The stream (all workshops)
A mother’s pride pearl jewelry
shine and glow of embellishing
display to see
on the wearing neck
to bring in a radiant look
from a hand custom made
passing on from generation
with a priceless and valuable
possession
As a sovereign gift
for a special occasion
on a wedding day
As a symbol sign of love
Far beyond my description
That is filled with gracious kindness
With the share of bonding
Colorless, a weighted haze
Your eyes are blanketed
Your touch is callous
Skinny fingers with thick beaded rings
Ugly jewels to hide the obscene
Torn up jeans
with safety pins down broken seams
A familiar pair of shoes
Whose laces fray
But you are too afraid to lose
Chipped nail polish
Chapped and broken skin
Snowing from your lips
Through the little hairs on your chin
Dancing and skiing
Past mountains
Of upturned acne
And downturned dimples
The stream, full of words
Stanzas, swimming poetry
Like schools of alewife
on a faraway island, there's a road,
in there, a roundabout that from above looks like a noose.
this road has a civilization on wheels
that always moves forward but gets nowhere.
a concrete cart carrying bricks and tools
to spread modernity's gospel to inanimate trees, heathen beasts
pulled by an army of morons and driven by some fools.
red wheels, yellow paint
civilization on a cart but its wheels are square
a roving city trapped in a circular road going nowhere
designed by those who claim to be wise men
Seize
All the
Ephemeral
Happiness that
Life is offering, whenever you can
For they'll fly one by one 'way in no span;
They'll be drifted
Forever
Away
Man
This leaf falls
And is flattened to the ground.
Imprinted on the pavement
By a dozen booted feet
At once defined and later, now with ribs
And skeletal remains,
Competing with the sticky wrappers
And tin cans,
It slowly fades to dust
And blows away on the
Gusting autumn wind.
This leaf was sapful in its prime,
A verdant flag of spring’s surprise
And summer’s scented deck.
I see a miracle everywhere I look
In every flower and every brook
I see it in every tree growing tall
I hear it in every bird as it calls
I feel it deep in every breath
I see it in every birth and death
It is miraculous every night; I survive
It is miraculous every day; I am alive
My tears and drowning feel much alike
For I try to scream but lose the fight
My barren words not enough to ease the shroud
Evaporating into an emotionless cloud
No, I can’t, I won’t go back
My rising fears to reverse the track
It seems so bland with glazing eyes
Mind and body torn for the prize
After such short time, was given hope
Found a brighter, better road
And now, to just lay down my work
I not bear to stand and look
The Clock Eater loves the taste of fine time
Sauteed in juicy New York minutes and served
With seconds spiced with instants and moments.
He’s a founding member of the clean Plate Club.
The Clock Eater does not wear a watch.
To him there is only this moment in time,
Like a freshly baked roll it’s aromatic
Impatiently waiting to be devoured.
The Clock eater doesn’t often share
The banquet that is on his plate,
Perhaps a nibble now and then
To ease the other diner’s wait.
ljm
Awake, nothing to look at, just sea blood black, a paragraph before the nausea comes back, villages are birthday cakes, tiers of open ocean when we’re on our way to Ireland and we smoke cigarettes on the deck and it’s the best bit of the trip before we go back. She's the same, I swear she commands the thunder and rain, she’s ancient and holy, and for years I will see her this way.
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