Strength. Pleasure. Unseen untidyness. In a closet.
Peace. Leisure. Unfinished conversation. Over a locket.
Two people on a street corner. Two people waiting to cross. The street.
Hello. Good afternoon. Pleasant day eh?
Yes I think so
So long. Goodbye.
Two cars turning. One right after the other. Moving through a clear space. At a crossing of the streets.
Dogs sniffing the corner lights. In passing only. Waiting for a quieter reserve. To let themselves be silently released.
Spit fire-open contest. And he in his attire has chosen to gather with the par event in horizon.
When will the Zepher attract its cohorts? How shall Ecumenicus return to the deft renown?
With a jiff of the trick. So up air hardy you’ll not rather have them sick.
Each with a one of his exhalations. Providing explanations. And the rippled speech of your common seer.
This I say has entendre closer to sense than any ultimatum my dear.
A clarity of space. Some hilarity in the race. A gander at the stock of our neighbors. A daily listing to chores through many labors. To reeve forth the unguent. To reap broad stars of lusty pent. A divine conflagration of peoples. Over broad passes and many steeples. The makeshift predilection of towers. From loose shrifts, the humble bowers.
Cavalcading like streetfell hippies. A curry of fell dashes from a sky paints paths trippy. Het diagramatical lour embellishing sheens of the topical spheres. Tectonic arch craftsman at the gears. With thunderbolt and looming shrouds. The way they stack up they’re as alive as the clouds
Run free with the wind in the fielded glen. Fast as a cloud with a few minutes over a valley to spend. Then rest beneath a few trees with hints of azure skies above the boughs. Or bathe in the cool of mountain streams during spring thaws. For such occurrences I bodily strive. Bound through nature’s eternal struggle with happenstance.
To keep my life I write, I sing. I fly as in a dream with birds on a wing. An augury of flight. Innocents of the night. With our lives like ritual and a foreboding sense of might. Where we will land to the predator there is given no clue. Simply a fact that this story continues later is true.
The time has come when I should join the movement. Thinking though my get up and go must have got up and went. Yet where? If I should care. Can this movement be?
If not standing beneath the gallows of a hangmans’ tree. Or as clouds high, born of tempest storming aloft the sea. I am here thinking. That it is a long road to instincting. If I have got to make this movement a part of me.
Warding off strife. Throughout my life. To live, love, and take a wife. With what else being rife. I want it shone. The way these thoughts into dreams are grown. Till our memories are honed. That each of us stands. With open hands. A member in the heart of gold band.
This movement, is it a tribe? Jah people, a revolutionary jibe. At the resting, souls of our earthly harmony. Telling what’s up. To each of us. You and me.
Change comes and we are on our own. Again protecting hearts from loath at what’s still ode. We’ve got to rise up singing. Having been brought low.
My sage has spoken to me of dreams in my head. That will come to life if my body can just grow old and not dead. My own love, in the Summer, a laud. No work to do, not a lien to place on Hod.
Oh great Sage of the Midwestern states. Come seek with souls to hymn and enunciate.
My great horse is named ol’ Sage. He eats locusts on a plate with mayonnaise.
Oh great Sage of my ocean. You are a great and good river flowing. All of your name I will soon need knowing. When I gain the key to your foreboding. And your grand waters make us out for growing.
I wish in any age to tread your waters. To await the day and return of your daughters. ‘Tis no shame to pay for a passage across with barter. So I took my lass to the riverside and there a movie I shot of her. I don’t possess your soul though I may be a martyr.
A real big river is on my mind. Rainfall is a very good sign. Way up North along the pines. Lazy in a stream with a boat’s incline. A levee on a way with sleeps to cull in winning wine.
In a word. Slammed! Mother Nature’s own son get out the tackle and using it to raise up both his arms. Still righteous and real heart rending. Oh but to make your query of the air. That same thoroughfare as the gospel messages. Given to flight by the birds and their unassuming breezes. Chill and aerodyte. A systemic set of ropes echoing clear. So bound by obstruction. So well fielded as to give strata to its broad sweep. Of the passages, the waterways, the landsdown way of catching tails midnight. A stormy concatenation of modernity and reach.
If there comes back to point, that poetic license is a dealing in proclivities. That meander before stealth is a cataclysmic reprieve from the dunder of a simple and shy hunting. To wink in the age of fascination. To be given to charmed reckless havocs. In determined causality of smelling a quaint blueberry pie cooling in the breach of an open and unguarded kitchen window. If the belt of a hefty broach said making good on the bibard, the penchant, the hustle, of gray eyed and stumbling dodgers.
There has been up till now a good amount of experience to remit the wealth of the common unto the dominion of the reel. There are not again as many oogling codgers to make off with the coffers of the house of justice. More of a due concord in the way that trees buffet and sands sift their dross unto dirty rain. A fitting contentment on the board of believers although still being thwarted by the contest of deserts where there are drowning and the mar of realities when there is not to be found a drop.
Life. Were it raised up behind the stump to reach the conversations of leading tonic and tones. The wistful and indeterminate in their contesting figures of art. The very air above can weal and turn in broad and cavorting temptations. While the given nature of the past time cross. If there are to be more sheep in the fold. Well then if the keep of their hearts to shelter will continue to bleet at their mistress like lambs. She the one to see to their high mountain passes.
Between faux geste and the solar bearing of a kept sort of universal time. Broad out across the waters beyond cliff face and hungry rocks of the reef and fallen takes on the humble towering of the above. A season to take off the normal chains of our intuitions and accept the vocalizations of a consulate. The remaining ephemeral traipsing of a bandy few to their watches and their wait.
To blow the horn of yesterday and remember the Winters release of our dreams to the Summer gardens and the liberty to make good on one’s time. Well spent and garnering both a memory and a taste. For the blessed sunshine and the greenery of the tree and field. The forest in its vertical ascension into the guises of the upward and outward skies in the fair above.
Humane reliques of the earth’s sovereign past. What hear you of these things in the modern theatre? Are the children as bereft of honest charge as the carbon copies? Will the exhumed gold and silver ever get back to rocking and rolling in the turn of the soya count. Dwindling remnant of bones. The contained. The remittent to the even flow of things being tied.
An inhibition to say 💭 things vulgar or not competent in the rhetorical schools foundling. A certain distaff of effective trepidation. How the long going frequency of knits and assuages makes out in the meticulous banter of birds. A gathering coming to the North and its dawn. Fastidious displays of leadership and non sequitur. Each indelible peace in the histories of a nation getting up off of its knees. To embrace the weak forces of nature and say 💭 that Mother belongs on the main. Giving respite to those whose call 📱 goes not unheard.
Commingling in the effervescence of ryman tropes and current metaphors. All glad the ship 🚢 is not sinking. All bayofully at scratch with their devils. Making way in the trades of the music. A grand and verbal contentment in the acclaim amongst the tables of roundabout friends. Each good fellow and glam doll rolling on the crest of the waves that beat on the shore outside.
A Summer house not much fit for Winter’s pasturing. Often the nearest occupant is a dusty ghost. Making out his day on the back of a couch. Meals, rest, and entertainment. Each portion of the day boiling up together into a fust of appetites. Those favorable memories in the mindful exchange of greetings between passerbys.
The quarry of asides deems hesitation break for the wing out upon the tarmac. Its green Sunshine refledged in each clover found to bear its four lucky leaves. A pile of salient drawn salts. The digs of a roving mendicant. Making out garret and grot to the season and the clement weather’s train. An obfuscate and trembling now couched citizen. Gregariously close to the vanity of the lady in her arts. She does not wish to sing alone. An entire choir of the angels making progress out upon the waves. Headed for that furthest ignoble shore. With seed and stamina the new land meets expectations and the olden horn is blown to remember those whose tread fell before this shift of carbon.
This sign of the spiritual throw. With the momentum of a loose flying goose the beautiful and the emblazoned in a rapping flag comes down to a mire of resorts and treats. Withal the blessed pension of a midlander keeping a verbal sentiment in time. For the wait is a look back over one’s shoulder and a barrier with out needing diverse concomitant to hold the hand of the cantor. If we can simply release the bear from the trap. If it were no emboldened goof that limited the exclusion into subsequent divestures. And so the glade is made glad in renewed wander through the dance. Stages in the phases and character roles of a tramping and well spoken crewe.
Fellow friends in an accustomed gate. The North end of the city proper. Where the organic food trucks come into the market space on the square. Near the warehouse that have been refurbished into living lofts and organized corpus of indemnity and the good book 📗 to crow by.
A better dursted landsman into his continence and sharing withal. Concurring streams in the operators style. A realization of a gone 🏠 despondancy in the rising Sun. With bluebirds singing of their happiest schtick about the shrubs and groves that turn from garden to plot. A liberty to wear a new t-shirt and turn the old one into a rag. The best handle on the jug keeps a cork in it. And the olde hound forgets the bitterness of her more frugal appetites. Lets on that she is no more a chaser of rabbits and their tails. Now she wanders behind the child to see him his way down to the schoolyard where the child will bid her take her leave and go. A saunter and a saserdotal memory for the each of them to go by.
1. Peaceful sojourns of the new day’s harbor 2. Portable incandescent borne upon the water merrily in lengths of stream 3. Deprivation of conquest seeks shanty alms from the hillbilly and his ramshackle wife 4. Those in discourse, over templates, have a tremendous disposition towards tankard staffs 5. What strides are missing their foment up against intimate carousing and peril. 6. As mediums, the band may acclimate to the set of tracery arms 7. Into gigues that will spurs of argent chords among the dimension of a personal atrophie 8. As I myself am a pardoned member of an elite artist’s guild 9. I think that each membrance of a poetic prelude can stand with history 10. Against heresy that there will be lapses into the contingent scheme 11. Of involved metaphysics I have decided not to 12. Suppress those fantasies that led me through the dark 13. At night I wonder at ups and downs of brandishing a timely line 14. Coiled this be the braying consumption of elixers 15. That has brought my passage near to my ladies home 16. Her heart beating with tumults of breathy lathes 17. A pleasant scent about ways the air meandering skyward
Simple in dreams. Or so mine seem. Until I awake. And such thoughts can’t shake. I wish to God I could remember how. I learned so low to bow. Each night to get my rest. And in the morning test. Strains of amicable fate. In a soul’s way to consider late.
I miss those diamonds in the rough. Within my way to have enough. Time in each passing day. For a good thing’s lot to say. Still I try my dreams to remember. From flowering May till cold December. Then another year ends. And I’ve grown older again. No closer to a vision rife. More or less borne out of strife. With all the wars the nations wage. Civil in might yet sold for an age. I think that tomorrow will come. And I’ll still be called about a big ego just being a bum.
No, I am not really complaining though. Nor do I believe was Nero with his fiddle and bow. He probably laughed long into the night. As his own Rome fell in the fire light. Never to rise again would be a great big sin. For a human such as I. No, not to make children cry. I’d rather work on a pleasant change. And in my heart, love’s desire to arrange. Till again I prophesied on such. And shun possession of a need to crutch. With exercise of my freewill and mind. Serious in guise, roundabout wary to bind. Myself with foundling love. Lost for days, a winging lonesome dove. Settling down for a spell with me. Some given while, until dawn, when I set her free. To rise away stylized by sky. She’s leaving now, going on her own for a fly.
Alone again by myself. Personally concerned with my own good health. I can usually do anything I set my mind to. Yet these dreams elude me and I am made blue. Nothing seems to stay the same. Getting up at night to start a new game. Watching out my window for folks going by. Waiting for tender memory to bring me a sigh. I have walked the road enough to know. Which way heads down and what’s the way to go. A new day will come and I’ll be okay. For I have made up my mind to join in the play. Of wakeful thoughts that are entertained. By the store of wealth in a millennium’s grain. Judging by the look of things. I found out much about the price of an Angel’s wings. They’re heavier than most and weighed in gold. Made to bear you up to where the thunder God’s are bold.
There’s a heavenly score. Embattled and twixt in the loath of my lore. To speak kindly of such things as need. When babies cry, them life you must feed. Yet why this fear at the garden’s apple. Does a long pony ride bring sweat to our dapple? What men perform their very tricks of certainty. None who’ve ever heard of Athena’s great weavery. For she would surely tear them downs. And rip to shreds their fiendish crowns. Passing lythe out of hand. Numerous grains kept in an hourglass of sand.
An essential Deja vu is superconscious for a moment. Till I realize my instincts are what makes the feelings so potent. Without reason I am grabbing at straws. Chasing a fox and in the mud finding the print of his paws. So afraid at the braying of the hounds. Thinking of a den far away and its more familiar sounds. Growing around in singsong cantabile’s pace. Nurturing and weathering the animal in the race.
Of ephemeral whimsy I am fond. Strengthening for keeps the the permanence in a bond. Rascals and dodgers parade on the floor. Counting the hours golden in store. Infinite slumbers could never be my lot. If I could only awaken in these dreams that I have got. A genuine bed’s rest each and every night. Could no more than hinder my visions’ foundering in flight. They need a dark caress for their shades to grow. Even as Orion victorious in his hunt a great horn does blow.
Poetry oft lyrical in doubling quatrain. Happenstance quoted in a new refrain. A chorus rises to beseech the Sun. Bursting forth in solar flare where Apollo’s horses run. Afternoon’s towers mystical and cherished by the eye. Stealth and quickness to gain the Miller’s rye. Moonlit harranguing of the utmost intense. Come bachelors among us so tary a few gents. Guests of the household with a fortnight’s stay. Endeavour to practice a magic in hopes of a repay. Finite strathing of lightning warp above the sea. Fisherman’s boats from from gathering storms flee. Choring a crewe of werks come clean. Dusting of a books pages foreboding foreign letters mean
Personal Writings 