Poem of the Month - MAY 2018

...oh...          
no I don't          
         
And I would hacksaw          
gnaw          
each nocuous          
nightingale nail          
from it's shoals          
it's risque riverbed          
it's fleshy fitted          
fingerhead          
to backtrack down          
every shirtless back          
they've dared - in dream          
to roam          
and comb their          
shameful handfuls          
'round          
         
...no...          
I don't want these eyes          
my erring          
staring          
glaring pirate pair of iris          
spyglass emeralds          
unsettled in their          
socket settings          
roving rifles          
of fiendish green          
         
...you should know...    
...you should know...          
they should be blown          
in whole          
out the back of my skull      
bloodstones from a blue whale blowhole        
         
I don't want this heart          
throwing thoughts of          
men          
like Campbell's cans          
clattering into shopping carts          
         
---          
         
Vagrant vices          
splice my volition          
exponentially
         
pages pile up          
miles of onion skin bible          
paper          
choky cellars stocked and locked          
X's scored          
on my bottomless          
clipboard;          
tabloid trespasses          
dyed laceleaf red          
         
Reverentially penned          
leaflets laced with lechery          
rustle - roughed-up moth wings        
rouge with regret...          
...and it's clear          
that they'd burn          
cleaner          
than my newsprint conscience

   
   
   
   
plum blossoms pinkly beam in the dew  
   
green branches meld to the hue of country sky  
   
these things almost in themselves a sutra    
   
a confluence of various means  
   
in humility beneath the undimmed moon.  
   
   
and primarily you are also    
   
incarnate music incarnate wisdom  
   
great realizations of    
   
clear light and dark light  
   
and unrealizations of the same.  
   
   
   
 

Each day brings a dozen new tales
with numerous words apiece
illuminated in individuality,
no two quite the same
as the lines pass by
in step to the days on a calendar.
Too numerous and diverse
to inspect in detail
with proper deference and respect
as impossible as briefly glancing
yet fully appreciating
all the art in a gallery
in only a solitary piece.
For we are painters
and words are our brush
to the page as our canvas
where ten words can portray a picture.
Whether they come from matters not,
originating in personal experience
or conjured by divine inspiration
or prompt provided,
they appear
and are present.
Beholden to something greater
than the sum of their parts and particles
not contained in contest
but found in the context
of universal harmony
and the collective creation
that underpins all human civilisation
regardless of race or creed
of colour or gender
or of knowledge
as it is the outpouring of words
that is the true merit and value
equal as a creative outlet of being.

They told me
To cast out
My pain
Like a stone
To the river
But
It is fused
Within these walls
Built strong
Enough
To withstand the storm
And
From it
I have broken ground
...
Without pain
How can one
Remain
...
The first bricks laid
Are primary
And
Paramount
To the structure
And  
Mine will not be
Picked apart
To ease
Or appease
...
Pain
Is not solely
Where I stem from
Nor is it
All that I know
But
It is a pivotal stone
Laid in the formation
Of my make-shift home
...
So
Like a seed
I will nurture it
And
Tend to it accordingly
Careful not to spread
But instead
GROW
From the concrete
I have found myself upon
...
These scars
Will not be carved out
For there is beauty
On
And
Within the walls
To remove  
Would be to erase
The blueprints
So
I will not dissect
To demolish
When all I want to do
Is build
And
Grow
...
I count bricks
As I lay them
One
By
One
From the strain of pain
I remain
And
Strong enough
I have become