Nine more

This viral world

This viral world whirls to no end
into the arms of garbage men,
bloats like dead pigs in a pen,
is dirt again and again.

No resurrection combs the beach,
seagulls dives deep;
no spring is within reach;
no one follows your leap.

I pity he that runs in vain
like an old steam train,
I pity the glass in between
I and the unseen.






I am supreme

Whatever paths can I take tonight
to unfold hope and deceit?
Where will I not have to compete
with dreams that drains the light
in robes, sour cream and a sheet?

The crushing of naked feet
holds a cool lever over a beam.
Boldness, although incomplete,
resides in love supreme.
I am not what I seem.





I am

I am the taste
all your dream world,
your fast beating drums
can ascertain in moments
of tell tale trials
of what must be unfurled
before time itself
recedes into the night
and all memories
fade into the dying.

I am the salt
that leaves you
with a taste of longing
in times of dread
and what if
another path had persisted
with alternatives
never besought, nor paid for
in the continuation.

I am candor,
a final expression
in the night
that falls in between
what is left of expression.
There is no more
wishful thinking
amongst dying trees
in parks.



Rhythm

The world's swirling beat
swells like dark surmise
under money market skies
where a possession in heat
keeps fixed position as a prize.

Whoa! Let's go!
Africa, Brazil, The Middle East!
It's a drum, come on, go!
Let the beat enfold you,
the rhythm is a blow.





Spring

Once again spring's return
folds wild feet earth
into bundles of tales
where "the old age curse", inherit at birth,
laughs like a mystery moon with no sails.

Spring is a whirling, dervish urn
to a busy miller
that no longer burn
like spring decaying like a pillar,
pregnant with winter, a killer.



















The day

The ominous day has a voice,
never too busy for reminiscence,
gathering all scattered boys
lost in the faint wind.

The trees are waking
to songs of thin, green grass;
I am just an observer
to what takes place
in one day.

Rodents in grating slithers
to fake freemason ways
in shallow freewheeling coves,
shed telltale hideous skin
to tiptoes of tedious claps,
silly grins of gratification.

Simpletons fraternize as one
and true melancholy of dying
is ignored for the easy way out.
Just one more glance
into easy agreement.


















I am the Tai Chi of trees

I am the Tai Chi of trees,
the stray light of evening.
When tidal waves
caught me
I was taken by surprise
and fought for air,
dragged by currents
from one end to the other.

I am the Tai Chi of trees,
the stray light of evening.
When I went to the balcony
two exotic birds
perched on the railing,
feathers rich in color.
I carried them inside.

I am the Tai Chi of trees,
the stray light of evening.
I dreamt I fell asleep
in an old hotel
and dreamed a dream
where I travelled through
a spectacular land.
I climbed a mountain
where I met her
who said I would get a son.
Then I woke up,
twice.












Heresy

Never say never,
Or perhaps it can't be done.

Heresy is like
Opals in a church with
Pain, remorse is all an
Emissary can take.

Flying is for birds
Or airplanes, man is no
Rider of the wind.

Help is not to be found,
Even with pious incantations.
All that you have is
Voice and a vocation,
Eventually ending here,
Nothing more.























Running towards death

Running towards death
in a garden where sweet spring
insists upon anticipation
I see a shadow
stalking children playing in the grass.

I see him smile at them,
a wild flurry of birds
scattering from lost bridal wreaths,
the sun took refuge in an old apple tree,
flustered with discomfort.


Life lost amongst spring's
dueling bell struck gold,
a life, a blink of instance,
one more heart beating spin
on tables of chance,
never looking at outside,
nor its cherry short history.

The old mile cat sleeps in the sun
with not a worry about the score.
The nights are still cold.





Poetry by Bob
Read 577 times
Written on 2011-05-28 at 01:19

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