Inside, a glowing silver sliver
A secret, a blossom.
Hush now, stop grinning madly.
Cup it, feel it, close your eyes;
Potential beading like dew
On electric arms reaching.
Promises made to be kept
Keeping on, sparks flying,
We reforge the sword
With breath and sound,
Far reaching vision,
Laughter and love.
Wave aside the old firestorms.
Bless their sighs into heat mirages.
An invited return
To my rightful place
At the right hand of the Goddess.
Posts Tagged ‘Fly’
Far Reaching Visions
Posted: December 20, 2002 in PoetryTags: Breath, Eye, Fire, Fly, Goddess, Laughter, Love, Secret, Silver, Sound, Sword
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Seagulls
Posted: September 12, 1995 in PoetryTags: Bicycle, Cry, Dark, Echo, Fly, Night, Sea, Seagull, Sing, Wish
Sometimes the surf sings
Be a seagull and fly!
Along the crests of the waves
That lap at the land.
It is late at night
And the mist of the sea
Slips on to the streets,
An extended arm of tide.
My bicycle spokes churn
Through the streetlamps’ gaze
Until the darkness under the pier
Brings me to a halt.
It is there where the echoes
Of the surf on the pilings
Reminds me of the seagulls’ cries
And my age-old wish to fly.
Pine Tree
Posted: April 3, 1995 in PoetryTags: Ant, Boy, Cat, Child, Clouds, Crow, Fly, Life, Monkey, Mother, Sky, Storm, Tree, Wind
I climbed up as far as my courage
And strength would take me
One day in the life of a monkey-boy;
Those branches were spaced
With a long-armed youth in mind –
A kind encouragement
Beckoning boys to the heavens,
That grandfather pine tree still stood
As of the date of this writing,
And it still looks as tall.
Things change as I grow older –
Hey, I thought it might have grown smaller
Like my free time, but
I’ll bet the wind still waves
The top of that tree back and forth
Enough to make a mother faint.
It seemed like yards, side to side,
The crow’s nest on a stormy ship
Clinging to the sparse branches,
Inadvertently gluing myself to the trunk
With pine sap and a boy’s luck,
Feeling the tickle of the ever-curious ants
That make freeways in the channels
Of such an old tree’s bark.
I think climbing tall things
Is conquering the world to a child.
I remember my parent’s roof,
Paved with pink pumice,
Once all stones,
Then weather beaten gravel,
Looking like a picnic blanket –
Something you could almost fall into
And just sink in,
Like a cat for a headrest.
From that altitude, the clouds were nearby:
I was pretty much one with the sky.
I wondered if I believed enough
On the way down,
Could I fly?
The joy of writing
With a well-inked pen
Is enough to make me
Write again.
Now that I’ve found one
To lie by my bedside
On the open white page
I’ll have the tool to try.
I used to write a lot
When I didn’t write
For a living, but life is
Surprisingly forgiving.
And maybe, just maybe,
Someday something crazy
Will emit from my pen tip
Stunning and startling;
A poetry-trimmed drawing
Of an Archeopterix
One which takes off and
Flies away, makes itself free
Making me content to be me.
The Cataclysm of the Mirror
Posted: November 17, 1993 in PoetryTags: Angel, Anger, Beast, Believe, Bird, Blood, Cigarette, Fire, Fly, Glasses, Godzilla, Hope, Lightning, Magic, Mirror, Vomit
I’m looking at myself
in the mirror and wondering
who the fuck I am –
wire-rim glasses, two day old growth of beard;
cigarette dangling from my lower lip.
FUCKING POETRY – I’ve been gone so long,
writing to myself, watching
my pen bleed from word to word
across the page,
tasting every letter,
thinking every penstroke: the speed of poetry.
And fuck it if it’s not – it’s mine:
my thoughts, my wisdom, my reminders, and my beliefs.
Soon, the anger manifests in obscenity
and thinking of destruction and Godzilla,
not caring, not feeling anything but
pinpricks in my feet from stepping on rooftop antennae.
Flying like a bird, a beast, a leap
from a cliff, to die, to live, to believe
in myself and my vomit, my eyes,
my power to change myself, thus the world.
My wildfire magick of angels and cataclysm,
comedy, tragedy, hope, lightning flying
from fingertips and pen nibs.
