Now I think it is done.
Cold grass sways their bold necks,
indifferent to the season's grim tale,
too short to be told more than once
a long, unsteady night.
The sounding drums of war.
Bleeding, bleeding...
The reckoning of days.
The hollow eye.
A bird above the barren froth.
Grass in crystal silence,
calling no more.
Families and trees, all gone.
Fathers long before us
waited for their turn to fill the gap.
The sun in a sea of salt.
Seep through weeping autumn
with gales and gusts,
with weird tools of dark mystery.
The old man hears bells of sunken ships
calling in a mist called memory
if there was a book of codes.
Thrusts of pain spears the old man's hope
of ever joining joy's magical
master switch
with its ascendance
into a clear cerulean forever.
"Speak you bloody tongue
of all that matters;
speak of all things unsaid,
unheard of amongst beasts,
hovering in halls as yet
unmeasured by eyes."
Leaves of old age fold,
as they should and must,
soaked soil
knows the downward
direction,
the falling spells his name.
This he knows,
that in between this
and what really goes on
there are eyes
dying to get closer.
Driven by a heavy toll
chimney sweeps might allow,
the old man forges day's insanity
into the one sword
cold nights insist upon.
Never promised by tomorrow,
his scarecrow fingers beckon.
Mortally wounded
he falls short at midnight.
Once milky skin
embraced his dreams
with a warm anxiety,
gulls hung above the sea.
He is bruised remains,
eyes falling, leaves.
Earth's dark, exhausted bowl
carries his tenderness.
Dreams fill his days,
sleep erases all hope;
a sullen mound, even more earth.
The wind crawls
like a quiet sarcoma patient
over grassy hills in desperation,
hollering at midnight
with an intent beyond the stars:
"Leave me not to time's device,
to the sound of seashells on slabs;
let gentle perish be my hollow mass,
all my broken feet will know."
Measuring all dark hills
a cerulean horizon commences.
The old man purges the passing
with one word
and leaps at wind's revision from trees
that take and give him different eyes.
Memories of an old town
move through wet woods
in bare November's gaze.
Supple ice rolls across hills,
dares the thought to see
hidden waves
of lost childhood summers.
Clean, white water once
ran transparent
under these stones;
feathery ferns called
for a viridian indulgence;
birds hid in green, soporific shadows.
Clear chlorophyll
rolled like dark thunder.
2
Saturated in a circular perfection,
not yet pale in a perfect winter sky,
the determined moon wages
yet another way to inherit.
Sparrows fold their day in merit,
there are tales of feathery fames.
Once the grass was tall and free,
slow nights carried windy messages
across a perfectly curved sky.
Now the grass is hurriedly trimmed short
for the final, concave hour
with its mercury motion down.
Bold, defying cries of departing birds
roll across roadside tombs.
The old man finds no plea.
Never again shall his prayers
fall in love so easily
with crude saxophones on the radio.
Regal rises above hushed trees,
bare with dark, stiff tongues
itching in a night-belonging.
He has known the coming
long before these words.
Wild wings, a floating elegance,
ride dark water's slow goodbye;
the songs of the grave jelly fish
break in a long time coming.
Abandoned ferries ruptures,
expecting snow's illumination.
He waits for darkness
in leaps and recoils,
unprepared for the sound
bass players can make;
there are stiff remembrance reeds
in a sea of horns.
The eye, heavy with night,
colors all that might be,
rises, yet falls heavily
where many I walks,
continues the distance
from the here to now.
Tall night, fallen dervish snow.
Green grass groomed in white,
in an icy tell spell grandeur,
beckons to sparrows in thick bushes,
cringing in dark suspension.
With darkness tolling in rooms of surgery
he discovers a syllable,
his hands sign timeless tales.
Slow shadows glide in lost opportunity;
crossroads transmute, wither and leave.
There are winds that mold hearts of snow;
white birches that bow, twig strung,
at sky's dark encounter.
Suburbia, evenings dark companion,
abandons misery and lost causes.
Children's voices float in formalin
over bedside dead visions
and pale stories,
with wintry fantasies and laughter.
A breath of irrevocability
cloaks the dying of the day;
images of ancient ships
sail into a long goodbye sun.
Is there a new page waiting?
A man in the city
howls into the night.
There is a shortage of cedar.
Dog tired bones
slowly rot in a mire mass,
in hollow perpetuation,
where smug charlatans
hide dark deeds
behind a ceremonial cloth.
3
Whirling within limited existence, aroused,
crawling across weathered city centers,
the old man foresees all he is not
and dares the rest to find its own peace
with what no longer is possible.
Itchy, incorrigible ways cringes
at the touch of the one word,
pointing at him. He is lost.
His defiant smile
breaks his intentions
into consideration.
The sky is sea-fading fish bone,
a struggle amongst clouds
for winds to interpret or change
with their pockets full of images,
grinning over dark, watery graves.
Tangled in a warm hide,
breathing softly beneath contortions,
the old man dares not to fall
into night's justified wrath,
he dares not to invoke origin
when darkness sieges all ending days.
Overlapping moments of a slow now
fall unexpectedly into his lap.
The old man's love is a merry icon,
a slow dissolve into soft cries
prying into the delving,
a muted call, fading into dawn.
His story is bony tail,
a symphonic patriot at play.
He disbands and displays dark glory.
It is time to mould
that which will not play
with crude clay.
Who will dare dark incitements,
flights no hidden man can heed?
