Thorn of the Rose

  I

  He wears a pack upon his back,

  Then fills with rocks and stones;

  Symbols of mistakes he’s made,

  Trophies all his own.

  He scrubs his hands with molten sands,

  Such shards of glass embed;

  Reminds him of the hearts he’d lost,

  And love weeps, sorely bled.

  He scatters thorns in shoes well-worn,

  Then ties them for all time;

  For detours he had wrongly made,

  While crossing chosen lines.

  He rinses eyes with brine, then cries,

  Eternal, lonesome tears;

  Displaying then, for all to see,

  Such torment of his years.

  Upon his tongue, his words once young,

  He’ll singe with glowing embers;

  To thwart the rising of such verse,

  That no one will remember.

  About his ears, such shrill of fears,

  Encase his heightened plea;

  Releasing guilt and prejudice,

  To alter their decree.

  Once satisfied he hasn’t died,

  He sets on novel journey;

  Chooses paths of internal wrath

  Which mark his sanctimony.

  The first step finds such grounds, unkind,

  So soft they seek to swallow;

  Consume such traces of his print,

  Determined, echo hollow.

  The foul stench, then so entrenched,

  Encumbered, drawn abyss;

  Toward depths anew and rancid,

  Reveal apocalypse.

  Affixed, implanted, disenchanted,

  Approach delirium.

  As numbness overcomes the pangs,

  Self-cited requiem.

  Immobile now, reflects ‘pon how,

  Such measures were traversed;

  When bindings, anguish gather hold,

  And lessons were reversed.

  Embracing pain and self-disdain,

  Grants flow to great despair;

  Simultaneously uncoiling,

  Latent spirit and its prayer.

  “Guide me forth, charter course,

  Where light may come to shine;

  And words ascend like Phoenix wings,

  To hasten toward divine.

  In this hour, we are power,

  No bounds to recognize;

  Combined we are invincible,

  Together, land to sky!”

  II

  Breath then comes to cease, arrest—

  As flooding warmth refills his chest—

  As increments of ills possessed

  Relinquish former hold.

  Hope cascades in liquid streams,

  Fails eclipsed by freshened dreams

  Senses heat of forgiving beams,

  As Purpose then unfolds.

  Mixing with such burdens held,

  Feeding fires never quelled,

  Imbibing passions never felled

  From days upon the earth.

  Such wealth ignored in ego’s midst,

  When adding absence to such lists,

  What freedoms known by single kiss,

  It’s here he finds his worth.

  III

  Reborn is he, with new eyes sees,

  A virgin parchment—waits;

  To scribe the blend of all of life

  With truth to consecrate.

  The Illusionist

  He sits with top-hat, tails and bun,

  Rolling-up his sleeves.

  Setting tricks of mastery

  That no one will believe.

  The cards he places order to,

  In sync with tactful skill.

  To open wide the eyes of those

  Who hasten for a thrill.

  The doves will fold so easily,

  In pockets they will nest;

  Until such time they’re plucked about,

  A time that he knows best.

  The scarves and flowers he presents,

  Will surely bloom in awe;

  Of naïve crowds he’ll work his craft,

  The truths they never saw.

  Then he looks up and sighs so deep,

  A mirror’s his intrusion.

  For there he sees that love’s unreal,

  Another soul’s illusion.

  Two Faces of Anger

  As eve displays such sullen brow,

  Quieting youthful grasses upon the lonesome hill;

  Allaying spirited ambitions of day’s song,

  Embellished by noble woodwinds.

  Laughter, no more.

  Turbulence tramples the swollen breast

  Of free and listless growth;

  Compressed and hardened—

  Unable to accept future, willful seed—

  Left wanting, yearning such promise—

  Is swept away by failing vestiges

  Of disobedient winds.

  Unremarkable to any lurid senses;

  Vague to ties of spiteful consort,

  Barren soil expands indiscriminately;

  As harsh, vindictive words subtly eradicate

  Such tender strands of emerald greens.

  For passage must remain unhindered,

  And faceless.

  Dispelling self-regard or purpose—

  Quiver, desperate from the contortions of weight,

  Amidst feared and unwanted runners,

  Finding deceptive passage beneath.

  Expanding, flourishing, in the depth—

  To arise as with any untimely event,

  With wicked tendrils widening,

  Choking salient dreams.

  Displacing natural cause and justice

  Through consumption of all that is good;

  Such vines weave and thread without mercy,

  Assimilating life in accord,

  While feasting on the innocent,

  Breathing mockery and contempt.

  They will not dance, or sing—

  But chant in selfish riot;

  Instilling transparent ideals and fear.

