A revised version with two more verses:
Lucy loves all daisies
that shoot from the hip.
She never looks back.
She is a handful,
she never breaks the lamp,
she is concluded.
Lucy never dips her fingers
into pots long revered
by important tribes of weird vision,
she never leaves surrounding space
to its own making.
Ferdinand drives an ominous bus
down self inflicted avenues
with a solar certainty,
mooning the gutter
that is left behind.
Seascapes drip of dark blue,
waves carry the smell of gulls
and gargled rocks.
Ferdinand finally washes his worries
with clove and thyme,
with dark corals and sand.
Liquid nights never saw Lucy
stumbling over cobblestones
into a wintry November rain
full of dreams and paper kites
soaring high above poor man's roof
and chimneys etched in grey graphite.
She never pointed a fresh finger
to the damp, dull sky.
"I wish you could see me through,
as I once looked at afterbirth,
the second coming behind bars,
never knowing where
fierce visions might go or burst.
Ragged tears come with years
of truth seeking,
never pondering petty pilfer,
nor skies never perceived."
In a world of many speakers
Lucy is alone,
pulsating in a common reach.
A minaret singer, a surgeon crying,
Ferdinand is on the radio,
all is in pieces...
At times there is peace
inherit in conceiving.
"So let it be said that I
would not stop at the end of the day."
2
Lost in winter's white pendulum
with a ticking rabbit moon
rolling in the grin of frosty grass,
he faces grey skies and dereliction.
Strokes of violin blue
on a yielding canvas
at midnight dark ticking
lie close to another meeting.
Strands of raw umbra
coil around his chaotic heart.
Sienna burning at midnight
shapes a white bird dancing
in dark feathery chains,
dissolves in French turpentine.
Paine's mist wraps him
in a wild winter sky fading,
throbbing with lights of instant grey
beckoning to wolves and old men.
The obnoxious undead walking
clearly have an agenda
the size of a tidal score of one
in absolute presence
rolling beneath the trapeze .
Faces hidden from going,
star eclipsed and wishful,
speak into a new would-be void,
leaving well be to the wind.
Shirts on a her cloth line are sails,
as sunny shanty town walks
where steep leads to cheap liquor
and moments of forgetfulness
listening to the radio.
"Ignore me you fool
with a dark reason to shine,
ignore me and elegance will drop
ungraceful and die .
I am the unbroken voice,
the awesome in a new day,
perception collapsing
in busted mirrors gone astray;
understanding is washed out."
Stretching and twisting beneath the skyline
Ferdinand is not far behind
the one hand drawing eternity,
invisibility develops in shades
and shapes of light.
The coal calls for attention
at the end of any day
with details that move continuously
toward a never completion.
Black eyes formulate motion
in an ordinary universe
with tall orders and servants
that melt into the grade.
Derelict days of wonder
reappear on rough paper,
a present whim
leads the hand astray.
3
Terrestrial shortcomings
can be a falling ocean wind
on a cold winter day
as polar bears leave the floe,
staring down fading dominion.
Proud is he
destined for the pounding
of storms.
Winter fallout seizes old memories
where old men walk
from cove to endless night
with no thought of cover.
The grand conch shell
whispers of salt.
Drapes of oily illusion
beckon in dark waves motion
where fear goes deep.
The salmon glides gently
from the Sargasso Sea
to a river that will run wild,
where rapids are exploited by man.
***
"I am the Father
of all I can see,
the land that surrounds me,
of all I can be.
I am the Father
with the golden eye
that fathoms the entire sky
before its time to fly.
I am the Father
of all free seed,
of sad men that bleed
in the face of greed.
I am the Father,
or rather, I am the fool
that believes presence is cool,
that mind is a proper tool."
***
Stable steaming,
a rosy, new born baby
cries in the dark, early hours,
lifts an island in a cold sea.
Piano keys like stepping stones
lead into a different vision,
curves into a soft adagio,
hums.
Mothers reflect
in mirrors of packed hay,
heavy breasted,
belonging.
***
Said Fernando:
"I am the invisible man,
never talking about angels,
or romantic infatuation.
I do not claim to be
anyone other than he
who was elected into likelihood.
Fuck hypocrites that suckle
rocks of phony visions.
The unreal turn daily tales
into a yellow chicken
relying on a crooked straw
that seeks the egg.
Dream on you vulture
that feeds on echoes
of the undead,
congregate and dance
with your silly smiles
and die, just die,
never knowing the name
of your rotting shame."
***
The charcoal finds new places,
rises and falls with its dark pigment
on resilient paper's protest;
it is a continuance.
What can he, the observer, do?