The old man feeds no flare, no fight,
nor what bare needs can prey upon
in nights that bleed for more.
Thus he calls the pending year
by all fear night concludes in cries;
abandoned kites run with stars,
soar in a wondrous wake.
It is nothing more than a glimpse,
a voyage of no consequence,
that winds its way from here
to the potential said so
and all the way back again.
Drab stories of delusion fall short at dusk.
Frenzied voices from a sub zero continent
slide down dark moon matter
to meet what does not come.
Colliding carelessly with
salty wood-words of winter,
black crows, with feathery bets,
beat collectors to the meltdown.
Food is the final curtain call
before predator blinds
hang vicious ways
in chains and no peace.
Oxygen is more
than just a breath.
Tuition so much more
than just coercion.
Flying whishes at midnight calling
melt the hour of truth.
Cymbal nights
coarse voices singing
in foreign languages
streaks of light permeating
the final hour
fly over the earth with crows.
4
The old man
finds himself at war,
between righteous howls
and dry bones.
The power of money
makes for long term claims.
Hypochondriac men,
claim dominance by default.
Glossy shadows of power
feed on illusion,
focus is a self imported
aspect of visibility.
Daring is a glorious move
that does not need blood
nor religious fervor
to defy the order of deeds.
The old man
sees flaws at the fundament,
all for a keep safe
and its winding complications.
A tumbling today a changed direction
at the melting-point
where he, as it were, hoped to canalize
all potential of a lame and toothless future
into pools of consideration.
He is wild intention
bleeding into a weary night,
too bold to be daft or even stale,
too rapt to pale or fold.
He is shift change from cruel tears
into Good night.
The sound of sirens echoes,
danger in the halls
of fractal consideration
falls short at mercury midnight
as bright titans call for moderation.
Never before did the whispered moon
rip at the core of mortal serendipity
with such a definite intent,
never before did it occur to him
that the haste of days is hereditary.
The waning moon has spent
all its expensive emissions
on cellular mass calls for dawn.
Bright nimbus of winter distortion
warps distance in glass,
transparent drops softly freeze
in subtle oblivion.
At the dull hour of leaving,
when the light of days
imbues all he can see,
when being breaks into longing
and matter makes a million goodbyes,
each a sweet bead in a lost rosary,
it is then defeat is bearable.
Parting is a thousand suns
bursting into flame
in a single piece of dry wood;
conceding is to swell in that light
with each breath of air.
Cause has no other origin.
5
The old man downs severity
and cloaked daybreaks
on his way to meet serendipity
a cold, flawless, winter day.
Burning all bold forever's
beneath a cold private sky
he cries for the lost children.
Bushes etched in winter nudity
exudes flittering clouds
of warm, feathery life.
Tears of irrevocability
ices the cold sea
where mighty mackerels hum.
Why must he forego all masters of oblivion
on his way to the sea?
A thousand tears have flowed in vain.
A final call will soon
roll over mortal condition
and nothing but broken tail lights
can guide a stray man
concluding his day.
Malign seas finally die,
long before breakfast
a temporal disgust, lust,
a slow burning
jelly fish hold in contempt.
It is continuance
that holds him from fretting,
or falling.
The falling could keep him
from staring at the end.
"Good night weary wisdom's fading.
Tonight no one can play elusive
to the smile of pale stars,
shadows will not play."
Death has no further say
as day finally falls into broken night;
haunting rites and intangible ends
give wind to voices soon lost in blame,
lament and salt.
Time is cruel at midnight falling.
The sea puts shanty history to sleep
with shimmering waves,
with moonshine
and reasons that continually
reflect on waves.
A hand recoils in petty pilfer,
signals dark dead discipline.
A reptile restitution
implicates a new now,
a fully believed sanctuary
where human expectation warps.
Theft is located somewhere
between the third and forth vertebra
signaling a lost tail.
Prostitution goes
while transparent skin
tells another tale.
Codes of conduct define what he is
as he materializes in what he sees.
6
Elevators rise far beyond
the wanted floor,
turn into blue subways
with female drivers
shifting into new tracks
every time you look.
The phone rings.
Cellophane thoughts
of a certain cerulean sentiment
unfold a hollow multiplicity.
The old man is barely here.
Who can challenge his appearance?
Night after night he scratches at origin,
dares specters to dance with him.
Night after night his proverbial nerve
longs for love's sensation
in a brief fleeting moment.
Soaring through the entire all there is
he embraces the irrevocable outcome.
Speed is a lethal companion.
All possessions will transform
into rock, into blood,
into bones, into grief for integrity,
leaving dubious praise in the dust.
The city moves cadres of dead eloquence
down the streets
on catafalques of lost innocence.
7
Torched by fires of oblivion
he longs for water
in late rush hour cries
for the opium of hindsight,
for the ultimate here.
Memory is his only legacy
balancing on seas
with gravity falling in words
only condition may direct.
The other speaks.
"Long live extreme and august anger
uniting roaming packs
that crave mass destruction
with words of want
and swords that flash
in eloquent fashion.
Hot gain is far more exciting
than the anguish of poverty;
dark hearts speak louder
than unpaved streets.
Long live the voices
that pray for blood,
unforgiving instigators
of fear and obliteration."
Winter began with a blue gentleness,
dancing in soft circles of integrity;
peripheral crystals encouraged mild control
as a matter of being in charge.
