madness

we tell the same stories
over and
    over and
      over and
        over and
          under and
       under and
onto the rocks shores wells
deep
            as caverns
deep
           as devils
deep
           as canyons and conches and caterwauls
   and waterfalls
cascading lines of doggerrel can only go
so
far
the day we fell we fell
down
    from the summit
down 
   from the heavens
blue sky all why and wherefore
and intellect so circumspect
into
the pit
of mud
what worth can anyone make
of mud
but mud
and clay
  and homes
    and dreams
      and figurines
figurines that speak
                       like gods
and hear
                      like gods
silent and deaf
prayer after
    prayer after
         prayer
crashing like cataracts off boulders
over and
   over and
      over and
        over and
           over and
   under again
we pray the same prayers sing
the same hymns want
the same wants and fears and no one nears and
no one hears
over and
     over years
         upon years
            upon
hard clay ears

god is a desert all dried up

Word Hoard

I cling to words,
   collect them, pile them,
     scrounge them from the rubbish.
I cannot let them go -
  yours, mine, the world's -
Every one born of a perilous, toil-filled journey
  along spark-ignited neurons
    through the larynx off the tongue into air,
     through the sinews touching fingers tapping keys
       falling into the black hole of the machine and 
Coming out the other side to rest on the page.

Earthlings, our world overflows with words!
  We cringe as we craft them, battling to build,
     struggling to sculpt, stringing syllables like beads.
We feed one another on their milk.
   We weave them into strong ropes to rescue
      or to hang.

How can I bear to throw away a single one unread? 

How Much Hope Fills a Soul?

Numbers pummel our hearts, measuring gales of laughter.
How many grams does a giggle weigh?
Can you quantify the hereafter?
How much hope fills your soul today?

How many grams does a giggle weigh?
What of a chortle or a sniggering stare?
How much hope fills your soul today?
What is the weight of your heart's despair?

What of a chortle or a sniggering stare,
Are they worth an ounce of gold?
What is the weight of your heart's despair?
Can it ever be bought or sold?

Are they worth an ounce of gold - 
This fine spring day, this jasmine scent?
Can it ever be bought or sold -
This longing look, this deep lament?

This fine spring day, this jasmine scent
Will not long linger here.
This longing look, this deep lament
Will not outlast the year.

We'll not long linger here
Counting out our costs.
We'll not outlast the year,
Numbering sighs once lost.

Counting out our costs
We'll seek a different goal.
Numbering sighs once lost,
How much hope fills a soul?

Against Despair

I despair of the world and then I see
The blossoms on an apple tree,
The leaf-topped tips of a lilac bush,
A smudge of green, spring's frosted push
Born from winter's cold remains,
Dots of life on pale gray frames.
If such bare bones are still alive,
Then hope, perhaps, can be revived.

An Ode to the Belly

Belly, belly,
Beast of burden
Bearing brute rebellion,
Belching beatitudes,
Bulging and bloating,
Bleating, bursting, and bellowing,

Reckless, recalcitrant,
Rolling and rounded,
You are an ocean's tide,
A moon-borne ebb and flow,
Ring of fire,
Volcano,
Seething with unspent fury,
Swelling and surging and swallowing,
Shape-shifting as the soul,

Unbound and unbreakable,
The gauge of age,
The seat of truth.

Feel, and be filled.

Floating In Benson Lake

In this submerged and muted world
Only birdsong is permitted
   Birdsong
        and heartbeat
             and the low rush of pumping blood.

In this liquid body
Only flesh is permitted
    Swim-soaked skin
          pond-filled pores
And birdsong
     and heartbeat
          and the pumping of blood.

In this spirit pool
Only inner shadows gain entrance -
An island of dreams lost in midnight -
    and birdsong
          and heartbeat
               the pumping of blood
                    the liquid flesh
 And you.

Out

When you told me the truth
I couldn't bear it
So I drank my oblivion
Under the stars
Dining on cold cuts
And hot tempers.
Insanity's not a condition, god dammit!
And yesterday's news
Leaves tomorrow's broken souls.

My wounds wear wings
Of worthless wealth.
Take them home.
Hang them in your closet
With the mothballs
To gather mildew
And memory.
The dust bin has no heart.
The compost makes no sense.

Leave your note on the doorstep.
I've gone out.

A Modern Dilemma, or The Nonsense-monger's Song

(with a tip of the hat to Edward Lear)

My head exists in cyberspace.
My legs are on the couch.
My hands are in this notebook.
My tongue is pointing south.

My teeth are in the cemetery
Chewing on some gruel.
My brain is lost in rhyming land,
Repeating like a fool.

Between remorse and reason,
Beneath despair and dread,
Until the warmer season,
I'm farming in my head.

My words are cast in crayon,
Unlocking winsome doors.
My thoughts compete with fashion.
My dreams are keeping score.