He is active,
he interferes when voices fail,
he makes a response
that ordinary day rejects.
The colors seemed just right,
the feeling when they left the brush
was perfect, just enough resistance,
just enough molding capacity
to perform the intention.
Light he created and air,
shapes folded
into images of want and here.
He is a swirling maelstrom
a sudden universe of expression.
4
A long time coming
falls finally in night's direction
where viridian pine needles
and big cats sleep on Turkish rugs
never meant for Aladdin.
Dream on you noose maker,
you perpetrator is a fake democracy,
time will absolutely come
when all human decree
will burn at the perimeter.
"I am a dinosaur of the future,
awaiting global greed to die.
I understand plain decency
that shapes fickle sand and hands
that have to pass.
I take the I,
the dog that looks at me,
the cat that still is asleep."
What would Krishna say,
or Mohamed or Buddha or Jesus
or Gandhi or Truman or I,
at the face of global collapse
with money tales burning the market?
5
I am a he that holds my word
holier than a cat can whip its tail,
than the late flight of a bluebird,
flesh caught beneath the nails.
I am a he who sleeps in ashes,
that cries in blood and passion.
I am a he that finally crashes
in sentiments, long out of fashion.
***
Dead trees echo in the garden.
Winter is here, lurking in shadows.
Stray sparrows huddle.
The bushes are still alive!
The night is wrought
with wry wings and bad weather.
I am still painting.
Peripheral power inherit in words
from tongues rolling in tides
are sold by wings and a blue jellyfish.
The sea is dark with winter longing.
Seashell singers line the beach
as the first planet sparkles.
The eye that cries for night
settles in sand that shifts no more.
***
When lion roared morning broke
into soft amber afternoon
with trumpets and lost fighters,
the luciferous gestures will be gone.
Scampering city pigeons
etch the trail with the coming of he
that once walked
with eyes on all ends.
Why must he who wore a crown
be thorned and bled to shreds?
Why must he who defied dying days
walk alone into their ending?
Bird brave perpendicular days,
bird day beaks bent on praying
for rainy days to stop,
there's a plead in the state of winter.
***
Groveling days that flee the light
cringe at wind's dark end.
Old man spatters words and fight
what any silent storm might bend.
Old trees and withered grass
wait for his radiance to pass.
His moon is no merry mistress,
nor is it time to feed brooks
or solitary moments
in days of longing in distress.
Why can't I even look
at every day's components,
at the sky's windy reflection
without its grey rejection?
Dance you fool on all end's day,
cherish all folly in terms of more,
all echoes in aged skulls that pray
are random signs of a last shore.
The dragon man smiled to the dead.
He claims no more than day to me,
declining what evening never said
hoping there is something more to see.
6
Dark wants of doom's dominion
roll naked dice at The calling for more
in nights of mumbling Neolithic echoes
(where one man's bid for a hold unto rock
is another's man's saline stare at sweet taut skin)
over fields of future pleasures rippling
in a wolf pointed winter way kind of wind,
sharpened by a dark will to possess.
I will swallow the dark pill, she said,
I will fill the empty nights with rain,
with the lost innocence a child,
– the cross en-route
with comfort and trust –
one eye hanging from the sky,
the other flayed on a beach
with dead oyster at hand, no pearls.
The brittle bone bare necessities
Fernando harbors at the turning of deep blue
reverberates in snow lit chambers
where she, in a frail fractal orphic kind of way,
waits with little hope of an easy play.
Seascapes tempts his derelict eyes,
cliffs of untold torment tie his tongue.
Staring into the icy void of man
he sees white birds fly into night
and dead sailors that sink again and again.
Lost in the vast white space
between total disregard
and pure iniquity
Fernando closes his eyes
and holds his breath.
Silence is the overall of here,
the echo of a long distance call
falling like flakes of thin ice,
never to be presumed.
***.
7
Wearily he holds on to
old, worn out body straps
that still cannot harness
a lost world contusion.
What secret word
can end this insanity,
can wreck the edge of confusion,
the grin of the ledges,
arresting all afterthought
in a single afternoon?
I fold untold suns
into neat bundles of sorrow,
never whishing for more
than a painless, blue tomorrow.
A smile from a carnivorous beast
is all I can expect.
A last dance with the rejects
over the battle field graves
where dark wind breaks the door.
There is a paddle steamer
approaching in the mist,
a naked child that cries
for tissues and carnal goodbyes,
someone that wants to stay.
A long purple finger points
to the similar marshland.
An old guitar
breaks the morning.
Stern voices roll in watery ways
longing for vivid eyes.
Infant ice breaks in waves
where winds no longer hear
what winter has to say,
it will not stop.
Cold echo remnants of rock
– old world news and rumors
of war talks –
cast desolate ways across the beach
where all hope is not lost,
nor in a broken shell hidden.
Sleepily Fernando stretches his bones
on a bed made for his love Lucy,
never thinking of toxic waste,
nor of bells tolling in the afternoon.
His furry soul is dragged and clean
for tonight's fall and rescue.
He stretches his limbs
in his own slow fashion,
still sleepy on a bed full of stories.
His tail and shoes does not crave,
does not bark litigations
in a dog's bitch court.
He rolls his eyes and looks
with only one intention,
never looking back,
never asking for the impossible.
Damn you soothsayers
that pry on dignity
and leave without a trail,
that hawk all silly words
in markets and courts
where gossip and dead birds
refuse to fall down.
Damn you do-gooders and all you
that prances in moonless nights,
believing that angels cannot fall
from the face of smugness and height,
never daring to charge old fathers
with history's bold body pile
and murky molestations.
8
Lucy finds it in her loins
to further the boundaries
of any steepled church ,
her longing for soft skin
drives new nails
through the carcasses
of dying days.
She mounts her steed
with accepted presence
rolls with the billowing hills
where she can see him
burning through the woods
with a knifed knowledge
of just one day.
There's no stampede
running down stairs or lawns
where sampled future
still is the latest craze
where tourist guides will show you
walls scraped by fingernails
all in vain.
We will all be there,
may the moon
fill us with goodbye
enough to let go
of regret and loss.
There's a voice that moves
from vessel to vessel:
It is us Ferdinand!
9
Day was downward looking up,
fast among the pretenders
to the rusty throne.
Unsettled Lucy walked
amongst the debris
of yesterday calling for more.
I must be dead, she said,
whisking her dreams before her.
Serendipity was never an issue.
Ferdinand knew from the very start
what star he could call upon
when night fell into his lap.
Daringly he sought for more
in a barren country lost.
Man is such a mistake, he thought.
Irrevocably they met and died.
This world is wired
and there are only a few trees older
than a thousand years.
At the end there was tenderness.
At the distance they could hear
guns roaring out of tune.
Why, she said. He smiled.
Poetry by Bob
Read 650 times
Written on 2016-10-18 at 20:24
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Print text
Lucy and Ferdinand
1Lucy loves all daisies
that shoot from the hip.
She never looks back.
She is a handful,
she never breaks the lamp,
she is concluded.
Lucy never dips her fingers
into pots long revered
by important tribes of weird vision,
she never leaves surrounding space
to its own making.
Ferdinand drives an ominous bus
down self inflicted avenues
with a solar certainty,
mooning the gutter
that is left behind.
Seascapes drip of dark blue,
waves carry the smell of gulls
and gargled rocks.
Ferdinand finally washes his worries
with clove and thyme,
with dark corals and sand.
Liquid nights never saw Lucy
stumbling over cobblestones
into a wintry November rain
full of dreams and paper kites
soaring high above poor man's roof
and chimneys etched in grey graphite.
She never pointed a fresh finger
to the damp, dull sky.
"I wish you could see me through,
as I once looked at afterbirth,
the second coming behind bars,
never knowing where
fierce visions might go or burst.
Ragged tears come with years
of truth seeking,
never pondering petty pilfer,
nor skies never perceived."
In a world of many speakers
Lucy is alone,
pulsating in a common reach.
A minaret singer, a surgeon crying,
Ferdinand is on the radio,
all is in pieces...
At times there is peace
inherit in conceiving.
"So let it be said that I
would not stop at the end of the day."
2
Lost in winter's white pendulum
with a ticking rabbit moon
rolling in the grin of frosty grass,
he faces grey skies and dereliction.
Strokes of violin blue
on a yielding canvas
at midnight dark ticking
lie close to another meeting.
Strands of raw umbra
coil around his chaotic heart.
Sienna burning at midnight
shapes a white bird dancing
in dark feathery chains,
dissolves in French turpentine.
Paine's mist wraps him
in a wild winter sky fading,
throbbing with lights of instant grey
beckoning to wolves and old men.
The obnoxious undead walking
clearly have an agenda
the size of a tidal score of one
in absolute presence
rolling beneath the trapeze .
Faces hidden from going,
star eclipsed and wishful,
speak into a new would-be void,
leaving well be to the wind.
Shirts on a her cloth line are sails,
as sunny shanty town walks
where steep leads to cheap liquor
and moments of forgetfulness
listening to the radio.
"Ignore me you fool
with a dark reason to shine,
ignore me and elegance will drop
ungraceful and die .