All that he is and all he does
leaps at the touch of snow.
Morning is merely the name
of his white intentions.
Glowing in insidious times,
suspended like herons,
turning their curved, beady beaks
toward a final surf,
the old man dives into here
for a glimpse of harnessed light.
Calamities toll like shadows
in the eye of the witness.
Weight fills all recollection
with more than regret.
"Cry you hollow man;
the wind is in your shoes.
No one will follow you;
the echo of circular water
is only sand in a tumbler."
Daring dark day's profundity
the old man slows down,
facing inevitability.
The day's trying process collides
with his intention to express;
the dance subsides,
what must be said is lost.
The moment is caught
in the middle of a history
with the best of all intention.
The distance between what has been
and what will inevitably come
carries his name.
Webs within circles of distraction
often hold his attention
as day follows moon
on its way to forgetfulness.
The electric night,
with a baleful light,
is a watchful eye.
A dark smile
burns all intention,
the bit needed to light the hall;
a fuse goes.
Never looking back
he finds the wind irresistible.
8
Deeds cringe at dark wood's end,
slither and die over leafy lips.
He hesitates,
although this particular crossing
is of no value.
Nevertheless, there are phantoms
attacking any conscious effort.
It is here he meets what is
with no lazy cloak of misrepresentation,
here, where hazy tell tale customs
cast anesthetized spells over shadows.
Never before has he been fraught
with a rendezvous of this kind,
binding all cracked second perception
into a sole moment of here.
There is no other touch.
Scavenging scholars of grey intent
bleed across pillared temples,
over crossbows and sugared lust,
dusty images of what might be
are purple words disarray,
an arrangement of flowers perhaps.
The element of understanding
has to do with keys and clouds,
a state of origin. Birthed mortals
need to breathe the wild.
Tall nights bear neither snow nor rain,
someone plays the piano.
Voices float like white clouds
over any possible objection.
"I do believe in the sound of words,
the spoken, the impossible,
the mad glimpses of belonging,
the electric flashes
between my bedroom poles,
the taut cerulean wood
where the moon is shifting."
The wind, the air he moves
as intentions move him
highways and wasteland
cannot be collected in jars.
Slow is his purpose
following maps of old.
Steeped in ways of imaginary wings,
he is intense, in bold leaps he jumps
over old lost lovers.
9
Startled by silly words silently soaring
over snow's dark, fine cover,
the old man finds himself in disarray.
A host of long lost images plunges
through early windy presence
demanding to be named and dear.
The sea rocks the day
with echoes that fly the light,
rolling over dark below.
He stands by water,
horizon leads to long distance,
a gull cries.
A Sunday morning bell;
eyes that raced are still.
Glorious peace that eats the heart!
All that and with regrets
he does not covet.
For a moment he dangles;
a bait for the ambitious and ignorant.
No sweet aroma meets the starfish
surfing on dark water's curve.
Death has no say here,
it is the enchanted dance.
The cod tolls for all men,
the squid falls,
grey clouds of shrimps
and wet clams
with weepy secrets
in a foolish eddy
fall in into yesterdays darkness.
10
Dark deeds wring sweaty hands
where another man just would say:
"It costs to harbor a volatile spirit
under a capricious skin! Flee!"
Like a smoldering fire at midnight
cold December crumbles.
Night abducts all frenzy,
seeing carries mist to sleep.
The math and the result
beds with the very best of our age,
cheered on by the lazy,
by eyes of unfocused sleep.
Tonight all content is external.
The speed of the thermometer
is certainly of no avail
to the no longer alive,
nor do they aspire physic content.
Winter breaks chilly seals
with light from a singular fire.
The touch, soft and discrete,
speaks of an old man in a cave.
A ray of hope cringes,
eats light, stops
moments before winter strays.
Drab sarcophaguses of night
slide into a flake white openings;
a dark eye, lost,
feeds on diatribes. There is no solace.
Who calls for more when it is dark?
Shadows of guilt flicker in rooms
where no house wolf ever reigned.
The air smells of more snow,
there are no regrets,
only tiny diamonds of snow.
Tonight he is rich.
11
Definitions of the see-through
whirl in tainted rainbows over cities
at the early hour rising.
Indigested ceremonies of division
plunge without scope into lethargy,
talk nonsense by the window.
The closure of flickering loss
winds all ticking hearts
minutes before clear sky breaks.
The end of an imperfect day sinks
below all that is left
of aspirations and hope,
loss is dragged behind drawn curtains.
Brave intentions fold in sleep,
dark dreams approach at midnight.
What is gained will pass,
reduced to figures of logic.
Swirl you origin of unending watery curves,
you cause of bright flickering reflections
over breaking bastions of no faith
with their ragged coastline struggle.
Waves fettered by air
will merge in watery lucidity.
Singeing "what ifs" curl and die,
faces slow inevitability.
Weakness is a common name
when liquid is cheap
and opaque essences
hide inside blue tonalities.
The ice breaks at dawn,
forfeiting all his intents.
Planetary dreams surface
In careful surveillance.
Who sees the doorway?
Who baits continuance with truth?
Indecent spreads of desire
drift over old wisdom.
Genetic belongings are more
than a physical drive
for uncharted marshes
of bursting songs.
Slow back burning trains,
rail-sounding Indian Tablas;
he bets his lost tale
on the night.
Cautious beneath a mask
of social alarm
he talks freely by the bar.