It’s all the beauty of the plumbing behind the sink.
angels never think that they are flying
when they really are –
but they know and wonder
when they look how far they’ve come –
they know that they’ve been trying –
they did, and have been,
because they have believed some.
Dolphin Daughter
Posted: June 20, 1993 in PoetryTags: Daughter, Dolphin, Fly, Grey, Ocean, Sea, Water
A dolphin explodes from the water
because she is the daughter
of the foam that is flipped from her grey tail
flying skywards and seawards,
spraying dents into the surface of the sea.
she plunges back under the covers
of the ocean to meet the others,
dolphins which, not caught in tuna nets, are free.
Dazzled Dizzy
Posted: April 6, 1993 in PoetryTags: Angel, Beautiful, Dawn, Dolphin, Fly, Hope, Joy, Laugh, Magic, Water
I have no gilded card to send,
no quill to write beautiful
words that still say I’m so sorry.
sometimes the daybreak dazzles me dizzy
but it has never been as beautiful as you, Dawn.
and what have I done? crushed the wings
of an angel like brushing powder from a moth’s;
I only wanted to help you fly as you should.
the closest pair of cupped hands
can’t hold water unless you work magic,
and perhaps what I wove was wrong
but not a lie; never a lie.
these same hands that I hold empty now
of you I hope to fill nowhere else but here
with bouquets and baskets of joy for you;
summoning dolphins to dance with you;
tickling babies to laugh with you.
A Valentine’s Poem
Posted: February 10, 1993 in PoetryTags: Candles, Flame, Fly, Heart, Mind, Night, Scream, Sky, Stars
I give you handfulls of candles
to set your skies ablaze with stars at night.
they’ll make you create and burn your hands
they’’ make you scream with hurt and let you fly away
into their flames – your mind.
do you think you’ve driven me so far away
that I won’t think of you on Valentine’s Day?
and in these candle’s flames
what constellations will you draw?
will you place them all around your heart
and think of me?
Wind in my Eyes
Posted: February 8, 1993 in PoetryTags: Eye, Fly, Love, Mind, Pus, Sky, Wind, Zero Boy
I
where can I run to?
I am hiding from myself again.
I can’t turn around without feeling
what I’ve done and where I’ve been.
chorus
I’m falling away and I fall through your sky
I see the ground coming up and I forgot how to fly.
you taught me before and I never knew why
but now I’m falling and falling with the wind in my eyes.
II
I wander around in a daze
feeling strange about myself
I’m trying to keep my stomach level.
I’m trying to think of something else.
(chorus)
III
who knows where I’m going
maybe I’m just a crazy guy
but it feels more like being in love
than going out of my mind.
[unsung Pus and Zero Boy ditty]
Gnomes
Posted: February 3, 1993 in PoetryTags: Fly, Friend, Geoff, Gnome, Pipe, Rock, Smoke, Spirit, Waterfall
Geoff and I hiked
to find a level place,
to stretch out with the countryside,
to stop and have a smoke.
trading the pipe-stem back and forth
– when one would speak,
the other would listen –
blowing thoughtful smoke rings
and laughing with the ease of friends.
we sat upon a king of rocks
immersed in the chatter of the waterfalls
aching to hurl ourselves into the air
dreaming of staying there forever.
and somewhere far above us,
our spirits, tall and clear and free,
smoked with us, looking down
their breath touselling our hair.
if I was asked to fly from that cliff
I know we could – and would!
[for Geoff Ian Stearns]
Another Poem that is Untitled
Posted: January 24, 1993 in PoetryTags: Bear, Blue, Brown, Cloud, Dream, Earth, Fly, Red, Untitled, Water, Wind
I know that something’s changed,
my bear’s stomach smells like you again
but I’ll yell to myself.
you come walking through my daydreams
as if you were some travelling Indian
who I must chase off my land.
my hair’s getting long and in my face;
both yours and mine, they’re red and brown
like all of this waterstained earth I see.
over this I fly, sortof falling from the sky
all around you, a shattered pane of glass
melting to dew on the tips of the new grass.
I go with no control like a paper in the winds,
scudding, a cloud, a castle;
help me find my center in all the blue.
