What have you done, little grey wing
Flown the dark Atlantic to Cordoba
Heard the poetry of Lorca
Stolen a song of some ruiseñor
Returned with them swelling your breast?
Again, to the moon’s full glow
Accompanied by crickets, the songs
Filter through the lemon tree.
The mockingbird awakens me.
THIS is what I MEAN!!!
When I cut my hair
grows back again–
Aren’t for friends
Yoga class at the lake, she catches his eye
An electric charge in the brain…
Not the spring lilac, nor the plum in bloom
Something more unnatural
The odor of perfume, the beauty in surprise.
Waves of the seasons ring the shore
Spirit seeks a form, an afternoon union–
They do not know what
Causes their communion– She invites him
Tilts her head back in abandon to receive him.
Mother of time, days gestate in the womb
Men may spin all to doom, but she is summer
Winter long, spring in December
Meadow of unlived hours
Wildflowers glow in shadows of the moon.
They will say it was not by chance they met
They will claim it no mistake
Birth reveals the truth, was a newborn fate.
For for Mary Leary
The cracked world strangely abstract
Flowers panic in the window box
Crows eat the petals of mourning
Unpeaceful Xanax morning,
I should meditate, but this is fine
Poetry calms the storms of afternoon until
A gathering of friends
SOMA Heads looking for a fix in my room
Invisible bandito on the balcony
Nicking my hash
He came to prop me up
Then took my stash, the bastard!
Later, a Las Vegas Cocktail Open Mic
Colorless as a dry heave
Jimmy Jazz is shouting in my head,
“Fuck you and you and you
if you call this is a poetry reading!
This is not a poetry reading!”
This bleeding stuck pig poetry
Banging on a toy-piano poetry
Just throw some glitter on
And slap it to your frig like a cute magnet.
Wait… from of the heat of hell, genius often rises
And hey, it’s all about self-expression, isn’t it, well, isn’t it?
Heaven is a dream state here on earth.
We love completely and are completely loved.
We dream whatever makes us happy.
It all happens in an inescapable state of sleep.
Hell is a wakeful state in the living nightmares
We create for others and ourselves.
They all happen as if for the first time.
We cannot free ourselves, the nightmares repeat.
Heaven and Hell are wishful extremes that do not exist, but we sure know how to create what we think they are right here on earth. ~Rayn Roberts
(upon a painting by Yumi)
If not for bouquets of summer glory gathered by gentle hands
What reason for gardens by the sea?
The muffled break of waves is not as loud
As the whiff and whirr
Black and yellow bumble bee busy in the bloom,
Each comes to gather gold–
Drawn by sunlight and color,
The ladies in hats and summer gowns, baskets on their arms
Stroll down from the house.
When they return,
Marigold scent in hair, dahlia pollen on hem and sleeve,
They will fill the house with rainbows of stock and zinnia.
Even as Neptune sleeps, the sea a great blanket over him
Deep monsters and storms quiet now,
Everything is Energy,
Ocean air blowing streams of light
Whirling through bush and tree, grasses pushing up
Butterflies afloat, the mind brimming, spilling over
Spilling its delight…
Light as a finch skipping on air!
I have dreamed such days, lived too few, when death
Did not seem final, truth not so rare:
Hours pushing open leaves and petal on petal
Unfolding in fragrance….
…flooded with light, holding form
For what we call a day, but is, one flower each calls their own.
The poem first appeared in “Along the Shore” Lost Tower Publishers, London. April 2017
Paintings are by Odilon Redon.
snapping from all sides
they ate me alive
I sang a tune
they fell asleep
except for one
hatched in my head.
I’ll tame it at home– but
where is my staff
where is the map
I had in my sack– lost.
I like Of Monsters & Men. Dirty Paws