Daring the limited
is about all
his breath can muster
at this temporary station.
Threads of comprehension
pull at everyday's withering say;
the silent agreement with what comes
have carefree fingers.
No blame on him, he stands to lose,
he is grief and sorrow is tomorrow.
Night might not find another lover
silently turning intentions
into inevitabilities,
it might not survive.
Fidelity flies with the best.
12
Teenage girls, scrawny
like unfed geese in the spring,
float through harbor attention
on their way to blue ocean's loss
with only a smile to support them.
White froth fills the gate,
terms are not yet drawn.
What dark there is
murmurs in anticipation.
A thrust breaks the oily mirror,
A buoy shines in silver light.
Not yet immortal is all these girls
can ask for.
Cranes are the old man's view
of the continuous aftermath.
Offspring in chemic confusion,
seraphs and historic delusions,
all unfurl their uncertainties
in nights with no further say.
"Must the concept we name days
be caught in midsentence
before what is, is implied?"
The leaded invoice slams the gate,
there will be no more fiasco
at the end of this night.
Ships are moored.
13
Weird tools lend themselves
to lost cures and high lore,
play in waves of blue dreams
where saxophones of old walk,
murmur nonsense at midnight,
tease the old man's mislaid directions
with baffled images of infinity.
Words flock at the foothills
with rolling water's entry
into pools of longing.
But he is lost.
Dark aspirations.
Attempting another context,
he gives birth to a breath.
The water has broken.
Lost in waves of slow extinction,
shaped by the agony of old mothers,
the old man cares not for the gloom
that fills his eyes,
that points him to the shore.
He walks not in today's peace,
nor beneath a wicker basket sun,
rolling across feathery fields,
hen-shaped and slowly dying
before his eyes can say goodbye.
It is a mother of pearl morning,
beneath an empty turtle shell
smelling of wet decay and salt.
He mounts the sea with pain,
the serpent grinds its sand,
a stray bird shrieks.
Day after driven day
he wrings his futile fire,
all that lost middle men may scorn
in lost calls for consideration.
Midnight moon is passing,
perpetuated by the ticking
of a old boy's retreating heart.
All is contained in this manmade morning
where he stands by a window,
cleansing nebulous night with grief.
Teased by dark end's tell tale perusal
he falls windward into wet grass,
the viridian is a dark horse.
The bellowing roar of water
breaks the seaweed summer,
discards vacant shells and dead fish.
Never before did a promise of continuance
roll morning into steeples and cider,
with only seahorse to plead with.
An old man lost in views:
There never was nothing more.
He is close to you.
14
There is no hidden agenda
the old man can count on,
no cheerful day, tap dancing
to fireflies and girls
on their way to the meat market.
Streets of silver
beg him to see the fracture.
Bones that melted for Paganini
reinvents the way he falls,
a soft surrender flowing
beneath a cold sun.
He carries tall trees
and the dying of the winds
to rest in grass.
Pale bones and summers
where once wooden flutes echoed
out of groins in silent laughter
talk to the descending sea.
Fierce is the fire that feeds
on false sainthood and salt,
on naked arms in cloth.
Watermills in stiff collar at high noon
move with gullibility.
Sureties are pale words on waves
rolling wet sand to the dry shore.
The cat's smile folds
under dark water dreams.
Wild to the obnoxious bone
he tells his tale to the crowd
with no hope of a here after,
not expecting anything more.
Stretched, corrupted and lost
at the brief disturbance of influx
he ploughs the earth in his own fashion
grieving for nothing but the end of days.
Going down with thunder,
with the fat fabric of clouds
in their wake of yesterday,
with too much umbra
he separates daybreak from wild water.
He will not die in dread or fear,
nor tolerate the coming of mean storms.
All is salt and fish in tears,
all is shape or seaweed.
15
There is a feline sorcerer
summoning all birds at dawn
to roll into the palm of his hand.
He wants more rain,
he wants more grass.
The second death came that dawn,
gulls and crows called out
just before rain and wind
left the night to prowl elsewhere.
Early birches, charged and soaked
at the edge of more rain,
tell their own story,
unfurling green flags to a distant war
of mongrels and squatters.
On distant banks the poor
are squeezed
far into the burning dessert
where parched scorpions
bleed beneath a dying crescent.
Migratory whispers
around lakes, in trees and high above,
herald thunder with beady eyes.
The shaman's shoes
has gone ahead
with the brooding light.
The passing of dreams
roll over wet grass.
16
"I am the first soil,
the breeding ground
of all conscious effort
tolling in windows."
Wine flows red on walls
and sirens interfere
with the dead street walking;
thugs feast on visibility.
Money makes bombs
that burn children.
Fingers of old itch with power.
Giants roll down captured hills,
break into villages with cheers,
dreaming of a world of free banking.
There is a call for fat children.
Free fall suicides,
daredevils the old scribes forgot
while copying the myths,
fall into darkness rising
below Gilgamesh mountain.
Nowadays rivers of tears
run through broken valleys
where cedar and cannabis
once spiced the air,
where the olive was a stream
long before the flood.
No shepherd ever strapped
belted death to his day,
no goat ever went missile
for the sake of a different tale
where Ur does not echo.
Shamash! Ki!
The Sumerian ghosts
still sing in the shadows
where villages bleed.
Poetry by Bob
Read 883 times
Editors' choice
Written on 2011-11-28 at 22:35
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A stab in the dark
Cold grass sways their bold necks,
indifferent to the season's grim tale,
too short to be told more than once
a long, unsteady night.
