Friday, April 22, 2005
WHAT CHILD IS THIS?
Dine on the ends of a dozen dead days. While your smiling soul craves pardon at Mass, subtle thief whisks your infant away. Seize prey in voracious beak, nest-ward pass above the trees to mountain peak to raise battalion brood in brutal wilderness. Dusk comes. With your cold desserts left untouched,...
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Saturday, April 16, 2005
IN PERSPECTIVE
We be children when then was cause, and land was won by battle cry. We be men and women when appellations and circumlocutions quelled nations. Design—designations for cool curmudgeons like we, whose warm hearts beat with the rhythms of the streets’ neon lights, determining our blonde fates, as dumb...
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Friday, April 15, 2005
…and say, “I love you!”
autobiographical sonnet Cy put the “sin” in cynic. He knew how to settle a score. Christian drank vodka and tonic; he put his hand to the plow. He married a waitress named Nathalia. Cy fought his cousins at the reception; in a drunken rage, he hammered his foes. The women heard about it; came...
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THE MYSTS OF TYNEDALE
In strong and bidden alms for the uncouth subtle among Tynedale's youths comes a quaint collection of misspent pennies These are the mysts of Tynedale blithe and impenetrable colder than the sea under the winter wind These are the mysts of Tynedale raw and unexpected wilder than the call of the...
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OVERDUE DEPTH CHARGES
Caught in a mesh of responsibility, I flicker like trapped light edging along the filament of a dying neon tube; crying out at the darkness that swallows my depth in a depth that is deeper than death, my voice cracks amid the stillness of a solemn shadow cast from a corner streetlight whose epic...
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Tuesday, April 12, 2005
READ: THE COLOUR OF MY BLOOD
Bleed poetry, like verbs that live to die on a page; Let your arteries pump purple passion, freely; like actors in a tragedy dying on a stage, the knives that cut one to the quick are steely. Street poets strive to know so little of their art; hold so much of bluntness, raw, banal, and hard; and...
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DESIRE
Desire is a choir whose sweet sounds aspire. Hope is a slope With which we must cope As we climb the rhyme Over a mountain of time Whose white peak speaks Of a decade of weeks Glacial and spatial, And unerringly racial In its countless dauntless rehearsal of duress. Desire is a choir Whose sweet...
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FASHION SHOW
The school at which I work recently held a fashion show. I didn't go. Models make me vomit. I don't think much of the rich either... this poem reflects some of my sentiment: Costly apparel designed to impress addresses the question of who has been blessed by the rich hand of Fate and a touch of...
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Sunday, April 10, 2005
JOHN THE WEREWOLF: A SONNET
Gothic beyond all the limits of grace, Intense as a Titian placed on stark display, Was the look of utter horror on John’s face. Full was the moon on that night they did say, When he was bit by the wolf who did prey Upon humans to sate his appetite. John was hellbent to survive, come what may. He...
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catch up to yourself in another blue moon maybe
moving day again and heavy mental furniture is piled up in our garage tomorrow is like yesterday today comes incognito to spy on the villain sanity confessions are not allowed unless false starts mar the road to true love down a blind alley goes a seeing-eye dog scent by Max Factor on a mission from...
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