What is that beating sound?

J’ai Perdu Mon Couer

I kept all my childhood dreams
in the sweaty palms of my hands
and one after another they found a
regret and slipped
away.

Jeg Mistett mitt hjerte

J’ai garde tous les rêves
dans la paume de mes mains
moites et l’un après l’autre ils
ont trouvé un regret et tranquillement
glissé loin.

I Lost My Heart

Jeg holdt kjaere barndommen drommer
i svett handflatene en etter en
de fant anger og gled unna.

But that is not where I am.
I am a day dreamer
I am a dream chaser, all night long.
I am striding half empty
always to feel the joy, pouring
spilling over the edge of
my day into night. Running
down the sides of this vessel,
saturated with the pieces
of the dreams that stuck
to the sweat and in the pores
of these two hands of a man
that hide the child’s hands inside.

De svarte skyene kjenner mitt navn
Yes, the black clouds know my name
Les nuages noirs connaissent mon nom.

And I know the God that created this heart.
Je l’entends battre
Som Thors hammer

The Memory That Never Goes Away

I remember Reaching for your hand before we first kissed.

I remember Enjoying the warmth of our hands touching as did our lips.

I remember Measuring my words whispered in your ear, to take you beyond bliss.

I remember Every tasted breath, before we kissed.

I remember Minutes spent together, the blood pounding in my state of light headed
bliss.

I remember Brown eyes drinking in my blue eyes, as we touched finger tips.

I remember Every tasted breath, before we kissed.

I remember Relishing the next time our hands would be closer than our lips.

I remember
the letter
you wrote
saying it was
better that
this was good-
bye, I was across
the country
and could
not test the
look in your
eyes, gone
cold. This
rememberance
is very old.

She Kills Things

She kills things.

“Roses are red, the violets are dead.”
She stopped, looked at her toes as she spoke.
Moving at full speed, Her hair flowed from Her head .
The door suddenly thrust open, against the vase, which She broke.

Quickly, running, fast up the steps, to find Her granddad

She knew she was is in trouble, forgetting her grandparents warning.
Where the violets had been, there was a shimmering, growing lake.
She saw the garden, in full sun, that she watered that morning.
Bored, across the yard She skipped to count, how many would it take?

Surely done, it was playtime, strawberry stained lips, and no one around.

They left Her there to tidy up, shut off the water, and pick strawberries.
They put Her to work in the flower garden full of colour, and a few bees.
Grandpa said to Grandma, “that girl has a lot of cheek.”
She said,”Roses have thorns, violets are weak”

She was the garden tempest.

Long Streets have Long Names

Her eyes matched her hair, and she watched me sit down there, at a small table.
There were two black tables small, with four chairs each, her eyes shut, she slept.
Her phone at her elbow, tension burdened facial features, i prayed.

I left her, I walked out, found a man bent over, a humble posture
At peace, bent head covered, his tobacco stained fingers laced, prayerfully.
He was a blue jean Jesus, beard bore the same stains as his rough hewn hands.

I passed by briskly and did not look him in the eye, walked down the street.
The blonde pole dancer next caught my eye, she wore short shorts that bared her thigh.
Her habit called, the street she knew, “No Fear, Little Sleep, and Need of Prayer”

Chianti Chanty

Battle royal for a bottle of red.
Up the ante, we’re going for Chianti!

Grant me kindness, pour a splash on my fettered tongue.
Up the ante, we’re going for a thousand cases of Chianti!

Hoist the mains’l, sea dogs, raise the anchor, or you be hung!
Up the ante, the Cap’n is in a wanton need of Chianti!

Another wine won’t do?
Up the ante, we know where they harbour the Chianti-shhhh

Wind be fast, my thirst is deep, as the desert is dry!
Up the ante, we’re not paying’ for the Chianti we’re takin”

The ship from stem to stern, you get to clean, when we return, alive!
Up the ante, it is worth all the cases of Chianti, below decks we can hold!

Up the ante, we’re putting’ out to sea, we have a nose for good Chianti!
For when the Cap’n retires he will drink and
sing this Chianti Chanty at a seaside shanty, all day!