The sounding drums of war.
Bleeding, bleeding...
The reckoning of days.
The hollow eye.
A bird above the barren froth.
Grass in crystal silence,
calling no more.
Families and trees, all gone.
Fathers long before us
waited for their turn to fill the gap.
The sun in a sea of salt.
Seep through weeping autumn
with gales and gusts,
with weird tools of dark mystery.
The old man hears bells of sunken ships
calling in a mist called memory
if there was a book of codes.
Thrusts of pain spears the old man's hope
of ever joining joy's magical
master switch
with its ascendance
into a clear cerulean forever.
"Speak you bloody tongue
of all that matters;
speak of all things unsaid,
unheard of amongst beasts,
hovering in halls as yet
unmeasured by eyes."
Leaves of old age fold,
as they should and must,
soaked soil
knows the downward
direction,
the falling spells his name.
This he knows,
that in between this
and what really goes on
there are eyes
dying to get closer.
Driven by a heavy toll
chimney sweeps might allow,
the old man forges day's insanity
into the one sword
cold nights insist upon.
Never promised by tomorrow,
his scarecrow fingers beckon.
Mortally wounded
he falls short at midnight.
Once milky skin
embraced his dreams
with a warm anxiety,
gulls hung above the sea.
He is bruised remains,
eyes falling, leaves.
Earth's dark, exhausted bowl
carries his tenderness.
Dreams fill his days,
sleep erases all hope;
a sullen mound, even more earth.
The wind crawls
like a quiet sarcoma patient
over grassy hills in desperation,
hollering at midnight
with an intent beyond the stars:
"Leave me not to time's device,
to the sound of seashells on slabs;
let gentle perish be my hollow mass,
all my broken feet will know."
Measuring all dark hills
a cerulean horizon commences.
The old man purges the passing
with one word
and leaps at wind's revision from trees
that take and give him different eyes.
Memories of an old town
move through wet woods
in bare November's gaze.
Supple ice rolls across hills,
dares the thought to see
hidden waves
of lost childhood summers.
Clean, white water once
ran transparent
under these stones;
feathery ferns called
for a viridian indulgence;
birds hid in green, soporific shadows.
Clear chlorophyll
rolled like dark thunder.
2
Saturated in a circular perfection,
not yet pale in a perfect winter sky,
the determined moon wages
yet another way to inherit.
Sparrows fold their day in merit,
there are tales of feathery fames.
Once the grass was tall and free,
slow nights carried windy messages
across a perfectly curved sky.
Now the grass is hurriedly trimmed short
for the final, concave hour
with its mercury motion down.
Bold, defying cries of departing birds
roll across roadside tombs.
The old man finds no plea.
Never again shall his prayers
fall in love so easily
with crude saxophones on the radio.
Regal rises above hushed trees,
bare with dark, stiff tongues
itching in a night-belonging.
He has known the coming
long before these words.
Wild wings, a floating elegance,
ride dark water's slow goodbye;
the songs of the grave jelly fish
break in a long time coming.
Abandoned ferries ruptures,
expecting snow's illumination.
He waits for darkness
in leaps and recoils,
unprepared for the sound
bass players can make;
there are stiff remembrance reeds
in a sea of horns.
The eye, heavy with night,
colors all that might be,
rises, yet falls heavily
where many I walks,
continues the distance
from the here to now.
Tall night, fallen dervish snow.
Green grass groomed in white,
in an icy tell spell grandeur,
beckons to sparrows in thick bushes,
cringing in dark suspension.
With darkness tolling in rooms of surgery
he discovers a syllable,
his hands sign timeless tales.
Slow shadows glide in lost opportunity;
crossroads transmute, wither and leave.
There are winds that mold hearts of snow;
white birches that bow, twig strung,
at sky's dark encounter.
Suburbia, evenings dark companion,
abandons misery and lost causes.
Children's voices float in formalin
over bedside dead visions
and pale stories,
with wintry fantasies and laughter.
A breath of irrevocability
cloaks the dying of the day;
images of ancient ships
sail into a long goodbye sun.
Is there a new page waiting?
A man in the city
howls into the night.
There is a shortage of cedar.
Dog tired bones
slowly rot in a mire mass,
in hollow perpetuation,
where smug charlatans
hide dark deeds
behind a ceremonial cloth.
3
Whirling within limited existence, aroused,
crawling across weathered city centers,
the old man foresees all he is not
and dares the rest to find its own peace
with what no longer is possible.
Itchy, incorrigible ways cringes
at the touch of the one word,
pointing at him. He is lost.
His defiant smile
breaks his intentions
into consideration.
The sky is sea-fading fish bone,
a struggle amongst clouds
for winds to interpret or change
with their pockets full of images,
grinning over dark, watery graves.
Tangled in a warm hide,
breathing softly beneath contortions,
the old man dares not to fall
into night's justified wrath,
he dares not to invoke origin
when darkness sieges all ending days.
Overlapping moments of a slow now
fall unexpectedly into his lap.
The old man's love is a merry icon,
a slow dissolve into soft cries
prying into the delving,
a muted call, fading into dawn.
His story is bony tail,
a symphonic patriot at play.
He disbands and displays dark glory.
It is time to mould
that which will not play
with crude clay.
Who will dare dark incitements,
flights no hidden man can heed?
