A purring song of liquid honey Angelkitten,
Burnished golden metallic wings,
Diamond-bright dinky halo and
Those kitten-soft feet to mommy-paw
Your eyes shut at sleepytime,
Hunting your hair,
As the wind from the waves of her home,
Corner-of-your-eye cat-quick paranoid spirit
Of Cleopatra Mykelti kittenator flatulator,
Calling-cards framing those other cats,
Wrestling with an orange and brown Afgan
Slim but phat tunnel-runner big-eyed kitten.
Lovin’ the palm tree, kisses for mommy silly
Rabbit treat-begging troublemaking kitten.
Heart of gold trusting Egyptian princess kitten.
Brave Cleo-kitten.
The Angelkitten.
Posts Tagged ‘Spirit’
Thee Angelkitten
Posted: December 19, 1995 in PoetryTags: Angel, Angelkitten, Cat, Cleopatra, Eye, Halo, Honey, Mother, Mykelti, Sleep, Spirit, Tree, Wind, Wings
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The Key to the Monk in Monkey
Posted: October 19, 1995 in PoetryTags: Drunk, Egg, Goat, Imagination, Kung Fu, Mantis, Mountains, Spirit
A chaotic path steps the manic mind
Hill and valley; summit – abyss
Mountain goat leaping skills,
Green eggs and ham from
Point to possible point
Attempt before justification attempt
To find the insight first
The new the unconditional the flexibility
Of constant movement
Adjustment, refinement
Creation of perfection through spirit
Of inventive investigation.
Nothing is quite good enough –
There is always something better:
What else can I do with this?
Enough to stay a defensive blur of feet, fists
Flying kung fu ideas and actions
Drunken praying mantis style
The key to the monk in every monkey
Is an overactive innovation:
Imagination.
I sold out to the rat race:
My time is spent trivially
Pursuing carrots and cash-ews
Running around like a chicken
With its common sense head cut off.
Important criteria have shifted,
Tabbed into the margins of
My papers.
I’m so busy taking notes
There’s no body, no bulk,
No substance, no spirit,
And the price gets paid in years.
Oh, the price gets paid
In years
From now until then
I make myself miserable
By working to make myself
Happy to write poetry
To the bone I go
To the cancerous lip and lung
To my tattered
Standard
Of living.
Introducing the Muse
Posted: December 7, 1994 in PoetryTags: Beauty, Drum, Eye, Flesh, Flowers, Heart, Kiss, Magic, Soul, Sound, Spell, Spirit
I wonder, as the Poet,
if you care what I say here;
these words may only be
patterns or statistics to you.
The appreciation is when organs move
— some passing of spirit
through your flesh,
a Magick spell which,
uttered, or even read,
evokes a thump on the heart-drum or
a tangle of the air in your lungs.
When the eyes are slightly moistened
beyond necessity or that which can be played off,
when the lips subconsciously part or move with the sound
as if to kiss the flowering thoughts,
to sip from the cup of each syllable
— then the letters become words,
translated back into ideas,
reconstructed in a different mind,
personalized to a different environment
— accurately speculated back to
the willpower of imagination that birthed the poem.
My Muse:
she is a bashful widow who hangs her veils thick,
like laundry on a street with no electricity.
A glimpse of the rare beauty,
your eyes to her holiness,
always too quick for detail, yet
that soul-string hums
with some instinctual empathy.
I tend to stutter during introductions
because I never get it just right.
The Blessed Heart Sacred Moon Wanderlust Spelunking Club
Posted: November 7, 1994 in PoetryTags: Beauty, Cat, Dark, Dawn, Dreams, Drums, Fire, Fog, Heart, Night, Shoes, Sky, Smoke, Spirit, Water
I am the sole member
of the The Blessed Heart Sacred Moon Wanderlust Spelunking Club
and I lead myself through the Scottish bogs
under a sky liberally sprinkled
with the Milky Way galaxy.
Wet shoes and grey spirits,
feather boa fog tendrils bathing my sock-tops,
no compass points me to my Holy Grail.
Two kittens accompany me
getting in my way and making me laugh aloud:
an unheard of sound in these waterlogged fens.
Hiding in the ferns, one black/white, one silver-grey,
amber eyes watching my pen dance in this damp campsite,
a smoky fire beating quiet drums
to wrestle back the velvet curtains of darkness.
I’m waking all night to watch over the dreams of Dawn;
her restfulness insures the beauty of the coming day.
