Posts Tagged ‘Purple’

Violets

Posted: June 5, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: , , ,

I found the violets
I want to weave in your hair
so that they knock it aside
to dangle in your eyes –
a halo of purple and ivy;
a halo to see for the halo I know
is over your brow.

I
this poetry, on this midnight
runs through my veins:
all this hurting, my purple pen
is my blood,
each word a corpuscle –
and to let it out to the world,
sometimes my poetry is simple:
blood,
cut from my flesh,
bleeding my emotions free.
Self destructive
so that I can leave the world
with impressions of fire and intensity,
of feeling.
This is how I feel.
And a poet is a job of living,
breathing, suffering, sacrificing
money home security comfort
for the fleeting knowledge that I am writing.

II
I am smoking: I will die quicker.
I am drinking: I will die quicker.
But I am leaving what I have,
these words
the blood of my existence.
The blink of an eye
and the full moon is gone
waxing, waning:
soon so will I, another man
will die and fade into obscurity,
but these ideas, thoughts, memories
will not disappear quite as quickly,
eroded into paper or computer.
Crickets die – they begat children
to carry on their simple song;
this is human responsibility.
Treat this as information
of a life.
Swallow it whole or in pieces,
pass it along;
someone will find it useful:
the memories of me,
who and where I am right now.

Poem in Periwinkle Crayon

Posted: February 28, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , ,

you are my crayon
I always must
sharpen with you.
you make me feel
never mind what,
but I like you 4 your
specific shades –
don’t change your colors
for what you think I want.
let my skies B
brown, my
eyes gold and green,
your skin B purple.
my coloring book
doesn’t always agree
with yours – but then
again, does yours always
agree with mine?

Inkslinger

Posted: January 20, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

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.

Untitled Poem #139 and 1/2

Posted: December 24, 1992 in Poetry
Tags: , , , ,

I am jealous of what you think:
all your monsters seem terribly attractive,
something to devour me right –
I mean, correctly.
you’re untouchable and yet
I know
that I’ve striped you
like being disembowelled with a Katana;
one white stripe, or a purple one
for you to look at
because I love you.

Untitled Poem #-21

Posted: June 10, 1992 in Poetry
Tags: , , ,

stepping from mushroom top to mushroom top
I find that I am smaller than I had thought.
looking around for anyone looking at me,
I grimace and kick myself in the ass (grimace
meaning turning purple and fat and shapeless
and hanging out with Mayor McCheesy).
I then continue on my way,
sighing across the tops of the funky fungi forest.

I
I can wish as hard as I want without trying.
Maybe it takes a nervous breakdown
To examine the croak of a frog.
A rich man tapes his hands to his sides
Drowning in treasures but refusing to decide
Which pearls he wants to wear for eyes.

II
To the grey lands to search for the sunken man,
Glowering in the shadow under a rock.
“Come in under the shadow of this red rock –
“I will show you fear in a handful of dust.”
Of ash, of bone, of moon, of stone;
Cadaverous, skin a dizzying kaleidoscope of veins.
I screamed, hands clenched to my eyes, alone,
Falling apart under that brittle stone.

III
pretending to have misplaced my watch,
I asked a current friend for the time.
she looked at me curiously, sadly,
then asked why I no longer rhyme;
walked away as I demanded an answer
from myself; I never saw her again.
time to find another friend.

IV
Sweating and dirty from working,
I keep forgetting to steal some of the diamonds
I’m mining for other people.
At home, I’ve got this dusty blowtorch
Right next to my aspiration to smelt the world.
Been a long time since I burned anything
On purpose. Last time it was my wings.
Pushing the dirt around on my face
With the same oily rag, I promise
Again to go on a picnic in a forest,
Then pause, shaking my head slowly
To get rid of an echo.

V
O black soil, heavy and rich, warm
With the fires of life, thick and moist
Under my nails, in my eyes and ears,
Filling my lungs with blood,
Burnishing my skull with her coppery breath,
Arms sunk to the shoulders in the forest earth;
Black earth goddess.

VI
A poem incarnate: thee, poet.
Vision, mind, thought, dreams,
Thinking in every sense of a word.

And a blackbird.

VII
I came forth with a handful of seashells
(to the froggy applause
of the people’s jaws
creaking in their mechanical sleep),
Following May, who’s going home
To dwell with her enigmatic stone.
Placing shells to wait on the sill
And for her to discover
Like a faucet-spray of dry flowers.
Walking on the sidewalk I’ve
Empty hands in my pockets,
Imagining how she’ll find them
Over and over.