The old man feeds no flare, no fight,
nor what bare needs can prey upon
in nights that bleed for more.
Thus he calls the pending year
by all fear night concludes in cries;
abandoned kites run with stars,
soar in a wondrous wake.
It is nothing more than a glimpse,
a voyage of no consequence,
that winds its way from here
to the potential said so
and all the way back again.
Drab stories of delusion fall short at dusk.
Frenzied voices from a sub zero continent
slide down dark moon matter
to meet what does not come.
Colliding carelessly with
salty wood-words of winter,
black crows, with feathery bets,
beat collectors to the meltdown.
Food is the final curtain call
before predator blinds
hang vicious ways
in chains and no peace.
Oxygen is more
than just a breath.
Tuition so much more
than just coercion.
Flying whishes at midnight calling
melt the hour of truth.
Cymbal nights
coarse voices singing
in foreign languages
streaks of light permeating
the final hour
fly over the earth with crows.
4
The old man
finds himself at war,
between righteous howls
and dry bones.
The power of money
makes for long term claims.
Hypochondriac men,
claim dominance by default.
Glossy shadows of power
feed on illusion,
focus is a self imported
aspect of visibility.
Daring is a glorious move
that does not need blood
nor religious fervor
to defy the order of deeds.
The old man
sees flaws at the fundament,
all for a keep safe
and its winding complications.
A tumbling today a changed direction
at the melting-point
where he, as it were, hoped to canalize
all potential of a lame and toothless future
into pools of consideration.
He is wild intention
bleeding into a weary night,
too bold to be daft or even stale,
too rapt to pale or fold.
He is shift change from cruel tears
into Good night.
The sound of sirens echoes,
danger in the halls
of fractal consideration
falls short at mercury midnight
as bright titans call for moderation.
Never before did the whispered moon
rip at the core of mortal serendipity
with such a definite intent,
never before did it occur to him
that the haste of days is hereditary.
The waning moon has spent
all its expensive emissions
on cellular mass calls for dawn.
Bright nimbus of winter distortion
warps distance in glass,
transparent drops softly freeze
in subtle oblivion.
At the dull hour of leaving,
when the light of days
imbues all he can see,
when being breaks into longing
and matter makes a million goodbyes,
each a sweet bead in a lost rosary,
it is then defeat is bearable.
Parting is a thousand suns
bursting into flame
in a single piece of dry wood;
conceding is to swell in that light
with each breath of air.
Cause has no other origin.
5
The old man downs severity
and cloaked daybreaks
on his way to meet serendipity
a cold, flawless, winter day.
Burning all bold forever's
beneath a cold private sky
he cries for the lost children.
Bushes etched in winter nudity
exudes flittering clouds
of warm, feathery life.
Tears of irrevocability
ices the cold sea
where mighty mackerels hum.
Why must he forego all masters of oblivion
on his way to the sea?
A thousand tears have flowed in vain.
A final call will soon
roll over mortal condition
and nothing but broken tail lights
can guide a stray man
concluding his day.
Malign seas finally die,
long before breakfast
a temporal disgust, lust,
a slow burning
jelly fish hold in contempt.
It is continuance
that holds him from fretting,
or falling.
The falling could keep him
from staring at the end.
"Good night weary wisdom's fading.
Tonight no one can play elusive
to the smile of pale stars,
shadows will not play."
Death has no further say
as day finally falls into broken night;
haunting rites and intangible ends
give wind to voices soon lost in blame,
lament and salt.
Time is cruel at midnight falling.
The sea puts shanty history to sleep
with shimmering waves,
with moonshine
and reasons that continually
reflect on waves.
A hand recoils in petty pilfer,
signals dark dead discipline.
A reptile restitution
implicates a new now,
a fully believed sanctuary
where human expectation warps.
Theft is located somewhere
between the third and forth vertebra
signaling a lost tail.
Prostitution goes
while transparent skin
tells another tale.
Codes of conduct define what he is
as he materializes in what he sees.
6
Elevators rise far beyond
the wanted floor,
turn into blue subways
with female drivers
shifting into new tracks
every time you look.
The phone rings.
Cellophane thoughts
of a certain cerulean sentiment
unfold a hollow multiplicity.
The old man is barely here.
Who can challenge his appearance?
Night after night he scratches at origin,
dares specters to dance with him.
Night after night his proverbial nerve
longs for love's sensation
in a brief fleeting moment.
Soaring through the entire all there is
he embraces the irrevocable outcome.
Speed is a lethal companion.
All possessions will transform
into rock, into blood,
into bones, into grief for integrity,
leaving dubious praise in the dust.
The city moves cadres of dead eloquence
down the streets
on catafalques of lost innocence.
7
Torched by fires of oblivion
he longs for water
in late rush hour cries
for the opium of hindsight,
for the ultimate here.
Memory is his only legacy
balancing on seas
with gravity falling in words
only condition may direct.
The other speaks.
"Long live extreme and august anger
uniting roaming packs
that crave mass destruction
with words of want
and swords that flash
in eloquent fashion.
Hot gain is far more exciting
than the anguish of poverty;
dark hearts speak louder
than unpaved streets.
Long live the voices
that pray for blood,
unforgiving instigators
of fear and obliteration."
Winter began with a blue gentleness,
dancing in soft circles of integrity;
peripheral crystals encouraged mild control
as a matter of being in charge.
All that he is and all he does
leaps at the touch of snow.
