bar and put it in between her teeth. The picture is by far my favorite and it turned the bar into an upheaval of laughter. The bartender asked me to stay and have a few drinks and I respectfully agreed. A few guys sent me apple martinis joking about my manhood but honestly just to strike a conversation. That is when I met Luanne. Luanne was forward, rude, loud, and by far the most beautiful lady I have ever seen. We started talking and I completely forgot my task, but I didn’t mind. We agreed to meet again after I was done with my adventure – she absolutely adored the idea. That was my first sleepless night I have had in over a year. It wasn’t quiet sleepless as I slept around eleven. Compared to my nine o clock bed time, it was quiet the change. I could only imagine about her perfect olive skin, her deep brown eyes, stunning smile and the adorable dimples that made me want to say dumb jokes just to see. Before I fell to slumber I prayed to god that I may dream of her through the night. And I did.
In the morning I rose and got my pictures developed. They came out much better than I thought, it was art. I was so angry at myself though, I had forgotten to take a picture of Luanne. My favorite was the drunken lady sitting on the bar. It was so natural, so innocent in a way. I used the scissors to cut out a large piece of paper from the roll of paper I had and used my coloring boxes to draw out the photograph. It took me all day and looked rather childish. She was a bit un-proportional but it simply was her in essence. I took the picture back to the bar and the owner bought it and the photo, framed it and hung it in the back. This was a good reason for me to get out of my house and it will be nice to eat and drink under a picture and portrait I created. I found it was the things I created and the emotions I evoked that made me enjoy life. Before I left the bartender gave me a slip of paper that Luanne had given him to give to me.
She was leaving for San Diego, she gave me a number to reach her at and the name of the apartment she was staying at. Underneath that it wrote, “If you can’t leap you can’t live.”  I went home rather disappointed. It was the first person I had really connected with in a long time. I slept and dreamt of dying alone, cold and tired. I dreamt of sitting in the same seat my dad died in for the rest of my life. I woke up before the sunrise and went to the attic. I noticed the deer head as it stared at me with eyes that begged for life. “My head should be wear yours is my friend, you lived your life – I worked it.”
The next morning I took a suitcase from the attic and decided that San Diego must be nice this time of year. Money wasn’t much of a problem for me; I had nothing to spend what I earned on. I decided to visit my shrink friend before I left. He cordially invited me into his home and I immediately thanked him for what he had done for me. Not only had I gained back my youthfulness, and let a girl – I learned so much more about myself.

I arrived at her apartment and it looked nothing like I imagined. Then again San Diego is never what you expect from a town. It was nine o clocks at night when I knocked on her door. Long story short, we fell in love. Before I left to go back I asked her to hold a rose so that I may take a picture. I asked her again when I came back to San Diego after quitting my job. I asked her one more time to pose with it at our wedding. Now I bring her a rose every night as I come to our little apartment from my florist shop. After fifty years we remarried and inscribed on our ring was a little quote that she made up to get me to come to her. Leaping is living said hers, loving is leaping said mine.
           

Sunday, January 3, 2010

Lumberjacks - a short story - 12-2-2009


Thud, like the termination of every beings life, or the conclusion of every complete sentence. The repetition of this dull and monotonous thud made my heart -adventitious and alive – mirror its own dullness and monotony. The thud of a thing cracking. The thud of bones – nay for the distance dampened the thud – the thud of a child or small animal’s bones, as it may drop from a height unto a profusion of the earth made sedentary overtime. This thud was that which exclaimed the sheer boredom that nature endured under blazing sun as its limbs were incapacitated by the ruthless and progressively dulling blades of every axe ever forged with the flare only relative and comparable to the one the Dark Lord resides and finds comfortable. As a hardened man of the woods, this thud should only represent the beautiful noise the machine makes as it prints off the slips of paper which dully exclaims the amount of pork we may bring to the table. The first few cuts cry murder as the beauty of the tree becomes riddled with scar tissue that yells and vibrates every cell in your body as you touch it. After that it is only the divine act of relieving pain through the demise of an infinitely small part of the eco-structure. The thuds of the forest usually become in sync as the sun stops playing shade games with the ski and reduce it its plateau performance in the unchanging mid day of the summer solstice. The younger trees – a truly celestial part of the natural system – are only auditory observers of the horrific thud ringing through the trees. The pause I take is only momentary – I focus on the beautiful stillness between every tree. I join in and the thud begins to sound a lot like the progressive decline of everything living. So I do what all my ancestors dud- with the unmistakable damning of my soul – I still take the blade and splinter the bark and crack the very core. I try to ignore the fact that nature will one day have its way with me, and until then I shall represent the large number of families that send a spouse or a partner to perform an evil task for the people in his life who are divine. The thud is routine and scheduled, yet so scary that you can’t help but to miss it as you sleep or the days you remain absent from work. The repetition of this exclusive noise can only be heard as great number of axes where to slam into a tree side in a uniform accent as to create a sort of a heartbeat. This heartbeat is a representation of the slow decline of the woods until complete annihilation. And as the sun sets, I mirror its activities minutely from relaxing to laying, to shading the world and the ultimate rising to the thud of the landlord’s fist upon the solid oak door – so used to the thud. The thud to terminate trepid trees by the dauntless and demoralizing tools of man, and the routine repetition of the life of a lumber jack.

So my life was, benign in its existence and fertile in its economic yields. The River root forest was our bank; we could never realize that our source for economic prosperity was our source of harmonious tranquility as well. Our flagrant enjoyment in the presence of our natural atmosphere was never questioned, therefore never feared in absence and was all taken granted. The cropping technique was in accordance with proper foresting technique of inversion which requires the cutting of trees from the outset down to the center redwood. The redwood located in the center of the woods brought wonders of awe. It imprinted a sort of motherly presence to all the lumberjacks. As our siesta bell rang I took the two hour walk to the center and placed my weight upon the supportive trunk of the redwood and lit my cigar. The redwood towered over every other land formation in sight; the other cedar trees seemed like rice plants surrounding a corn stalk. This was the big month that we finally cleared this part of the forest. With that thought it was the first time I became aware of my attachment to the redwood. For Three years now I have been taking my siesta beneath what could be the only mother I knew. Thud, like Pavlov’s dog it was my stimulus to start to work, my bell. I took a few minutes to hone my axe and I proceeded. With every swing and swing I, along with others I know of, focus on the beautiful stillness between every tree.

The bunting boys, as we call them come around with their torches and soften the bark and burn the trees soul away. The resistance to the blade is gone and the bark cuts like cheese. With every ring of the tree, representing every human year it has observed comes a new soul. With every new soul comes another sin on my behalf. The bunting boys are very peculiar, I assume it is in accordance to their differentiating conscience that I am unable to relate with them as easily as I could with my fellow lumberjacks. My shoulders and core have become used to the incessant and relentless swinging and my eyes so used to downfall, so I thought. No one was prepared for the instant loneliness we were to feel soon, for on cue, all the trees surrounding the redwood fell. The pang of loneliness that we felt was so awe inspiring. The world that we had known for so long – without our realization – had fallen almost completely. All we had was the redwood. The redwood stood as a monument to all life, and we could never take that away. The bunting boys however, they felt no connection with the tree. The proceeding day was reached with severe apprehension. We were up before the thud on the door, before the sun rose, some never went down at all. As we approached the redwood we witnessed the woeful attack on our mother. The bunting boys were torching the redwood. Tear and rage, fear and love. Together as one we took full force on the bunting boys. They turned their torches on us and we took our blades onto them. The skin on our face came together to create a featureless being hacking wildly. My left eye remained intact, I looked around and saw that none had survived and my time was waning. The redwood above was burning and I was trapped beneath a fallen branch... It was the redwoods last motherly act as it held me in my supposed final moments. The flash of red lights was in sight – I wanted them to leave me be, peaceful, that’s how I wanted to go. I now lay alone in my bed burnt and hacked like the trees that I lay waste to.

Heart of a castle - 9/22/09


Looking back I realize, creativity is godliness, Holy
With ambition in my veins, I surrendered my day to the work of my castle
The adults that strolled by pointed and smiled, “what a cute kid”
Now more than ever, I wished my castle to the size of kings’
And I carpenter, Knight, and hero standing adamant, clad in armor
I knew that if that was the case the adults would shudder and say
“That man is greater than any man I have ever laid eyes upon!”
That only one moment in my laborious day, gave me energy
Hours after hours I dug and re sculpted, I created out of nil
The sun perpendicularly above glared at me, daring me to go on
I would take no brake, no stop, till’ the job was done
Sand cuts and sore arms, least of my worries
How can I protect my queen from dragons, sea monsters, or naughty neighbor?
My mind raced as I shaped and reshaped
Yet suddenly the trumpets roared, a battle was coming
Enraging over the sea, the wrath of Zeus, uproar of Poseidon
Being merely a mortal, I was called in
The night passed, the battle was over, I ventured outside
The air smelled warm, Blood was shed
The squid, like a righteous knight, lay on the sand motionless
The crabs, the peasant scavengers, scattered to and fro, feeding of war
At last I reached my hope for sore eyes
The castle on which I labored, mine own child, mine own creation
Hermes had taken fine details and given it to the sea
Greedy Poseidon, burning for more, took all shape away and left it a mound
Pitiful Zeus, merciful and just, struck the sand and left me the heart
For on the burial mound of my castle laid a glass shard
Glass for the fragility of all laborious creation