where has that childish abandon flown to what corner has it tucked itself within whose arrogant ignorance mighty walls erected and fell beneath the pen faceless omnipotence god of fact fiction whose word scarred paper hearts bleeding ink upon the page in whose eye every image was wonder not closed to mysteries ears closed to…
that fish smell of filth unwashed overripe body seasoned with pore salt
Slipping from View
perhaps it’s best we stop here, parting ways at the crossroads we stood too long beside. we know the adage: how gold never stays. surely, far greater loves than ours have died. we bear the gaunt trappings of yesteryear, ghostly figures shambling in plushy flesh, driven on by stark loneliness and fear. pitiful beings: the…
Detox/Natural Healing – A Chueh-Chu
blanketed in starless night, upon the dew-doused grass, he sleeps without a care beneath sugar scented maple trees. no greater comfort is there, than that which is wild and free; which unburdens the heart and soul, which long years made heavy.
Beating Feet Down the Eightfold Path
the four noble truths set me down the eightfold path budding dharma bum
The Flow of Time
This poem was an experiment. I took Robert Frost’s Acquainted with the Night, retaining his end rhymes and sonnet form, then played with it a bit. I wanted to work with the spacing between words and building smaller poems into the whole. The two lines act as links between phrases (my attempt to show that…
The Devil’s in the Details
the devil’s in the details, you devious debutante. your dark dealings, brought to light, dare to damage your position. daunting as it seems, this dreadful day draws drearily towards a disappointing end. dapper demagogues declare their distaste for such displays, desperate to distinguish themselves. don’t despair, you dutifully upheld your end against those disgruntled deviants….
Sign Here and Never Mind the Fine Print
will this be what remains of me: the hours worked, certificates gained, events attended? will this be the face, reflected in the gallery of eyes, that never saw me as i was? will this be the voice still reverberating, writhing on airwaves, spouting scripted speech spuriously? will this be the book, writing on the pages…
The Soul of the Moment – A Quintilla
the soul of the moment, buried ‘neath the rust of moments that passed like smoke, wistfully waning. cast to grey tides, swallowed ‘neath, carried listlessly out to oceans vast.