Come dance with foolish poets
And greet them in the streets.
They bark like fish. They swim like dogs.
They dine on salted meats.

They force their invitations.
They ice skate in their socks.
They live off incantations
And die when they are mocked.

Good-bye! Good-bye! my leaping friend.
You cannot find your toes.
Your foolish song is at an end.
Your pen's cut off your nose.

What Is the Matter?

"What is the matter, my Lord?"
Said Polonius to Hamlet, in the alcove reading.
And he answered:

"NOTHING.
A zero sum vacuum.
A smallness. A dot.
Angels crowded on a pin,
Dust and ashes and taxes."

"No, no, my Lord"
Polonius cried,
"I meant the matter you read."
"Ah," quoth Hamlet, "then you address:

MATTERS.
Dreams in stone.
Vows fulfilled.
Oak-tree visions across a river.
Soul-searches, love-quests, and truth.

What is this quintessence of dust?"
Asked the youth,
Declaring disinterest, despair.
With subject plus verb he dismisses the world.
"NOTHING MATTERS.
So there."

The grammar magician defies apathy.
Waving a well-placed hyphen and
Planting a colon on the earth, he
Transmutes unconcern and indifference.

NOTHING-MATTERS:
Insignificant infinitesimal insubstantial nits.
Now you may proceed to list
All the pointless little bits
The washing dishes shushy slush
That puts your spirit in a ditch.

Begone! Begone!
Now feast upon
More pithy, weighty stuff -
The solid-liquid-gas,
The life-and-marrow mass
That
Matters.

MATTERS.

 

Choose

Now is the time to choose

Either the mountains     
    or the ocean
              or the seashells I used to own,
       the empty cigar box,
             the endless corner of snow-filled laughter,
                   or the earth itself.
Choose.
The dead things that walk along crowded streets
               sell scraps of brown wind
                      to deafening time.
Cheat them.

                         

Aurora Borealis

A wish
Unfulfilled
Reaches back beyond beneath,
Opens a brazen swath of mind to
Remember the future at play, to
Awaken the births of the past.

Behold the spectral grace that sweeps
Over the teeming world of night,
Redeeming wounds,
Entreating art,
Announcing creation's truth.
Let us pray
In wine-fueled wonder,
Singing the hymn of friendship.

          - for Lynne and Lawrence, Suzanne and Sam, New Year's 2016

Echo, Call and Response

To be alone is to be alive.

Echo:
To be alive is to be alone.

Call and response:

    To be alive
           is to be.
    To be alone
           is to be.

     To be
           is
               two.
Be.
   

Lips of Cake

Clever ladies
With lips of cake
Drown their thoughts
In wine and sweets,
Tossing away
Wilted night.

Childish Eyes

When I was a child I saw
Space ships in dust motes
Crossing sunbeam asteroid belts.

I saw
Lost pearls in sea foam -
Pirate treasures washed ashore.

I saw
The Sahara in a sandbox
Cathedrals in campfires
Battlefields in bedspreads.

When I was a child I made
The Amazon out of broccoli
Alpine slopes from mashed potatoes
And butter islands in warm milk.

I followed fairies through the woods
And drank potions made of air.

When I was a child I saw
Monsters in the shadows
Witches on the wind
Sharks in the bathtub
Vampires in the cupboard
And Frankenstein in the laundry room.

When I was a child
 My world was bound by sidewalks
And limitless as dreams.

When I was a child,
I saw like a child.
When did I put childish eyes
Away?

Waste Not

Waste not
       this day
           this hour
                this moment
In withering worry and aching agenda,
Weighing worth on human scales
      of fame and fortune,
            bytes and stats,
                 and cruelly quantified commodity.

You cannot graph eternity
Nor calculate serenity.











Count what matters -
The sudden flutter of a monarch's wings,
The lone chirp of a lark on high,
The scent of jasmine in a city park,
The taste of lemons, lavender and laughter,
Bright breezes,
Sun-parched skin,
Drumming hearts,
The silence of being.

Waste not
     this day
          this hour
                this moment.

Lost In the Forest, by Cynthia J. McGean

When you're lost in the forest,
  Too-loo and Froo-froo,
The Jungian, Freudian dreams-may-come-true
Of your unconscious subconscious conches
Will swirl
Into whirling-unfurlingly curly-cue whorls
of worlds
     within worlds
            within worldliness churls.
Keep your eyes peeled, my chickens!
This ain't no fairytale forest.
This is one big, bad-ass, mother of pearly-whites
white-hot, red-hot, hot-rod, cattle-prod forest.
Boldly go there.
Part the curtains of Spanish moss and broken promises,
Empty praise and failed wannabes
And enter the inner sanctum
Naked and bold,
Fear shining in the palm of your hand
Forever until morning.