The fan went round and round and round
moving suffocation through the room.
The child saw an ant chasing a chicken
in the ceiling shadow dance.
Ah, to be a child again.
To be undefiled by any
more thoughts dropped happenstance
like clots of mud hurled down to thicken
the rising murk inside this tomb.
The spinning blades pile high the mound
that stifles all but their whirring sound.
The fan went round and round and round.
Asilomar Sunsets
Evening kissed the blushing moon.
The sky erupted with their lovemaking.
Shamelessly our eyes intrude
Until the nighttime dimmed the lights.
Humbled suitors leave the room.
The canvas shrinks beneath the undertaking.
Poets toast the bride and groom.
The torch of reverence ignites.
I'll be cast from Eden soon.
Dawn no doubt shines where I'll be waking.
But I know each dusk pursued
Will be wanting of such sights.
Some called it a seedy place
So they irrigated it well
And a flush of dreams took bloom
From the blush of every face
And the spirits rose with laughter
As they drank the night's perfume
Those who call their fall from grace
Are still buried in the morning
Under petals from the room
For the Mahatma
He was only a man
Who walked all roads, yet none,
Lest the way, too straight, of one
Would some ban.
Cloth was only milled bread.
Unleavened, it fed without
The furnace, bare, to sprout
Native thread.
Shells were only sand bars
that hindered not the sea
from shore's satyagrahi -
Salt of stars
Stars are only God's eyes.
Men are only blinking stars.
He was only a man.
Abed in alluvial depths of solitude,
Only the bubbles of a musing breath intrude.
Afraid of drowning, they race toward the air and die.
Drink deep the waters. Belch out a metered sky.
Dreamy sits the morning
Still wrapped in flannel bedclothes
Upon her downy mattress.
Sleep sneaks away on tip-toes
To where his membership grows.
The hour slips his shoes on
And sets his feet to wander
The steps from noon to nighttime
There leaving wrapped-up news on
The doormat to infuse dawn
On his face he wore the tickling of the clock.
In his soul he bore a muddy water's reflection.
His tale was a song of raindrops, sweet and soft,
That he pooled along the roads of recollection.
When a guiding hand led me from his open door,
I first saw how blinds can hide the right direction.
Though I never saw the old man anymore,
He showed me all the stop signs to ignore.
Hangover Morning
An unwelcome guest came
Too early for breakfast.
His jaundiced fingers
Scratched at the window
Then slashed through the curtains
To let himself in.
He sucked up the umbra
And left the moon breathless
With each star's decline
I watched his grin grow
Dribbling the pierced yolk
Down his upturned chin.
Inkblot paintings on a mirror
Mud cake fingers wipe it clearer with a scrawl
Funhouse glass is what they show you
There are many here who know you, but they're all
Shadow puppets on the wall.
Fields of woodwinds bent and hollow
Blow a tune for mice to follow to their fall
Sing your song for ears that hear you
There are many you let near you, but they're all
Shadow puppets on the wall.
Look behind the wizard's curtain
Beathing fire that he's certain makes you crawl
He can't see you seeing through him
There are many here that view him, but they're all
Shadow puppets on the wall.
Fortune venders sell your future
With quicksilver bullets shoot your crystal ball
Armless sculptors try to glaze you
There are many who amaze you, but they're all
Shadow puppets on the wall.
The winged offspring of a poet's soul
Hovers in the air just long enough
To show the fractured puzzle whole.
Content at having called my bluff
It flutters off into the night
Yet never strays far from my sight.
Sweet Dreams, Curtis Bristol
Too long the apothecary fails you
Too
Long
sons of hippocrates
cannot mend you
despondency
sends you
to the solitude
of Garzas Canyon
beseeching its
outstretched limb
the mighty oak
befriends you
carries you
to the arms
of Morpheus
offering you
eternal slumber
eluding you
too
long
Black Mood
Tears cling to the window glass
Fog choking a lily shoot
Ink stains on a wedding gown
Icicle fingers point down a roof
Nicotine-tinged bedroom wall
Brown stain where the rain came in
Barrel crashed from a waterfall
Dust clouds in a gray wind
Cracked face in a picture frame
Blood streaks on stamped memories
White drops of poinsettia pain
Mud-caked autumn maple leaves
Purple mountains in L.A. smog
Paper moth in a spider's web
Parasites on a Christmas log
Thirsty sand at the water's ebb
Coming home to a vacant lot
Hobo's cries through a boxcar door
Rotting pears in a vender's cart
Paul's swan-song past an apple core
Ripple wine in a paper bag
Slush and salt on a Brooklyn sidewalk
Puppy dogs with a price tag
The lonesome wail of a red-tailed hawk
Old man's bed on a heating grate
Old pole barn by the roadside
Salmon smothering on trollers' bait
Wheezing lungs in a coal mine
Ragged gull on a timber block-
One foot shorn by a fishing line
Life-sap oozes from scarred oak bark
Moldy cot, flashing neon sign
Sun-chipped paint on a Georgia shack
Wide-eyed lambs trail a Judas goat
Rosary beads on a hero's plaque
Busy signal by a suicide note
Ok, once again, we've gotten a bit dark and depressing here.
So, this is a good place to inject a little silliness I got into playing with words....
Centsless
To be with yew in days of your
I'd sale te highest seize
I'd write a wrong right whale a song
Of birdless wings in trees
Wood if aye could tell truthful lyes
of wheatless bread and butterflies
I'd dine on stake and eggless yokes
Drink ail and whet red whine
The keyless lochs of outless inns
Would cash hour endless thyme
Feat winding stares on mountain piques
Eyed fix the sky from ware tiers leek
Wear bridal vale and wedding wring
In wrestful sleep dew doze
Where balding hares and clothed bares
Have non-scents fore a knows
Where to and too never be four
New witch weigh out of oh-pinned door
Where whether vains with steal blew I's
Make waist with haste and hose
That knowbody loned sumbody
Who danced hie on his tows
Two their eyed go, all this aisle due
In daze of your, two bee with yew
:)
