DADDY
Who is this fearsome man
called daddy?
When he?s not drunk, he?s
not so bad, he
Showers us with hugs
and kisses,
where he hurts us,
where he misses
***
He?s our daddy
he?s big and bad, he
makes us sad, he
scares us bad, he
makes us so mad, he
is our daddy
===================================
THE MADNESS OF JANE-BEAR
After the children were gone,
the madness came out from under cover ?
came out to play
came out from behind the walls
Within the Andes golden rim
I gazed afar, and caught a dream,
It filled me with bold, treasures gleam,
What guarded jewels there resides? ?
Sliver and copper, stone and clay,
Building blocks, for herds and dwellings,
And farms of cows, lamb and llamas
With turkeys, chickens and camels, ?
Up, the narrow and moonlit pass
Where twilight, is now, far ablaze
With dimness shadows comes the haze
With its mass, impervious cast
Splendid and thrilled these treasures shone,
With echoes, from shifting winds,
Eternal autumn, for my soul, ?
Offer the Andes, from its treasures.
Hammers. Timbers. Iron. Steel.
They’re laying down a mighty keel.
As ant-like workers scurry round
I hear a truly riveting sound.
And as she rises midst the swarm
I see the beauty of her form.
(He has no soul who cannot see
How I am forced to call her she.)
And then, ‘a sudden, she’s a ship!
She waltzes down that mighty slip.
Then, in the water, no splash, mind,
This lady floats. Oh! How refined!
Southampton docks: I want to feel,
And touch, and taste the British steel!
To Death
There are 72-deaths, and God said, ?Pick one,? and so he did, ?To Death,? was its name: its eyes were sleepy, droopy. He then wondered what the other 71-deaths were like?
Many were among the dark hills, stone-forests below?! Waters full of flames, undrinkable!
Stagnant, he slowly glided down its gap, to its warm end, from its glaciers of cold sweat, from flesh, and found death to be a friend (for a while anyways); no dread, just calm, sweet dancing in the dark?here all the longing desires became beautifully-mad, with pounding.
Writing poetry is not so difficult, but writing really good poetry is something, which takes talent and deep thought. Some poets can rattle off poems in streams of thought, just give them a cup of coffee and a good view of the meadow, while others take weeks to finish the next line. What makes one poem better than the next?
Neon Blue is an 18×24 oil on canvas and part of the Walk On The Wild Side Series.
Everything was inspired by the poem, Neon Blue, and then the song I wrote below.
Where legends now flow and flow And scattered pieces of the hero?s pyre,
sing: the stones of Kuelap, Chan Chan
Cuzco?the Amazon ring and ring, as Barbs on windpipes blow their echoes?!
Thus, cords of music sweep into the jungles
And the Andes; here, ?here dwells the city
Of the Andean sea?stone fortress, built
By the gods with stones blood and clay, ?Machu Picchu! Here are the visions ?Of ecstasies; ?sharper than a condor?s
Wings These legends flow and flow And sing! ? and flow and sing, and flow
and sing?infinity! ?The Legends of Peru!?
57) Out of the Dust
Part I
Out of cosmic friction and its rift,
Out of havoc and mass,
Man was born
To a primitive class,
On a planet yet unknown.
Part II
Across the galley, winged demons flew
Ape-like men appeared,
And strange monsters:
All creeping at man?s nature.
58) The Black Hand
His hand a closing veil from hell
Looming to my braw,
To cover it like a canopy.
Behind him the world was upside down
And at his feet stood ancient crumbling hate.
He stood still within this evening bleak,
With weathered limbs and somber sounds
And a waxed face I could barely see;
Then, in silence, his hand went upon my face.
The Goat and the Rope
where there were devils I saw none.
nothing. the air is hot. milky substance.
I am and we are looking at this deep.
souls lost. we are looking at this terrain.
the moon is dead. over my head. like
a shadowy curtain. hanging. most of
the kings in westminister abbey are
here. all the rest of us are on the hill.
no ice-cream down here. we are the
discarded. the seduced. most of us slept
through our earthly lives. they?re still
sleeping through the whole thing. like
a fat cat rolling over for mama. pass out
the beer. slide one under the door. Use
the bible for wrapping paper. once you?re
dead, you?re dead. woooo. here comes
the torture. give me chloroform. quick.
I am dead. but something tells me I?ll still
feel it. there are no carcasses down here.
only the feathered weird. they move their
wings like crippled wasps. they sweat
like a bull snorts. they seem satisfied.
they?ve been in the dark way too long.
In America, poets are held in such low esteem that even the most Honored Representative from Nigeria won?t bother scamming us. Society says to us what Dermot Mulroney says to Julia Roberts in ?My Best Friend?s Wedding,? that we are ?The pus that infects the mucus that cruds up the fungus that feeds on the pond scum.?
Even being cheated by Mr. Honorable Minister, however, is preferable to the poetry scams that have proliferated. Wind Publications? Literary Scam guide has this to say: