Beatrice

Ah! The soothing
of that whispered name-
inaudible, nearly...
yet shrouded in familiarity-
fanning the child-heart.

Yes, the wooing
of that angelic flame-
deliver us, swiftly
from this the darkest night
swaddled in your crimson cloth.

Coursing

Brooch pins for my eyes
bury the cold black hole sun
blind Justice and I
have heard quite enough
and the prophesies cannot
be undone.

“While the widows
go on weeping
wearing ashes
and gnashing
their teeth
the Parties
will prey
on the young.”

They are staying,
they are coursing
the dogs of war unleashed.
She is dwindling
she is dwarfing
Our Lady, art thou impeached?

Phoenix Again

A south wind blowing
stalls the migration and I
long for the Zephyr.

Host Meditation (Breadchewing)

Just a crumb in the food chain
the crust of the loaf
I heard of bread that’s forever
but can you make toast
from a slice of the life
that was broken for me
and is dipped in the vino
or dunked in the tea
that is bitter
and black
and imported from Spain
where the lovers of gold
are the mothers of shame
and if the dough is kneaded
by unclean hands
and the yeast is leavened
in man-made pans
then how is it living
in the alive sense of the word
unless one sees fit
to build a cottage for a curd.

Hallowed

Ode to an Apparition

What deceit I view, nay, venal sorcery
that bears your apparition hither.
What sweet, shy you may appear unto me
quick dares more premonition to wither.
If I could see you truly and through the veil
the moment would only swell further.
If I would feel you move me and pierce the mail
the torment would only strike surer.
Black art that brings you and hastens the vex
to madden and scourge my marrow
back dart on the wing and chasten the hex
to placate and purge thy harrow.

Jalepeno

Ready ripe blush rising skyward
up salsa skin so hot
so smooth that I can
almost feel these podded seeds pulsing
against my palate...
Hurry hurry harvest-
hurry hurry have it
before it frosts
and I miss this florid fruit.

Racey Risque Ringing of the Bards

The 18th edition of the Ringing of the Bards—poetry carnival—has just been unveiled, and it is stellar.

It is being hosted by the six "sexual deviants" of WetPoems© (may not be suitable for the workplace), and only "poems of the naughtiest nature" were considered. The challenge was to "unleash the fiercest pheromones" on the Ringing public, making it "the tastiest ringing to date." Due to the nature of this Ringing, the members of WetPoems tried to be especially accommodating to the participating blogging poets: "We realize that not everyone is ready to acknowledge their inner naughtiness, but we hope that by providing the option to anonymously submit to this ringing we give all of your inner sexuality and sensuality some room to play."

This frenzied orgy of poetry will not disappoint...come one, come all.

Woza

Solace seeking
African nights
have no center...
no crux
crest
or core-
no birth
beginning
middle
or ending
no shift
or swinging door.
Here the she-silk spinning
never comes to end
and strands that halt
the Zeitgeist zipper
graft hangmen’s
Zulu Zen.

So the thunder
insists upon distance
behind tall fences
containing the game
and my lover
Eroica extant
will be tattooed
with my shame.

While the dunes
keep marching westward
to the beat
of the shepherds drum
and the eyes
of Africa
as yet still dancing
while in her mouth
still none.

Duck Blind

cattails and loosestrife
early autumn ritual
floral arrangements

three painted ladies
two dark tiger swallowtails
one shot viceroy

First seen on Hunting Haiku Daily

Landlady

A Hunter's Song

Now in the moon of Mabon
as the harvest and the hunt
draw the man from the hearth
and the warmth of his woman’s
good thighs…

we will see.

The home fires will be lit
and Branta canadensis
searching for maize, wheat, barley or oats
will fall to the siren call
of love or lessened hunger
in fields once thought to be
sanctuary.

The home fires will be lit
and the stag will err
with his velvet horn tattered
in his musty rut
and soon hang
as a pendant
of hubris.

The home fires will be lit
and the drakes will denounce
their mother’s wisdom
in favor of fantasy
sweet nothings
and death
from double reeds
double guns
and breath moistened cocobolo.

The home fires will be lit
and the bruin
in avarice and desperation
will blunder into the brambles
where he’ll know the singing
bowstring too late
with the taste of berries mixing with blood.

We will see
again
the dance of hunted and prey
of ourselves in the fray
and wonder aloud about our fate
as the home fires burn bright
in our absence.

Ringing of the Bards!

Want this badge?

Check it out!

The Ringing #11 September 2nd., 2006

Hosted by Pearl Pirie of Poetry Springs Boing, Curl, Sproing

Birdwatching

fall cardinal sins
legitimized voyeurs all
ornithologists

freed of longitude
a lilac-breasted roller
bathed in sandalwood

Black and Pink

urban garden spring
lost and found in verdant peace
absent fruit on vines

Black and Green

Indian Summer
when sugars are sought and found-
picnics with hornets

Black and Yellow

Hyena summer
black and blue the Southern Cross
my star is falling

Black and Blue

Through the Melodeon Window

Hey you, Cherry-Coke!
Yes, you
you Amish blacked
horse whip
cracking down the street.
Compel me,
opera mouthed
and gutsy.
Yeah you
you thick treaded
heel artist...
hi-jack me.
Grind it down,
mouthing the edict
to lay down my nets
and follow your fetish
through your plum cherry arbor.