I am the unbroken voice,
the awesome in a new day,
perception collapsing
in busted mirrors gone astray;
understanding is washed out."
Stretching and twisting beneath the skyline
Ferdinand is not far behind
the one hand drawing eternity,
invisibility develops in shades
and shapes of light.
The coal calls for attention
at the end of any day
with details that move continuously
toward a never completion.
Black eyes formulate motion
in an ordinary universe
with tall orders and servants
that melt into the grade.
Derelict days of wonder
reappear on rough paper,
a present whim
leads the hand astray.
3
Terrestrial shortcomings
can be a falling ocean wind
on a cold winter day
as polar bears leave the floe,
staring down fading dominion.
Proud is he
destined for the pounding
of storms.
Winter fallout seizes old memories
where old men walk
from cove to endless night
with no thought of cover.
The grand conch shell
whispers of salt.
Drapes of oily illusion
beckon in dark waves motion
where fear goes deep.
The salmon glides gently
from the Sargasso Sea
to a river that will run wild,
where rapids are exploited by man.
***
"I am the Father
of all I can see,
the land that surrounds me,
of all I can be.
I am the Father
with the golden eye
that fathoms the entire sky
before its time to fly.
I am the Father
of all free seed,
of sad men that bleed
in the face of greed.
I am the Father,
or rather, I am the fool
that believes presence is cool,
that mind is a proper tool."
***
Stable steaming,
a rosy, new born baby
cries in the dark, early hours,
lifts an island in a cold sea.
Piano keys like stepping stones
lead into a different vision,
curves into a soft adagio,
hums.
Mothers reflect
in mirrors of packed hay,
heavy breasted,
belonging.
***
Said Fernando:
"I am the invisible man,
never talking about angels,
or romantic infatuation.
I do not claim to be
anyone other than he
who was elected into likelihood.
Fuck hypocrites that suckle
rocks of phony visions.
The unreal turn daily tales
into a yellow chicken
relying on a crooked straw
that seeks the egg.
Dream on you vulture
that feeds on echoes
of the undead,
congregate and dance
with your silly smiles
and die, just die,
never knowing the name
of your rotting shame."
***
The charcoal finds new places,
rises and falls with its dark pigment
on resilient paper's protest;
it is a continuance.
What can he, the observer, do?
He is active,
he interferes when voices fail,
he makes a response
that ordinary day rejects.
The colors seemed just right,
the feeling when they left the brush
was perfect, just enough resistance,
just enough molding capacity
to perform the intention.
Light he created and air,
shapes folded
into images of want and here.
He is a swirling maelstrom
a sudden universe of expression.
4
A long time coming
falls finally in night's direction
where viridian pine needles
and big cats sleep on Turkish rugs
never meant for Aladdin.
Dream on you noose maker,
you perpetrator is a fake democracy,
time will absolutely come
when all human decree
will burn at the perimeter.
"I am a dinosaur of the future,
awaiting global greed to die.
I understand plain decency
that shapes fickle sand and hands
that have to pass.
I take the I,
the dog that looks at me,
the cat that still is asleep."
What would Krishna say,
or Mohamed or Buddha or Jesus
or Gandhi or Truman or I,
at the face of global collapse
with money tales burning the market?
5
I am a he that holds my word
holier than a cat can whip its tail,
than the late flight of a bluebird,
flesh caught beneath the nails.
I am a he who sleeps in ashes,
that cries in blood and passion.
I am a he that finally crashes
in sentiments, long out of fashion.
***
Dead trees echo in the garden.
Winter is here, lurking in shadows.
Stray sparrows huddle.
The bushes are still alive!
The night is wrought
with wry wings and bad weather.
I am still painting.
Peripheral power inherit in words
from tongues rolling in tides
are sold by wings and a blue jellyfish.
The sea is dark with winter longing.
Seashell singers line the beach
as the first planet sparkles.
The eye that cries for night
settles in sand that shifts no more.
***
When lion roared morning broke
into soft amber afternoon
with trumpets and lost fighters,
the luciferous gestures will be gone.
Scampering city pigeons
etch the trail with the coming of he
that once walked
with eyes on all ends.
Why must he who wore a crown
be thorned and bled to shreds?
Why must he who defied dying days
walk alone into their ending?
Bird brave perpendicular days,
bird day beaks bent on praying
for rainy days to stop,
there's a plead in the state of winter.
***
Groveling days that flee the light
cringe at wind's dark end.
Old man spatters words and fight
what any silent storm might bend.
Old trees and withered grass
wait for his radiance to pass.
