The stream (all workshops)
I felt something lingering near
terrifying and unforgiving
waiting somewhere.
The noise of living broke
into a silence, fading pale
and I fell into dreaming.
I dreamed of rivers flowing crimson red
fields of wheat burning black
flames ripping through raging skies
I saw angels with dark wings spread
singing unholy litanies
souls lost to Heaven on their knees
God was dead…
The world needs more
Positive poets and friends
like you and many
We all are just passersby
here today,
Tomorrow where will we be?
Who that can ever say
I am your friend
I say for just
Today…
This Workshop is a joy to employ
So don't be coy, consider your ploy
To profit from rhyme experience
Getting fatter has never been better
Filled with inner poetic meter
Bulging rhyme skills, bloating knowledge
The 2011 Oktoberfest Carolina Princess, happy
My pageant baby, excited, given a penny
She added to her calculate piggy's many
Just as, contented poets, delighted
Write great poetry, enlighten
By leaders more than excited
My window is the world.
A patch of light illumines
the Autumn leaf,
shimmers its veins,
its seminal understanding
of life in its transitional story,
I had two raspberry eyes and ten mulberry
fingers as a child,
I grew until I weighed myself down;
I picked flowers.
I have composed countless poems
As you all know
Since I have no fixed mind ,
nor fixture of mind,
I am a unique entity...
No two poems of mine are alike,
as I believe in variety
Loved Style,
All my while .
I stand in no row or queue
of recognition ,
as I know twill never come,
when I am alive .
But then it will be too late
Posthumously
Which they will.
Dance in the arms of the devil tonight
You’re lost in the shadows, kept out of sight
You followed him through the back door
Where I found you, looking for more
You sat on the cold concrete
You let his hands search and creep
You lay in his arms, he sings
“You could be everything…”
And oh, does god have a sound?
Like a child laughing loud,
Or the birds singing this morning
But no; everything means ‘everything’
And you wake up alone, discarded as nothing
For those who have read Çaço, Man of the Morning Star this poem is easily understood. For those who have not, it stands alone. One need not know the story to read this poem.
what is offered
the cast aside hearts
wounded like sleeping birds
dissaray feather
the wheels gather the day
spokes turning on the hub
the axis of plans emerging
from laneway shadows
like languid rooms and ghost
curtians leaning from tall
wooden frames
a mouth of extravanagance
a steady home of brick
hauled from the pits
kiln fired and set with
hands that rode open decks
for work
Bound by limitless duality
of passion and desire,
our need was mutually welcomed,
shivered touch an eagerness
unbridled through dark patchwork
hints of empty towns in sleeping country,
haunted by a lowering moon, swift on winding
paths of ancient stars through moonlit clouds
and shadowed stands of ripened corn
whispered with a kiss of breeze
from night's cool sigh of discontent
at the promise of a pale dawn
echoing with distant touch of deity,
hinting breaths unfolding,
That roaring mower's bloody noise
my peace and indolence destroys
so I protest with grace and poise
and hoik a broken brick at it.
a leaf-blower then intrudes most rudely
a job once done with rake as easily
after asking first politely
I kick the fucker's keister
now silence reigns my mood's enabled
I'll write rhymes which will be fabled
if my talent's not mislabeled
and those cunts keep fucking quiet
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