Innocence

It was
and is
and ever will be
in the bottom drawer.

Paralysis strikes
watching the life run all out
the first and last hunt

indian summer
seven times faster than we
our friends come and go

The sleek lucky toe
broken not once but in two
sordid episodes.

Sugarplum on the 4th

Sparklers drip and pinwheels spin
mind aboard the carousel again
where choke cherry lips
and cotton candy grins
all yawn until the spinning
top
stops
stalls
and lights go out
mommies hushing
and school girls shout
"I can't see you, but I know you're here."
as borders blur
and smiles smear
like fudgy finger-painting
in electric dyes
or neon ink across the velvet
skies
skewed
the symbolic blots
kaliedoscopic crayons connect the dots
that bend the line
and slow the ride
that raced the heart
and pried the eyes
wide
open
ecstasy.

(re-inspired and re-discovered thanks to "Almost Literary.")

Sharks

She so vulnerable
Can’t swim
Panic on her face
In her eyes
Survival only.

Omitted

The manual does not describe, in its entirety, the way things work, in their entirety.

Fish

Do this...

Cypher Dissident

props to Che

feline

Hold on or let go
a cat on a dying limb -
rage against the choice

Morning-
hour mourning-
gone the moon
and night's repose.

Waking-
sour waiting-
sun's bright sting
cruel intruding dawn.

Lying-
flower-eyed lies-
and dream stained sheets
bemoan the day-lies.

Leering-
through the pane-
glass bends sun sting
and bends today...gone.

Brother 1

The Debtor

The chase
eleven years and running
an enigma...
Good! Hard-bitten kill.

The toll
not silver pieces
nor two widow’s mites.
Good! That kinder bill.

Elope
or evade
the severe chimera
that bold, tailored knight.

Drink deeply
from this circle
from this cipher
bardlike, old tonight.

We’ll sip
you’ll sup
sucking the marrow
from blind hot godlike art.

Until the ecstasy
until the alchemy
of the journey
to the ill-boding dark.

Founders Field

Peace in the valley
amazing grace
bass water
fishing upstream
Isaac's blessing
Grandfather
songfeast
bewildered
Worthy Blood
Red Gods
a taste for game
actual field conditions
deep enough for Ivory Bills.

First appeared in the "HazMat Review," Vol. 4, Issue 1, Fall/Winter 1999.

False Casting

Fishes Eddie
mile marker 89
one white birch
and a two day old blood stain
beneath the soft shoulder sign.

The smell of the Beaverkill-
or was it the Delaware?
...competing for the spotlight
candidly groping
the cannonball in tight jeans
stepping off of the progressive
charter bus.

My mouth wide like a Kentucky strip mine
I false cast once
False cast twice.
Not even my best Royal Coachman
would entice that one.

Mid-step

notice the gait change
the moon is full but I 'm not
greetings middle age

Morning Sickness

Industry

Remote

The virtual freeway is empty
of all but venal vagrants
loitering about
like beggars on my corner,
schlepping sacks of unknown contents,
from somewhere
to somewhere.
Sacks of violent adhesives
coagulating incessantly.
Products of post-mortem
over-achievers
and squatters
and mercenaries,
all of whom are traded
spent
and reeking of the journey
like an old dollar bill.
The future looks bright
for pacifist vigilantes
and for transactions
without currency.

Free

Diva Chutes

Proximity to well-worn trails
a Pathfinder does not make.
Reconnaissance is not romance
regardless of the time, the tilth or the take.
Knowing the sensation
of 'chutes only half full
I wonder about this jump.
No my friends
its killing
but God won't sort these out.

A pirouette is pretty
but not when its chasing your tail
and the need to know the ending
diva
is the difference betwen vex and veil.
The slipstream used to dazzle
and the sweetspot seemed in reach
but now, with age
comes vision
and I wonder too, for you.

Preference for lies and intrigue
a spy does never make.
Treachery is not tradecraft
no matter the actor , the screen, or the fakes.
Knowing the dullness
of unsharpened blades
I wonder about this hump.
No my brothers
in arms and angst
most likely we won't make it out.

Organic

Scratching itches versus itching scratches

Hogweed Love

A radical agenda
newly emergent
invasive, transient
now infiltrates the harvest
the hearth
the head
the bed
through revolts
revolutions
inquisitions
and insurgent infidel
anarchy of
hogweed love.

Absence

Monkeyshine
swing brightly
so circus
shine
Cheshire-grin
two-in-hand
tarnished
ticking tango
it's trillium time.

Quicksilver current
queen of shades
on an Andalusion
tide-riding
time machine.
Brothers three
Castor, Pollux
and Old Jim Beam
she's
eclipsing Luna
and it's only half-past twelve.

Claim-jumping
(you've got)
two talents
and a burlap bag
always the rush...
and that right now
Mr. Forty-Niner
fax me
some of that fool's gold
I'm asking
I'm prospecting
asking alchemy.

Ode to Love and Appetite

Venus could be instructed in the use of her charms
Advised in the art of endearment
Love, though too often confined to the loins
Engenders itself best to the palate.
No embrace, no kiss, nor ecstatic utterance
Tantalizes as does a slightly teased souffle.
Inciting pathos...
Negotiating reluctance
Enabling rapturous gourmet bliss.

valentine

ode to an oval office

If I connect - I get connected...
self-important - self-elected...
and always paychecks before personality.
Oh, sweet superficiality!
Oh, blessed greed!
You're all I need...
I'm alone but I am number one.

"Yes" I said, "I agree."
I heard myself "What's in it for me?"
My attention - my personal Christ.
My lilting soul, profit, the heist.
This the test, but it's been forty days.
Do I speak the violence or am I the prey?
I'm all alone except for the sun.
I'm alone and I'm still number one.

Winterborn

I am Winterborn, boreal, cheerless son...
the melancholic bard giving birth to oblivion.
I am freezing rain that bites raw skin...
slushing blood with stinging wind.
I am the dulling stupor entering your mind...
the driving blizzard leaving you blind.
I am heavy sky, hoary and bleak...
days void of sun and draining you weak.
I am barren trees and frozen waste land...
the jagged ground that rips the hand.
I am hardened lakes and ice that groans...
the wolves of winter that ravenously moan.
I am frost ringed moon and crystallized breath...
cracked bleeding lips and comfort's quick death.
I am the arrival of dread and the resident forlorn...
the old man's heir... I am Winterborn.

Emptying the Ark

Nothing has changed...
equilibrium has settled upon me once again-
a 2:1 ratio of salt and pepper
ecstasy and angst
affirmation and masochism, etc.
And you?

There doesn’t seem to be any flooding here.
No roiling crest spilling over the banks.
Brine.
That’s what they call a salty solution of some noxious liquid
found in back waters, basements, and tidal flats...
Are they evacuating your neighborhood?

Holding a heart shaped chain letter and pondering St. Valentine,
bless his holy name,
I was surprised to feel the Holy Ghost come upon me...
and I got the Power.
If St. Patrick wouldn’t have vanquished all the snakes
I could have demonstrated my faith.
But alas, no serpents,
save the one wrapped around my heart
who keeps force feeding me apple sauce.
I was resigned to speaking in tongues-
forked ones at that.
I know, my diction.

Now the sun is shining
but I’ve been in this tunnel so long it hurts-
like a bright light glinting
off a gin bottle in the ditch.
But I’ll be ok
cause I asked for automatic polarizing glasses
from the Easter Bunny
and the government said if I was good and ate my apple sauce
I would get them under the Easter-egg tree.
I’m trying really hard.
Cross your fingers and say a prayer for me.

Waterford

Having experienced your clarity
your claret color
bouquet bazaar
and incidentally your cuts
filigrees and flutes...

I have chosen to drink
and not to taste or savor
but to empty
and finger a song.

Sing to me
in your singular tone
as a Siren brings men
to their doom.

Sing to me clear
though the wine is alone
is raging
is rakish
is resting
with a touch
here in my room.

Violet

A Winter Solstice

Dawn, just a memory
daybreak a dream
the morning lost in mist.

Dusk, dripping scenery
rusted it seems
the fog says hello with a kiss.

What of the day
the hours without shade
the heat that sustains the living?

Her warmth kept at bay
en route, waylaid
and no prince for the crown she’s giving.

Oh cruel Sun
light of all light
how we long for your return.

Darkness shun!
Shed black night...
the murk, this fog, burn.

Yet no blaze appears,
no dazzling array,
only stealing gray I see.

An eclipse, I fear,
has come to stay...
oh Sun, set us free.

Spring Fling

Sometimes spring comes
but briefly
too quickly overtaken
by the howling winds of hubris
and the naiveté allowing for
sowing, planting, growth
premature
as always
subject to black frosts and
deepening drifts
and a shut-away sun.

Flore de Victoria

2000

It was the darkest night of the year
or the longest at least
and yet the fullest moon in one hundred.
I was privately searching for my very own solstice
amongst the star bright human light
when he shattered my crystal fantasy.

He stopped suddenly and stooped,
reached a gloved hand down
gingerly plucking the slender blue
treasure from the snow, hardly noticeable.

“It’s an ‘H’” he said, rather sheepishly, “they’re softer...”
while displaying it at arms length, point up
with irresistible boyish triumph.
I was relieved that at least one of us
had discovered millennial meaning.

Negabliss

Archetype 1 (at a Jackson Pollock exhibit)

She, covered
in Gotham City black
pink under, yellow hair pulled back
intent upon number 11A 1948
(black white and gray)
and I, today the cad
busy
fomenting a first foray
until she exited, without the black
hailed
and walked away.

An earlier version of this poem appeared in the "HazMat Review," Vol. 4, Issue 1 Fall/Winter 1999.

Missed

Missed
missing
mistletoe-
she glittered me once more.
Last time through
that dice shake
quick take
minuet
and that crushed
velvet
door.