Morning is merely the name
of his white intentions.
Glowing in insidious times,
suspended like herons,
turning their curved, beady beaks
toward a final surf,
the old man dives into here
for a glimpse of harnessed light.
Calamities toll like shadows
in the eye of the witness.
Weight fills all recollection
with more than regret.
"Cry you hollow man;
the wind is in your shoes.
No one will follow you;
the echo of circular water
is only sand in a tumbler."
Daring dark day's profundity
the old man slows down,
facing inevitability.
The day's trying process collides
with his intention to express;
the dance subsides,
what must be said is lost.
The moment is caught
in the middle of a history
with the best of all intention.
The distance between what has been
and what will inevitably come
carries his name.
Webs within circles of distraction
often hold his attention
as day follows moon
on its way to forgetfulness.
The electric night,
with a baleful light,
is a watchful eye.
A dark smile
burns all intention,
the bit needed to light the hall;
a fuse goes.
Never looking back
he finds the wind irresistible.
8
Deeds cringe at dark wood's end,
slither and die over leafy lips.
He hesitates,
although this particular crossing
is of no value.
Nevertheless, there are phantoms
attacking any conscious effort.
It is here he meets what is
with no lazy cloak of misrepresentation,
here, where hazy tell tale customs
cast anesthetized spells over shadows.
Never before has he been fraught
with a rendezvous of this kind,
binding all cracked second perception
into a sole moment of here.
There is no other touch.
Scavenging scholars of grey intent
bleed across pillared temples,
over crossbows and sugared lust,
dusty images of what might be
are purple words disarray,
an arrangement of flowers perhaps.
The element of understanding
has to do with keys and clouds,
a state of origin. Birthed mortals
need to breathe the wild.
Tall nights bear neither snow nor rain,
someone plays the piano.
Voices float like white clouds
over any possible objection.
"I do believe in the sound of words,
the spoken, the impossible,
the mad glimpses of belonging,
the electric flashes
between my bedroom poles,
the taut cerulean wood
where the moon is shifting."
The wind, the air he moves
as intentions move him
highways and wasteland
cannot be collected in jars.
Slow is his purpose
following maps of old.
Steeped in ways of imaginary wings,
he is intense, in bold leaps he jumps
over old lost lovers.
9
Startled by silly words silently soaring
over snow's dark, fine cover,
the old man finds himself in disarray.
A host of long lost images plunges
through early windy presence
demanding to be named and dear.
The sea rocks the day
with echoes that fly the light,
rolling over dark below.
He stands by water,
horizon leads to long distance,
a gull cries.
A Sunday morning bell;
eyes that raced are still.
Glorious peace that eats the heart!
All that and with regrets
he does not covet.
For a moment he dangles;
a bait for the ambitious and ignorant.
No sweet aroma meets the starfish
surfing on dark water's curve.
Death has no say here,
it is the enchanted dance.
The cod tolls for all men,
the squid falls,
grey clouds of shrimps
and wet clams
with weepy secrets
in a foolish eddy
fall in into yesterdays darkness.
10
Dark deeds wring sweaty hands
where another man just would say:
"It costs to harbor a volatile spirit
under a capricious skin! Flee!"
Like a smoldering fire at midnight
cold December crumbles.
Night abducts all frenzy,
seeing carries mist to sleep.
The math and the result
beds with the very best of our age,
cheered on by the lazy,
by eyes of unfocused sleep.
Tonight all content is external.
The speed of the thermometer
is certainly of no avail
to the no longer alive,
nor do they aspire physic content.
Winter breaks chilly seals
with light from a singular fire.
The touch, soft and discrete,
speaks of an old man in a cave.
A ray of hope cringes,
eats light, stops
moments before winter strays.
Drab sarcophaguses of night
slide into a flake white openings;
a dark eye, lost,
feeds on diatribes. There is no solace.
Who calls for more when it is dark?
Shadows of guilt flicker in rooms
where no house wolf ever reigned.
The air smells of more snow,
there are no regrets,
only tiny diamonds of snow.
Tonight he is rich.
11
Definitions of the see-through
whirl in tainted rainbows over cities
at the early hour rising.
Indigested ceremonies of division
plunge without scope into lethargy,
talk nonsense by the window.
The closure of flickering loss
winds all ticking hearts
minutes before clear sky breaks.
The end of an imperfect day sinks
below all that is left
of aspirations and hope,
loss is dragged behind drawn curtains.
Brave intentions fold in sleep,
dark dreams approach at midnight.
What is gained will pass,
reduced to figures of logic.
Swirl you origin of unending watery curves,
you cause of bright flickering reflections
over breaking bastions of no faith
with their ragged coastline struggle.
Waves fettered by air
will merge in watery lucidity.
Singeing "what ifs" curl and die,
faces slow inevitability.
Weakness is a common name
when liquid is cheap
and opaque essences
hide inside blue tonalities.
The ice breaks at dawn,
forfeiting all his intents.
Planetary dreams surface
In careful surveillance.
Who sees the doorway?
Who baits continuance with truth?
Indecent spreads of desire
drift over old wisdom.
Genetic belongings are more
than a physical drive
for uncharted marshes
of bursting songs.
Slow back burning trains,
rail-sounding Indian Tablas;
he bets his lost tale
on the night.
Cautious beneath a mask
of social alarm
he talks freely by the bar.
Daring the limited
is about all
his breath can muster
at this temporary station.