His moon is no merry mistress,
nor is it time to feed brooks
or solitary moments
in days of longing in distress.
Why can't I even look
at every day's components,
at the sky's windy reflection
without its grey rejection?
Dance you fool on all end's day,
cherish all folly in terms of more,
all echoes in aged skulls that pray
are random signs of a last shore.
The dragon man smiled to the dead.
He claims no more than day to me,
declining what evening never said
hoping there is something more to see.
6
Dark wants of doom's dominion
roll naked dice at The calling for more
in nights of mumbling Neolithic echoes
(where one man's bid for a hold unto rock
is another's man's saline stare at sweet taut skin)
over fields of future pleasures rippling
in a wolf pointed winter way kind of wind,
sharpened by a dark will to possess.
I will swallow the dark pill, she said,
I will fill the empty nights with rain,
with the lost innocence a child,
– the cross en-route
with comfort and trust –
one eye hanging from the sky,
the other flayed on a beach
with dead oyster at hand, no pearls.
The brittle bone bare necessities
Fernando harbors at the turning of deep blue
reverberates in snow lit chambers
where she, in a frail fractal orphic kind of way,
waits with little hope of an easy play.
Seascapes tempts his derelict eyes,
cliffs of untold torment tie his tongue.
Staring into the icy void of man
he sees white birds fly into night
and dead sailors that sink again and again.
Lost in the vast white space
between total disregard
and pure iniquity
Fernando closes his eyes
and holds his breath.
Silence is the overall of here,
the echo of a long distance call
falling like flakes of thin ice,
never to be presumed.
***.
7
Wearily he holds on to
old, worn out body straps
that still cannot harness
a lost world contusion.
What secret word
can end this insanity,
can wreck the edge of confusion,
the grin of the ledges,
arresting all afterthought
in a single afternoon?
I fold untold suns
into neat bundles of sorrow,
never whishing for more
than a painless, blue tomorrow.
A smile from a carnivorous beast
is all I can expect.
A last dance with the rejects
over the battle field graves
where dark wind breaks the door.
There is a paddle steamer
approaching in the mist,
a naked child that cries
for tissues and carnal goodbyes,
someone that wants to stay.
A long purple finger points
to the similar marshland.
An old guitar
breaks the morning.
Stern voices roll in watery ways
longing for vivid eyes.
Infant ice breaks in waves
where winds no longer hear
what winter has to say,
it will not stop.
Cold echo remnants of rock
– old world news and rumors
of war talks –
cast desolate ways across the beach
where all hope is not lost,
nor in a broken shell hidden.
Sleepily Fernando stretches his bones
on a bed made for his love Lucy,
never thinking of toxic waste,
nor of bells tolling in the afternoon.
His furry soul is dragged and clean
for tonight's fall and rescue.
He stretches his limbs
in his own slow fashion,
still sleepy on a bed full of stories.
His tail and shoes does not crave,
does not bark litigations
in a dog's bitch court.
He rolls his eyes and looks
with only one intention,
never looking back,
never asking for the impossible.
Damn you soothsayers
that pry on dignity
and leave without a trail,
that hawk all silly words
in markets and courts
where gossip and dead birds
refuse to fall down.
Damn you do-gooders and all you
that prances in moonless nights,
believing that angels cannot fall
from the face of smugness and height,
never daring to charge old fathers
with history's bold body pile
and murky molestations.
8
Lucy finds it in her loins
to further the boundaries
of any steepled church ,
her longing for soft skin
drives new nails
through the carcasses
of dying days.
She mounts her steed
with accepted presence
rolls with the billowing hills
where she can see him
burning through the woods
with a knifed knowledge
of just one day.
There's no stampede
running down stairs or lawns
where sampled future
still is the latest craze
where tourist guides will show you
walls scraped by fingernails
all in vain.
We will all be there,
may the moon
fill us with goodbye
enough to let go
of regret and loss.
There's a voice that moves
from vessel to vessel:
It is us Ferdinand!
9
Day was downward looking up,
fast among the pretenders
to the rusty throne.
Unsettled Lucy walked
amongst the debris
of yesterday calling for more.
I must be dead, she said,
whisking her dreams before her.
Serendipity was never an issue.
Ferdinand knew from the very start
what star he could call upon
when night fell into his lap.
Daringly he sought for more
in a barren country lost.
Man is such a mistake, he thought.
Irrevocably they met and died.
This world is wired
and there are only a few trees older
than a thousand years.
At the end there was tenderness.
At the distance they could hear
guns roaring out of tune.
Why, she said. He smiled.
Poetry by Bob
Read 650 times
Written on 2016-10-18 at 20:24
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text| Texts |
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