  The contours of the expectant, rise.

  Apathetic saplings await peaceful diversions;

  Or pray that finer-lit hours, in harmony

  With swollen clouds, unencumbered

  By their own sorrow or history,

  Fill such tomorrows with temperance

  And benevolence once again.

  Until such events strike hollow hours,

  Resounding in decades of toil and self-righteousness,

  Labored by ill word’s apologies—

  Until then, dried petals of former palettes,

  Wither in dusty confines, trembling—

  Awaiting emancipating winds to churn and upturn

  The solid and immovable—

  And fragile seeds receive rightful needs,

  Where fertile lands once thrived.

  Point of Confluence

  The coffee shop is congested,

  But our booth is Ours’.

  Your cup is full and tepid,

  While mine is nearly empty.

  Again, you share your life:

  Soccer games and broken toys;

  Clothes which are now too small;

  How inattentive he remains;

  Fresh batteries in his TV remote;

  Daughter’s eyes identical to yours;

  A room, half-painted for months;

  Training wheels soon to depart;

  Your car is old, his is new;

  Grease on the kitchen faucet;

  The ‘Tooth Fairy’ arrived twice last week;

  He used to love you, you’re sure;

  The washing machine shreds your bras;

  You dust his High School trophies;

  Your son wants a BB gun for his birthday;

  The cold winter consumed your savings;

  “Sandra”, your on-line friend has cancer;

  His parents rent their seasonal h
ome in Florida;

  Your wedding gown still fits.

  While I listen, in numbing clouds;

  And tongue, pasty from the coffee;

  I can barely recall the details of the rented room,

  But vividly remember your orgasm.

  Entire of Me

  Might it just be,

  The reflection I see

  Is vision, and not of possession?

  This silhouette lone

  Of features, not own

  Refracting my warmest obsession.

  In stillness of night,

  And truth of the light

  Embedded within my own soul;

  There you may dwell

  Defenses have felled

  Gathering pieces to whole.

  Skin, smooth and fair

  Deep chestnut hair

  Appear mingled within my own face.

  With ghost-like reveal,

  Shared senses congeal,

  Cohabitant in sacred space.

  Your lips move in time,

  In concert, with mine,

  Combining our thoughts to exchange;

  Of mutual fission,

  Culminates ‘wishings’,

  Confirming that nothing’s estranged.

  Such loneliness fasting,

  In love, everlasting,

  Embracing such occupancy;

  Such fullness I feel,

  In closeness so real,

  You melding, Entire of Me.

  Tickertape Charade

  Rented suit, white flowing gown:

  So let the games begin.

  Agreement in this ritual,

  Shall vanquish former sins!

  Now fresh of canvas taunt,

  Sep’rate colors still intact;

  Join young hands to hold the brush

  Create your lifelong pact.

  Mingling colors is preferred,

  And won’t contaminate;

  But many works are left undone

  Should one then castigate.

  Patience lies in beauty’s eyes,

  While agendas breed obscene;

  Mix then, yellow with the blues,

  And celebrate such greens!

  Leave illusions at the altar,

  For that’s where they belong;

  Where misty tales of fairies then,

  Tend dreams they must prolong.

  Understand the ebbs and flows,

  As life is prone to tides;

  That will erase the strongest piers,

  Should trust be left untied.

  Believe, in time, such differences

  Will threaten with its harm;

  But quarrels cannot ever grow,

  In embrace of lover’s arms.

  It’s a choice of journeys forward then,

  Of one you willing made.

  Lest be perched upon lead float,

  In the tickertape charade.

  Granite Man

  Standing, edge of cliff so sheer

  Peering toward the vast

  Churning blue, and foam recede

  Lessons, of the past.

  Project my soul, this vertical wall

  That shields the tender land

  From erosion of the Tempest Wind

  Yet carves the Granite man.

  Beneath, as passions tremble

  And curl about the form

  Slowly abrade patina-soft

  In forecast of the storm.

  Adjacent to these weathered friends

  Lie memories of the gale,

  When weakness overcame me—

  Another love, I failed.

  Resting bitter, jagged, waiting

  To rest my skin upon—

  Accepting vengeance’ laceration,

  Exposed--within each dawn.

  I, spun in ego—unyielding—

  Deny the right to view,

  The fissures gape internally

  Kept away from you.

  Igneous veneered viscera—

  With pulse upon command—

  And words that knew such timelessness

  As footprints in the sand.

  Yet vertical and tall I’ll reach

  Defy natural decay—

  Deeming that my wit prevails

  With death I may persuade.