Inkslinger
Posted: January 20, 1993 in PoetryTags: Book, Dream, Fire, Flowers, Fly, Ink, Knight, Life, Love, Purple, Rhyme, Space, Time
my ink gleams wetly
before it dries;
my love burns fiercely
before it dies
or so it seems,
disappears to surface in flying dreams.
love long corridors of paisley flowers
love perfect fires and books for hours
space and time,
meter and rhyme,
still my ink flows on and across
a purple crayon for my thoughts
to bring them to life, to tally my fright,
they hold me and make me, blindfolded, a Knight.
Kitty Litter
Posted: January 20, 1993 in PoetryTags: Cat, Dragon, Fly, Hate, Hurt, Light, Love, Memories, Mouse, Orange, Time, Worm
if I was a cat
I’ve chased a mouse of yours
chewed it and played
to your chagrin.
dragons care so little –
true dragons, not gold-hungry worms
– that they’re made from clouds
and always fly.
an orange lightbulb transforms
a room into a Wonderland;
I made a game of room chess
of all my memories of you.
I just tell the time around here.
the hardest things I ever do
hurt like the break
of billiard balls
in my ears.
like telling you
that I hate you
when really I mean
I love you
when really I mean
I can’t let you in,
not right now
when really I mean
that I’m going to collapse
in confusion.
I want you so badly that
I can’t have you so badly.
A Dog looked up
at a Crow; to fly
would be freedom.
A Crow looked down
on a Dog; to love
would be freedom.
A Man looked between
the two; to understand
would be freedom.
He Stood Like a Tree
Posted: December 6, 1992 in PoetryTags: Birds, Cloak, Clouds, Dark, Earth, Fly, Mind, Rain, Sea, Sky, Song, Tree, Wind, Wings
he stood like a tree
on the edge of a cliff
before the sea
and raised his arms
as if wearing a cloak,
as if they were wings.
his voice flew
to the clouds in the sky
calling them to fly
for him.
the breathing of the wind
hummed in his ears,
the earth fell away;
his body lay twisted
and broken open
where his mind had left
it alone, just a tool
that didn’t work this way.
climbing stairs
of cold dry air
ascending to grasp the halos
of those clouds,
flocking with birds
and smoothing his way
with the power of his thoughts.
no need for the wings
of physical flight;
the rain couldn’t touch him,
the dark couldn’t hold him,
and the songs couldn’t
sing him away.
Eagle Feathers
Posted: November 27, 1992 in PoetryTags: Brother, Cloud, Dark, Eagle, Fly, Horse, Sea, Sister, Sky, Wind
from my hair flutter many eagle feathers,
tied to the dark ends of curls,
framing my face in the chill wind
which flies over flat expanses:
the seas and the prairies.
it is this wind which cloaks
my feathered brothers and sisters
while they hunt with their keen eyes.
in these skies, dusted with clouds,
runs the horse of my spirit
and my name, glancing from
one end of the world to the other.
these eagle feathers tug at my hair
in the wind to tell me: fly! fly!
I shot my poem
with a bow I strung
high away in the air
up over the sun.
I fly when I’m lonely
with no one around.
wild spinning up softly,
ending up on the ground.
the squiggles of the moon
in the water ‘round your feet
is how powerful you are.
when I close my eyes,
I can see Alex flying.
where am I going tonight?
crowded subway train
full of sleepy dreamers;
it never stops, but they get off.
somehow I don’t notice,
surrounded by nightclothes
that are empty.
I fly away
to a mountain top
and let my breath fall
to the valley,
happy in sleep.
beautiful bat wings,
and strength,
watching plants grow,
my mountain eroding,
everything melting.
I plunge to tear out the heart
of an evil man,
crashing against his hairy breast
and falling
to the pavement,
staring at his shoes
as he, not noticing, watered his lawn
into my eyes.
I, Ape
Posted: July 16, 1991 in PoetryTags: Ape, Closet, Dragon, Fly, Forest, Green, Light, Mom, Mushrooms, Purple, Rat, Rock, Sand, Shoes, Sleep, Sneeze, Stars, Tide
I, ape, eat mushrooms
in a forest of multicolored furniture
all from the room of a girl
I knew.
the carpety grass is foaming upwards.
shoes play hide and seek when I
sneak around in the closet.
they shut it always behind them.
find them cavorting and wagging their tongues.
I live in the closet.
I read old travel books and sigh.
funny little bugs comb my hair for me.
the shoes galumph like tiny dragons.
my rat escaped.
