Adding these too...
The curious can read the old version in "books"
and discover how this clock tick
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 his conscious effort.
It is here he might meet what is
without a lazy cloak of misrepresentation,
here, where the tell tale custom officers
cast anesthetized spells over shadows.
Never before has he been fraught
with a rendezvous of this kind,
binding fractured perception
into one single moment.
There is no other touch.
Scavenging scholars of grey intent
bleed across pillared temples of greed,
over crossbows and sugared lust,
dusty images of what will never be
with purple words in disarray.
Elements of understanding
has to do with keys and clouds,
with a state of origin. Birthed mortals
need to breathe in the wild.
Tall nights bear neither snow nor rain,
someone plays the piano.
Voices float like white winter 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 viridian wood
where a 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.
Old man lost in age
finds the night to his liking.
There is no other.
9
Startled by silly words silently soaring
over snow's dark, fine cover,
Old man finds himself in disarray.
A host of long lost images plunges
through an early windy presence
demanding to be named and dear.
The sea rocks the day
into echoes that fly the light,
endlessly rolling over a dark below.
He stands by water,
horizon walks long distance
into a gulls cry.
A Sunday morning bell;
eyes raced are still.
Glorious peace that eats the heart!
With all that and no regret
he no longer covets.
For a moment he dangles;
a bait for the ambitious
and the ignorant.
No sweet aroma no starfish
surfing dark water's curve.
Death has no say here,
fooled by another charm.
The cod tolls for all men,
the squid falls,
grey clouds of shrimps
and wet clams
– with weepy secrets
in the 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 his lost frenzy,
the seeing puts mist into his sleep.
The math of the coroner's result
beds with the very best of our age,
cheered on by the lazy,
by the eyes of the confused in sleep.
Tonight all content is external.
The speed of the thermometer
is certainly of no avail to he
who no longer is alive,
when there is no physic content.
Winter breaks chilly seals
with lights from singular fires.
The touch, soft and discrete,
speaks of a very old man in a cave.
A ray of hope that cringes,
that eats light and stops
moments before winter strays.
Drab sarcophaguses of night
slide into 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.
11
Definitions of a see-through
whirl-like tainted rainbow
over dark cities
fills the early hour rising.
Indigested ceremonies of division
plunge without scope into lethargy,
talking nonsense by the window.
The conclusion of a flickering loss
winds a ticking heart
minutes before a clear sky cracks
with the ink of old.
The end of an imperfect day sinks
below what is left
of aspiration and hope,
loss is dragged down deserted streets.
Brave intentions fold in sleep,
dark dreams approach at midnight.
What is gained will pass like mist,
these evaporating figures of logic.
Swirl you origin of unending watery curves,
you cause of bright flickering reflections
over bastions of no faith
in a ragged coastline struggle.
Waves fettered at midair,
merging in a wet lucid goodbye.
Singeing "what ifs" curl and die,
faces are slow in inevitability.
Weakness is a common name
when liquid is cheap
and illegal opaque essences
hide inside blue tonsils.
The ice vans break down at dawn,
forfeiting all motherly intent.
Planetary dreams surface
in a careful surveillance.
Who sees the doorway?
Who baits continuance with precision?
Indecent spreads of desire
drift like smoke over old wisdom.
Genetic belongings are more
than a physical drive to run
for uncharted marshes
where songs burst into tears.
Slow back burning trains,
rail-sounding Indian Tablas;
he bets his long lost tale
on the one night.
Cautious beneath a mask
of social charm
he talks freely by the bar.
Daring the limited to move
is about all
one breath can muster
at a very temporary station.
Threads of a new comprehension
pull at everyday's withering say;
the silent agreement that comes
point carefree fingers.
No blame on him, though he stands to lose.
He is grief and sorrow.
He is not tomorrow.
Night might not find him another lover
silently turning different intentions
into different inevitabilities.
He might not survive,
though fidelity flies with the best.
Poetry by Bob
Read 555 times
Written on 2015-12-12 at 18:04
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Print text
The curious can read the old version in "books"
and discover how this clock tick
A stab in the Dark 8-11
8Deeds 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 his conscious effort.
