Crystalyrical.

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Art-Mark Rothko

I got here too late, my heart begun to soon and born too late,
shaped somewhere before patterns in Latte froth leveraged food into art, and deconstructed postmodern imagery into fractal pragmatism.
Outside, in a world that called to everyone but me,
alone, I made poems of snowflakes and wrapped my restless sentiments
In them for storage and self-preservation.
Unaware that while I waited fashion had de-re-un-dis
connected, reconstructed the symmetry of wit, erasing the t
No, not that one for that would leave – it – alone,
the other one commenting volumes in the absence of one letter.
Mapping in symbols the new social order, absent the viscera.
Elegantly sensi-mental, undisturbed, except by inference,
nothing that could make your fingers sticky,
smell of salted tears or hot sweat.
Rather stylish better dead than head I thought and returned to my snowflakes,
counting them to see how many were required to freeze each poem.
I wonder if I will see them breed, each frozen sentiment unfolded and placed with a flourish, by lyrical courtesans awaiting photo ops, on Bently’s grave, with a note explaining that something usefull had finally been derived From his work .

Chameleon

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How to Change to Know, to Be

Moving forward we pretend
to be quite sure, weave towards an end
then fantasy built a message is sent to another.
Yet to face unspeaking, presenting that which you are
carries honesty portraying love greater by far
than the costume of words that is governed by personal fear.

If the blending of that which I see or present to an ear,
can create an illusion which rivals the truly sincere,
perhaps then it’s myself I must risk though entirely exposed
un-costumed and bared, free from wile and beguilement, unclothed.

A thought for Women’s day

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A Thought For Women’s Day

A little late but you’ll forgive me
I have never lived in time.
No one ever taught me anything about women,
except for Kathy who touched my heart
by asking me to teach her to
jump off the top of the slide into a sandpile
because no one else had.

It’s not as if I haven’t learned anything,
my desire to mate taught me a litte
but almost nothing about women.
Abstinence, forgiveness, and solitude
have been better instructors.

I hope you won’t make fun of me
for having learned so little,
Or learning so slowly.
Men are and have a point
but know no world
in which they can express it.
Women I think are the endless circle
including all possibilities.

Men seem to Start wars
as if war could be a creative act
and acquiring a kingdom have more significance
than just the murder of so many children
brought into the the world by women.

But I have faith, in the end
women will discover the point is within themselves
and men that the world is.
Perhaps then we will find equality
and the love between us
will take less than a lifetime to find.

CANON in D (1st edit)

CANNON in D

 

Base tones echo life’s slow weighted ache  

the sound of life passed by to history’s shape,

though clearly heard sadness is not its end

a last slow step and home to start again.

  

Grey landscapes fade as ever lighter strains,

brighten the air with music’s conjuring’s.   

The song calls out to hillside, seed and spring,

so all things, passed away, return again.

                  

Answering sounds, logos no words constrain,

go soothing ancient fears and ending pain.

renewed each spirit rises to its place      

as Life traces the endless knot of grace.

 

The mothers song each wakened soul will heed

returning home unto the timeless call

where blessing each that quickening will bear

she shouts her life into the fruited seed.

 

 

Beyond my sight the pointed pennants flair

their tips cracking against the golden air.

Strings, bright voiced entrance this aging boy 

to waltz abandoned in returning joy.

 

 

Beneath the stars upon times endless floor,

we dance unsated lovers fate and grace

delight at rest, in change is rest embraced

content to have it so forevermore.

 

I waken to the truth they call a dream

who know not they have never waked

nor dreamt so sweet a thing as here is seen

in sleep so deep as waking time will make.

 

That every beauty sought in wish or will,

awakened when by art or grace we make,

an image blessed by that holy skill

that conquers all for love of life’s embrace.