Dowsing
Posted: May 13, 1993 in PoetryTags: Blue, Clouds, Earth, Grey, Lizard, Sky, Spirit, Thunder, Wind, Woman
One man walked through a cracked, dry land
dowsing for the cairn of a woman.
his spirits circled him like many wrestlers,
fanning the wind into slight eddies,
stirring the dust raised by each cautious footstep.
one man seen alone with a forked stick
walking away from a dirt-streaked car,
a door hanging open like a promise to return
to the thin blacktop stretching to the clouds
massed like an audience in the west.
his footfalls were distant thunder provoking blue-grey lizards
to quick movements; they reminded him of her bracelets.
the parched earth rose to cling to his jeans.
black spots in the sky materialized into vultures,
cocking steely eyes past hooked beaks;
he could not meet their gaze.
he gripped his stick like a motorcycle’s handlebars
and drove through the desert searching, searching
Untitled Poem #157
Posted: April 3, 1993 in PoetryTags: Car, Echo, Ghost, Memories, Soul, Spirit, Time, Untitled
a car travelling with my soul
in the passenger’s seat: this is time
and I watch fields of wheat breathe,
amber waves of grain…
an organ plays melancholy from a building
and people pass, they do not hear,
too busy looking down when I have stopped
to listen for the sound of the wind:
echoes and ghostlike spirits of memories.
I cannot explain the music I hear,
be it cacophony or pure, ringing clear,
perhaps the different drum I march to.
An Ever Renewing Canvas
Posted: March 22, 1993 in PoetryTags: Angel, Beach, Believe, Blue, Cry, Demon, Dolphins, Sky, Spirit, Window, Wine
a bottle of wine and a sunset,
a beach a place to sit;
this is what I’d like to do
with you to believe.
I believe you can summon dolphins
and that you’re a spirit, an angel.
I know of our fears of demons
and of blue bathroom windows,
ouiji boards and my piano playing.
I live to see you cry and argue
and almost break: then
there are my arms for comfort,
my tongue for talking and my ears
for listening and understanding.
I’ll catch you from harm
by falling against you at the same time;
we’ll teeter but we won’t topple.
all of the sunsets are painted on a canvas
big enough to share: the sky
– and I’d like to share it with you.
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]
After “The Origin of Nunivak Island”, a Nunivak Eskimo Myth
Posted: November 26, 1992 in PoetryTags: Knife, Mother, Sky, Spirit, Wolf, Woman
I
my knife is bone.
I break in half
my knife of bone.
each half I place
into my mouth;
they’re just like fangs
with which I have
become a wolf.
II
to a weeping spirit woman
saddened by the sky,
I make you cut your hand
and then you break your knife.
III
mother wolf.
Frog Haven
Posted: April 20, 1992 in PoetryTags: Blood, Frog, Green, Sand, Spider, Spirit, Stone, Stream, Trees, Water, Wind
I
the splayed hands of the roots
stop searching when I walk past,
but if I listen I hear them quiver
with life blood, holding boulders
when I climb down. unwrapping
and fanning the wind into life
are trees with green springtime leaves.
they swept me along like sand in an undertow.
I scramble and slip down through the branches
and jumbled rocks of the stream bed,
listening to the pianos of the water falling
into each other, over moss sewn stone.
II
beside a sheet of embroidered water
is a cavern of dripping stone:
Frog Haven, hidden behind
a bead-curtain of hanging roots
dipped in the creek,
pouring and pooling away.
III
we are the spirits who define this place.
here, the fall of clear water
is the curve of a spine;
here, the thrust of smoothed stone
is the swell of our muscles.
speaking with the voices of the different cascades,
with tongues of roots and leaves;
breathing out sunlight and forest dust to see by.
here, a trough has worn in the rock,
running happy with songs of mountain stones;
here, several strands of spider-thread,
or elf-hair, to be plucked by the hand of the wind.
Untitled Poem #10
Posted: June 24, 1987 in PoetryTags: Beast, Bird, Blood, Cry, Eye, Heart, Ring, Sad, Sand, Song, Spirit, Window, Wing
Little bird sitting on the windowsill
Why is it that you look so ill?
What is the matter? What is wrong?
You no longer brighten the day with song.
Your eyes are sad, your feathers ruffled
With what unwholesome beast have you scuffled?
Your spirit is broken, like your bent wing
The clear notes of your cry now have a dull ring
Dirt is matted, dust is caked
Blood on your shoulder where you’ve been raked.
With agonized heart, I search the sands
As this little bird’s life bleeds out through my hands.
Ode to a Saddened, Overwhelmed, Depressed, Lousy, Poor Old Guy in a Sleazy Bar
Posted: March 8, 1987 in PoetryTags: Alcohol, Blue, Cosby, Madonna, Night, Spirit, Van Gogh, Weird Al
A saddened man
Will boost his spirits
By having a can
Of Coors or Schlitz
He tries to thik
Of something else
Not armpit stink
Or prison cells
Not the fourth dimension
Nor Madonna’s navel
Not stress or tension
Or record labels
Not impending doom
Or space invaders
Not business boom
Nor prancing satyrs
Not greasy bacon
Or Motley Crue
Not movin’ and shakin’
Or a shade of blue
Not stuffed animals
Not the Cosby Show
Not new Weird Al
Not old Van Gogh
Not the E.R.A.
Not the Price is Right
Not yesterday
And not last night
So the saddened guy
Sets his glass down
Clears his mind
And has another round.
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