Threads of comprehension
pull at everyday's withering say;
the silent agreement with what comes
have carefree fingers.
No blame on him, he stands to lose,
he is grief and sorrow is tomorrow.
Night might not find another lover
silently turning intentions
into inevitabilities,
it might not survive.
Fidelity flies with the best.
12
Teenage girls, scrawny
like unfed geese in the spring,
float through harbor attention
on their way to blue ocean's loss
with only a smile to support them.
White froth fills the gate,
terms are not yet drawn.
What dark there is
murmurs in anticipation.
A thrust breaks the oily mirror,
A buoy shines in silver light.
Not yet immortal is all these girls
can ask for.
Cranes are the old man's view
of the continuous aftermath.
Offspring in chemic confusion,
seraphs and historic delusions,
all unfurl their uncertainties
in nights with no further say.
"Must the concept we name days
be caught in midsentence
before what is, is implied?"
The leaded invoice slams the gate,
there will be no more fiasco
at the end of this night.
Ships are moored.
13
Weird tools lend themselves
to lost cures and high lore,
play in waves of blue dreams
where saxophones of old walk,
murmur nonsense at midnight,
tease the old man's mislaid directions
with baffled images of infinity.
Words flock at the foothills
with rolling water's entry
into pools of longing.
But he is lost.
Dark aspirations.
Attempting another context,
he gives birth to a breath.
The water has broken.
Lost in waves of slow extinction,
shaped by the agony of old mothers,
the old man cares not for the gloom
that fills his eyes,
that points him to the shore.
He walks not in today's peace,
nor beneath a wicker basket sun,
rolling across feathery fields,
hen-shaped and slowly dying
before his eyes can say goodbye.
It is a mother of pearl morning,
beneath an empty turtle shell
smelling of wet decay and salt.
He mounts the sea with pain,
the serpent grinds its sand,
a stray bird shrieks.
Day after driven day
he wrings his futile fire,
all that lost middle men may scorn
in lost calls for consideration.
Midnight moon is passing,
perpetuated by the ticking
of a old boy's retreating heart.
All is contained in this manmade morning
where he stands by a window,
cleansing nebulous night with grief.
Teased by dark end's tell tale perusal
he falls windward into wet grass,
the viridian is a dark horse.
The bellowing roar of water
breaks the seaweed summer,
discards vacant shells and dead fish.
Never before did a promise of continuance
roll morning into steeples and cider,
with only seahorse to plead with.
An old man lost in views:
There never was nothing more.
He is close to you.
14
There is no hidden agenda
the old man can count on,
no cheerful day, tap dancing
to fireflies and girls
on their way to the meat market.
Streets of silver
beg him to see the fracture.
Bones that melted for Paganini
reinvents the way he falls,
a soft surrender flowing
beneath a cold sun.
He carries tall trees
and the dying of the winds
to rest in grass.
Pale bones and summers
where once wooden flutes echoed
out of groins in silent laughter
talk to the descending sea.
Fierce is the fire that feeds
on false sainthood and salt,
on naked arms in cloth.
Watermills in stiff collar at high noon
move with gullibility.
Sureties are pale words on waves
rolling wet sand to the dry shore.
The cat's smile folds
under dark water dreams.
Wild to the obnoxious bone
he tells his tale to the crowd
with no hope of a here after,
not expecting anything more.
Stretched, corrupted and lost
at the brief disturbance of influx
he ploughs the earth in his own fashion
grieving for nothing but the end of days.
Going down with thunder,
with the fat fabric of clouds
in their wake of yesterday,
with too much umbra
he separates daybreak from wild water.
He will not die in dread or fear,
nor tolerate the coming of mean storms.
All is salt and fish in tears,
all is shape or seaweed.
15
There is a feline sorcerer
summoning all birds at dawn
to roll into the palm of his hand.
He wants more rain,
he wants more grass.
The second death came that dawn,
gulls and crows called out
just before rain and wind
left the night to prowl elsewhere.
Early birches, charged and soaked
at the edge of more rain,
tell their own story,
unfurling green flags to a distant war
of mongrels and squatters.
On distant banks the poor
are squeezed
far into the burning dessert
where parched scorpions
bleed beneath a dying crescent.
Migratory whispers
around lakes, in trees and high above,
herald thunder with beady eyes.
The shaman's shoes
has gone ahead
with the brooding light.
The passing of dreams
roll over wet grass.
16
"I am the first soil,
the breeding ground
of all conscious effort
tolling in windows."
Wine flows red on walls
and sirens interfere
with the dead street walking;
thugs feast on visibility.
Money makes bombs
that burn children.
Fingers of old itch with power.
Giants roll down captured hills,
break into villages with cheers,
dreaming of a world of free banking.
There is a call for fat children.
Free fall suicides,
daredevils the old scribes forgot
while copying the myths,
fall into darkness rising
below Gilgamesh mountain.
Nowadays rivers of tears
run through broken valleys
where cedar and cannabis
once spiced the air,
where the olive was a stream
long before the flood.
No shepherd ever strapped
belted death to his day,
no goat ever went missile
for the sake of a different tale
where Ur does not echo.
Shamash! Ki!
The Sumerian ghosts
still sing in the shadows
where villages bleed.
Poetry by Bob
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Editors' choiceWritten on 2011-11-28 at 22:35
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 by Bob Latest textsI seldom walktheres a rumor there will be no full stop so many regrets who am I |
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