I, ape, drink cappuccino
alone under the pillars of marbled ice cream,
whittling leaves to stick to their sides with thumbtacks.
sorry.
I sit quietly under a quilt made
of Stars by Mom long long ago that is too small.
it’s fun to push around
on the tiled floors
on my butt, pretending to have no legs.
the leaves turn purple with the sunset paintset.
everything is quiet and
you can see your reflection in everything.
I, ape, peer through the closet door slats
but can only see the carpet that changes color.
sometimes I can’t fly my kite for the roof.
then,
I move the stuffed animals
and make them nod and wave.
there was a lake, big and pretty and I was scared
to throw rocks into it.
there’s a story behind all these shelves.
I wish I had some pudding.
just to sit and eat pudding;
lick the back of the spoon
in this forest
of chairs.
I, ape, wear a green felt hat for no reason,
puzzled by the paintings in the empty museum.
I search all the video games for quarters.
nobody’s home.
dusting the lampshades is fun;
it makes me sneeze and then I dance in the mucous-mist.
I sing myself to sleep in the queer half-light
of the green stone moon
poking my head in holes in the ground.
I play a silly flute
on the sand left by the retreating tide,
sometimes dragging a stick for miles,
then falling asleep
on the carpet.
I, ape, remember all this,
dreamed before I was built of gristle
and hair, wound with a turnkey and set on the linoleum
to live.
my nest in the rocks was burnt
when I returned with some candy I’d found,
so I ate it in the wet soot.
I’ve smoke in my eyes.
I’ve loved you for so long;
now I can fly
and I leave all this hair and skin
and my shoes
behind.
the wind is always flowing going by.
moving, testing, pushing, brushing past
around the corners of my eyes.
teasing, breathing secrets like shivers in my ears.
tickling my hair, turning me around to see who’s there.
punching holes in my clothing,
always coming and leaving
merrily and mischievously.
the wind whistles tunelessly, madly
at the corners of houses,
calling the clouds to come play hopscotch.
graceful, insistent, invisible currents;
curious why we don’t fly.
I thought in my chrysalis cocoon
that this caterpillar
was going to change to a
betterpillar,
but with the soggy skin I left behind
were a lot of the things I had fought to find,
though now it looks like a cartoon.
certain people trap me behind their eyes
where I have to stand and stare at my own disguise:
fishing line
and plaster
and paper-mache.
who am I anyway?
I fought hard with myself
to earn some confidence in the cellar.
I invented assistance to help me dwell there.
never hurting anyone (rarely)
never believing myself (barely)
contemplating a change of scenery
and not just by macking local greenery.
I strung myself up in a silk hammock,
got stuck, read a book, talked
to myself more than normal for me
and wound up falling out of the tree,
a butterfly that for got how to…
Michael is stuck in his own little world
others can only look in through the bars
like a curious ape that scientists can’t explain.
I throw gorilla chips at you.
– – –
if I don’t have it in my own little world,
I will make it or dream it up somehow.
incomprehensible, yes; to me this is magical.
you ask me what I do and I will reply
that Michael is diligently learning to fly.
– – –
my place is where I sing;
I can make noise and it is beautiful music.
I can howl at the moon and the beasties will answer.
art makes no sense and that is its perfection;
can you do this? this is being stuck in my own little world,
so who are you to look through the bars?
– – –
sometimes lonely mike, sometimes tragic Michael.
nobody here to impress but myself, and to be bored with oneself
is to give up and die.
many other things I sing of…
How does it feel to be so transparent
An object made to be looked through
Unseen and
Unnoticed.
The only physical evidence that it is there is
The small pieces of
Fly and dirt and scum
And water spots
That wouldn’t have happened if it
Had Cascade sheeting action
But no one cares.
Sometimes it gets cleaned!
But only to make it more transparent
And ignoreable
And featureless
And it takes away its personality,
What little it had.
Does a window silently scream when it’s broken>
Maybe that’s what the crash is for.
How would it feel to have a hole through one’s middle?
But there are always those few, special, lucky windows;
They look out over a peaceful countryside
Or sparkling, sunny waters
Or cloudlessly blue skies.
Not streets full of pollution, misery, greed
Poverty, homelessness, helpless,
Prejudice, suffering, chaotic, infernal,
Religious, lunatic, morbidness, rape,
And other acts of intolerable crime.
They are very thin partitions…
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