VIII
Flying through the rain on a wind of strings,
He flew with the ease of a soul,
Tall and clear-eyed with violins in his hair.
I saw him from the shore
And waved him out to sea,
Rushing over the water’s open grave.

IX
The dreams,
they poured their hearts
out into the bowl of my fingers,
flesh and water and soggy stitches,
Lost and drowned
in the ashes of childhood,
the sorry sons-of-bitches.
I breathed into my palms,
Taking each by their tenebrous hands,
And throwing them into the darkened heavens:
stars like two flung shoe-fulls of sand.
Spinning around and around underneath,
Watching them swim, these stars, good-bye;
Constellations of the smiling faces
of my parents,
One on each half of the sky.

X
I ran through the stacks of cars
After him that flew away by the seat of his pants.
I, too, cannot answer the question:
“What is the grass?”
I can no longer remember.

Standing under a leprous moon,
In a field of strobed weeds,
In a circle of garish flowers
Bowing outwards,
Heads trembling in a sort of gleeful fear.
Looking at my arms, my hands,
my fingers,
The vegetation was purple, orange, yellow, green,
turned pale by the light of the stone in the sky
shown bone by the fire suffused in my eye.
The moon grinned, sunken in the dust of a scream.

Untitled Poem #-6

Posted: November 10, 1991 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , ,

I gave my green to an apple.
I gave my yellow to a spider.
I gave my blue to a firework.
I gave my red to a blanket.
I gave my purple to a crayon.
I gave my orange to a streetlight.
Then I gave them all to you.

I, Ape

Posted: July 16, 1991 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

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.

Untitled Poem #102

Posted: February 3, 1991 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , ,

patterns of orange and purple
dancing savagely over my eyescape;
distant creatures swaying beyond the veils of sleep.
a windswept cliff of grey,
tough grasses growing squat in the wind,
the sound of the sea rings in my ears as I decide.
the mountains were smoky tonight;
mist drew thick curtains to wetly blind.
trees stirred, restless in the dark like masts and
my breathing becomes slower.
beneath my froglike skin, bones sharpen.
I hear flutes and pipes echoing off stars
through the frames of space.

Hopes and Dreams

Posted: December 11, 1990 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

There once was a little boy
Who had dreams which danced behind his eyes
Of magic golden cities,
People merry under purple skies;
The trees and hills behind his house
Where the young boy used to play
Would welcome him joyously
Into their arms most every day.
The boy would lay for hours
Watching people living and dying
Delighted in the magic spent
To dream without even trying
But as the boy got older
His imagination began to soften
And out to the hills and trees
He wouldn’t come as often.
Plastic guns and army soldiers,
Matchbox Cars and other toys
Stole the love and keen attention
From the helpless little boy.
The sun set silent one day
Over the lonesome trees and hills
The happy boughs and glades
Wept and sadly stood still.
No one heard their hearts break,
No one knows how they cried,
But some dreams were lost somewhere in time
When the child in Michael died.

C-R-Y

Posted: November 12, 1990 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Standing on an island
C-R-Y
For the melting purple clouds in the sky
Let them go
So down burns the sun in all its glory
Palm trees weeping from the weight of their coconuts
The footprints I leave
In the sand of the beach
Remind me that I’ve been here before
Purse your lips and ignore me
My, my, the streams running pell-mell
From your eye
The shark fins circle
So many lazy fish.

Purple

Posted: March 16, 1987 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , ,

Chris Feher
Should have purple in his hair
Because it is unfair
He didn’t do his share
Of picking up TP
Out of four there were three
Make him pay a fee
For avoiding penalty.
Linda is pissed
With her mousse she missed
Knocked out of her fist
The ground it kissed.
Bobby got shafted
His jacket was blasted
Ironically purple’s casted
The effects have lasted.
Alex missed out.
Wendy will pout.
No doubt
They’ll shout.
Bur Chris we will get
Not yet
I’ll bet.
Don’t fret.

Leper

Posted: March 11, 1987 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , ,

Slumped by the wall
Trampled by feet
Too dirty and too obscene
Sign around its neck
In big block letters:
LEPER OUTCAST UNCLEAN
In sixteen different languages.
Missing one wrist and
About half of its face
Splotches of purple and green
It silently speaks
Through rotten teeth
LEPER OUTCAST UNCLEAN
But no one hears him.
It has no feeling
In its arms or legs
As it watches them turn gangrene
With dull eyes it sees
An uncaring world
LEPER OUTCAST UNCLEAN
Alone.
Its entire body putrefies
Right before his face
But his senses still are keen
It’s completely numb
And stone cold dead
LEPER OUTCAST UNCLEAN
The flies feast at noon.

[obviously influenced by Stephen R. Donaldson’s Chronicles of Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever]