And their death came to them on horseback
After echoes of Halloween horrors
Roamed through their haunted village
Screeching like a witch aboard a broom
Jetting through their eerie nights
Sprinkling dread melancholy on their wretched souls

Call them corridors or halls
those spaces linking here to there.
Polished floors and bright glazed walls
which lead us to that next somewhere.

And the doors along each side
which one to open, which to be passed?
Once opened up and we're inside
they all become, in sum, our past.

Some of them we walk alone
others in a jostling crowd;
some are quiet as a long dead phone,
others are often really loud.

you get to know the neighborhood
bums
recognize their palms,
the misfits of the street in their
divestment of the American dream
holding tight to the graffiti of hollow men
and their wild wild west empires,
bullets in their pockets and weapons for sale
in always-shallow hearts;

you might blame the corporation elite,
its stock
and shareholders
for having their own way,
or the politicians bought and sold on the
auction block,
slaves,
rendering to Caesar his image

A rock, bound to a leaf
The wing to free the moment
Flutters green or autumn crimson
on the rich tended soil
within the forest of the "aaaahhhhh"
The holy garden sanctuary
I feel your feet tread
The focus of your creative mind
Weaving it’s wonderful magic in your space
Making more beauty
Beauty forms the feathers of the freedom that is peace
Peace, no matter what the circumstance
Settle in the moment,
the present,
the gift of the rock and the leaf and the silver fox
in the holy garden

woe the great hide rises
while the great one dies

day of another

awake sweet fascination
shake the shackle of this slumber
let the crown of constellations
ride upon your mantled head
tiara of mystery
princess of darkness

let thy breath decree excess
of surly want and lick the lips
of tender lust
the blood fast
the smouldering ruin of
bridges
archs of cascade
the fire drips
like hot life

oh how we delve this hot
famine in succulent
prurience

Just a shiny little apple, still growing up
But that shine you see in the pictures
Isn’t really there
I just reflect it off back to you
And maybe it’s what I was
But I’m far from you now
I’m far from the tree.

Maybe we are the same
Could you live without your stereo?
Did you live for Pinwheels
and holding someone’s hand?
Did you sing?
Were you angry?
Was it me?
But now I’m far from you
Now I’m far from the tree.

Mind
is used up or consumed
ere the
Body
is buried or exhumed
and the
Soul
is invisible
as much as are
I and you...
Period.

The Clock Master. Set 1.

Don’t wind me up anymore he raged
at the key of sleep, I’ll stop your heart,
take your hands off without so much
as a peep.
The key ignored his screaming
round face, continuing to turn even tighter
at a more pertest pace.

ONE SNOWFLAKE

And here we freeze
one snowflake now descending
like spring blossom disguised as water
floating
on currents of air

down light
the white of winter's cast off gown
make pale the distant hills and town
in shrouds of thin soft greys

the wash of water colours
on the page of days
that should be filled with rays of sun
the flowers begun to burst in celebration
shut now every one

A thursday silent as a sunday
ascension day
they say
with wistful fitful quiet

With each heart beat
I see visions…
Faces…
Of kinsmen from next door
Burning in domestic flames
Screaming out in mortal pain!

With each drum beat
I see…
The Bloodshot eyes of young people like me
Balancing guns
In their premature hands

I watch in horror
As they spray bullets into the thoraxes of others

Familiar tunes play in my head
Of songs continually sang
By my mothers…

I hear them whisper to themselves;
“Was it better for our babies to be born alive?
…Or…”