  In Time, such shroud consumes me

  I will have died before—

  Legacies of ignorance—

  I’ve offered nothing more.

  Granite man is born of fire;

  And this, his only sin:

  Striking flint and flesh as one,

  Igniting from within.

  Peacock Lost His Plumage

  A Peacock lost his plumage

  Contracting such disease

  That dried his skin, from out, within

  Scaling such as scabies.

  Ignored was he by women-folk

  Of peacock orientation;

  Who will not breed with likes of he;

  So left in consternation.

  He wandered ‘bout the woodland floor,

  Resembling holiday roast:

  Without one feather to fan the weather,

  No color, then, to boast.

  Discouraged and depressed was he,

  That he’d wandered way too far;

  Yet just past dusk, had change of luck,

  And discovered a dark, parked car.

  Long and sleek and shiny black,

  Slightly foggy on the glass.

  Grunts and moans and human groans,

  Then flashed a human ass!

  The magic window down did creep,

  As clothing tossed asunder:

  Gowns, tuxedoes, then the Speedos—

  The peacock then, did plunder.

  He rummaged through that starchy pile,

  Of useless people stuff

  Until he found, laid on the ground,

  A sequined, velvet glove!

  “What a perfect treasure here!”

  He thought with fortune’s find;

  Stuck five-pronged mitten, which he was smitten,

  Atop his bare behind.

  He scurried back to familiar homes,

  Where females there were waiting—

  Who’d prance in awe of what they saw:

  A fan, so rich, cascading!

  But peacocks are a snobby sort,

  Especially of female gender;

  And found him a bore, and chose to ignore,

  A display of obvious splendor.

  Cast aside and ostracized,

  He wandered once again.

  ‘Til break of dawn, he came upon,

  Such an unlikely friend.

  She was flat in beak, color brown;

  And had such obnoxious voice;

  Flat feet she had, her breath was bad;

  But he had little choice.

  She didn’t seem to mind that he,

  Was featherless and plucked;

  Devoid of fashion, t’was nature’s passion

  So torridly they---had tea together.

  They lived then, long thereafter,

  Bald Peacock, Duck, in love;

  He remained forever—not one single feather;

  But proud of his tall, velvet glove.

  Candle

  Wick--

  The center of your being,

  Drawing flame, heat

  Inside,

  While willingly sacrificing

  The soft, smooth external

  For the experience of passion’s

  Glow.

  Consumed once,

  You may be reformed,

  To illuminate ‘forevers’;

  Or remain, in memory.

  Loved for light.

  Offered in selflessness;

  And swallowed in increments

  By known betrayals

  Of the night.

  Ancient Tree

  His hair is white, brittle-dry;

  Cataracts, soon to claim one eye,

  Facing term
s he can’t deny,

  As autumn faces lull.

  Winds that swirl the dead leaves up,

  Myriads of moons fan abrupt,

  Un-parched he holds his empty cup,

  Yet drinks from fountains full.

  The crooked staff he holds in hand,

  Will read this path of familiar land,

  Traversing this he understands,

  Journeys kept before.

  When lungs elastic fed the pace,

  Springing tendons, then he raced,

  With quicker turns he left no trace,

  With forests first explore.

  He arrives then at the ancient tree,

  That grew so tall in woodlands free,

  Where suns would rest on canopy,

  In patience, light his way.

  Looks then, so high above,

  Where he had carved her name in love,

  Smiles when he’s reflecting of,

  Him kneeling on that day.

  He pauses, then returns to fend,

  The voyage toward the river bend,

  Where life begins and life must end

  If truth remains sublime.

  His pack is his, with nothing lent;

  No ills or hatreds to repent;

  Contented men fear discontent

  As he walks, in hand, with time.

  On the Lonely

  Such silence I won’t overcome;

  Fresh verse that harkens me to numb;

  While I remain, both deaf and dumb;

  And trust your indignation.

  To know such sense of obscene hollow,

  Leaves no course for me to follow;

  The poignant scent or bitter swallow

  Dispels all consternation.

  Disperse me, then, in fields I pray;

  Where thorns enwrapped in laurels lay;

  And I will sleep, accept decay;

  With fertile words to comfort.

  Mingle hither, fresh decline,

  Of tangled thoughts that weep sublime;

  Raise the clear of blood-red wine;

  And toast of those triumphant!

  May you be spared repented dreams,

  Of what you’d held in high esteems;

  Yet, carry forth, the worth you’d gleaned,

  In lover’s kind remorse.

  Reflect upon such forces, fears;

  That cannot be so tamed in years,

  Will never wash in anger’s tears;

  But disappear in course.