It is here he might meet what is
without a lazy cloak of misrepresentation,
here, where the tell tale custom officers
cast anesthetized spells over shadows.
Never before has he been fraught
with a rendezvous of this kind,
binding fractured perception
into one single moment.
There is no other touch.
Scavenging scholars of grey intent
bleed across pillared temples of greed,
over crossbows and sugared lust,
dusty images of what will never be
with purple words in disarray.
Elements of understanding
has to do with keys and clouds,
with a state of origin. Birthed mortals
need to breathe in the wild.
Tall nights bear neither snow nor rain,
someone plays the piano.
Voices float like white winter 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 viridian wood
where a 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.
Old man lost in age
finds the night to his liking.
There is no other.
9
Startled by silly words silently soaring
over snow's dark, fine cover,
Old man finds himself in disarray.
A host of long lost images plunges
through an early windy presence
demanding to be named and dear.
The sea rocks the day
into echoes that fly the light,
endlessly rolling over a dark below.
He stands by water,
horizon walks long distance
into a gulls cry.
A Sunday morning bell;
eyes raced are still.
Glorious peace that eats the heart!
With all that and no regret
he no longer covets.
For a moment he dangles;
a bait for the ambitious
and the ignorant.
No sweet aroma no starfish
surfing dark water's curve.
Death has no say here,
fooled by another charm.
The cod tolls for all men,
the squid falls,
grey clouds of shrimps
and wet clams
– with weepy secrets
in the 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 his lost frenzy,
the seeing puts mist into his sleep.
The math of the coroner's result
beds with the very best of our age,
cheered on by the lazy,
by the eyes of the confused in sleep.
Tonight all content is external.
The speed of the thermometer
is certainly of no avail to he
who no longer is alive,
when there is no physic content.
Winter breaks chilly seals
with lights from singular fires.
The touch, soft and discrete,
speaks of a very old man in a cave.
A ray of hope that cringes,
that eats light and stops
moments before winter strays.
Drab sarcophaguses of night
slide into 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.
11
Definitions of a see-through
whirl-like tainted rainbow
over dark cities
fills the early hour rising.
Indigested ceremonies of division
plunge without scope into lethargy,
talking nonsense by the window.
The conclusion of a flickering loss
winds a ticking heart
minutes before a clear sky cracks
with the ink of old.
The end of an imperfect day sinks
below what is left
of aspiration and hope,
loss is dragged down deserted streets.
Brave intentions fold in sleep,
dark dreams approach at midnight.
What is gained will pass like mist,
these evaporating figures of logic.
Swirl you origin of unending watery curves,
you cause of bright flickering reflections
over bastions of no faith
in a ragged coastline struggle.
Waves fettered at midair,
merging in a wet lucid goodbye.
Singeing "what ifs" curl and die,
faces are slow in inevitability.
Weakness is a common name
when liquid is cheap
and illegal opaque essences
hide inside blue tonsils.
The ice vans break down at dawn,
forfeiting all motherly intent.
Planetary dreams surface
in a careful surveillance.
Who sees the doorway?
Who baits continuance with precision?
Indecent spreads of desire
drift like smoke over old wisdom.
Genetic belongings are more
than a physical drive to run
for uncharted marshes
where songs burst into tears.
Slow back burning trains,
rail-sounding Indian Tablas;
he bets his long lost tale
on the one night.
Cautious beneath a mask
of social charm
he talks freely by the bar.
Daring the limited to move
is about all
one breath can muster
at a very temporary station.
Threads of a new comprehension
pull at everyday's withering say;
the silent agreement that comes
point carefree fingers.
No blame on him, though he stands to lose.
He is grief and sorrow.
He is not tomorrow.
Night might not find him another lover
silently turning different intentions
into different inevitabilities.
He might not survive,
though fidelity flies with the best.
Poetry by Bob
Read 555 times
Written on 2015-12-12 at 18:04
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text| Texts |
 by Bob Latest textsI seldom walkthere’s a rumor there will be no full stop so many regrets who am I |
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