Running Rhythm

Hidey-Hidey-Hidey-Ho
Wiggely-Wiggly-Wiggly-Woe

Going out on run, in the full Sun
Helmet on my head, both hands on my… Rifle,

If you said “gun”, drop and give your weapon 10 of your best pushups.
If this ain’t fun, call you mom, call your dad, at mile ten they can pick you up.

Hidey-Hidey-Hidey-No
Wiggely-Wiggly-Wiggly-Woe

Sound off …
one,… two,… three,… four,.. one,two,… three,four

I’ll keep running when my legs turn to jelly
I’ll finish this run, crawling on my belly

How far?
All the way!

You gonna quit??
No Way! Not today!!

Sound off …
one,… two,… three,… four,.. one,two,… three,four

one mile down nine to go!
just warming up on the road.

Hidey-Hidey-Hidey-Ho
Wiggely-Wiggly-Wiggly-Woe

Don’t let your rifle hit the ground,
When you need it most it might let you down.

Hold your rifle above your head
Yes sir, but I’d rather be dreaming in my bed

Sound off …
one,… two,… three,… four,.. one,two,… three,four

Hidey-Hidey-Hidey-Ho
Wiggely-Wiggly-Wiggly-Woe

Are we there yet?
Closer than we were, you bet!

A fresh cup of Quixotic Poetry

This will land like focaccia,
Like the careless ‘forgot ya’!

And a man will stand while staring in, through the coffee shop window, going off glossolalia.

The ebullient cashier trainee
remembers every name and mixes up almost all the orders
for coffee,

Cars are lined up for the drive-
through, their voices sound like
didjeridoos, in the ears covered
by single cyborg clip-ons

headset taking orders.

The damned iconoclast, Street person, bows to the ground, hat off his head, as he prays to the cigarette holes he made in the EXIT sign outside,

his hat remains empty, as each car that whips up the wind that tumbles the receipts tossed egregiously at him, like leaves in the Fall,

While the cruciverbalist sits in the corner in the only soft seat, finger pecking her keyboard while stares at the line and sips her chai tea,

lagniappe of chocolate stashed,

away in her voluptuous bag,  the beleaguered barista has cups lined up over the transcendental horizon,

and she can’t wait for her break
so she can eat with Olio Nuovo
olive oil, and Selection Artisan
ged balsamic vinegar, she brought
to dip, her focaccia bread in,
which she forgot almost,
on the counter at home.

Wind Instrument

“Glory be to God for dappled things,”
from this point on,

plucked thin heart strings,
broken hearted blues, smooth as whiskey, for IT burns and the heart has no memory,

Hug the person, not the day, be the tortise shell pattern, that stops the
ocean in its’ tracks. Sit on a curb in a distant place, counting bullet

casings, as no one cares about how many tear drops
have fallen,

Swirl the red wine in the bowl of glass and watch the glass bleed back into the wine,
And stretch out on the pattern of shadows

as sunset catches, resets, and releases, and yes you and your lonely spirit, search high and low for an identity, and want to read language

poetry, so you can misunderstand the meaning and have an excuse,
but be a wind instrument, the world around

you plays the notes, He wrote the song,

sings along, and without you, there would be no music, at all
for those who need to meet you yet.

Unsafe – A Sonnet

 Will it always only be a safe dream
like wandering in a bare wilderness,
game to robust predators, and wildness
clear choices call across the primal stream.

It was late Spring when we first did daydream
the fragrant flowers were dusting progress
Winter’s meagre offer, a cold caress
the wildlife, sedate upon the grounds glean

of Fall’s gathered rare jewelled leaf mountains,
among the valley’s musk we would linger
peak with sounds, echoes loud voiced joy bringer
beyond Summer’s pleasured column fountains,
wayward wine red chances, seasoned drinker
deep red and bottled up, loose danger pains.

 

So there was a man, who watched life pass him by and as he could not be adventurous in deed, he was in word.

Mind the Thorns

Ages past I was once a prized rose,
prized by a Beastly prince
prized by a promise since
filled, prized by a Beauty who chose
a simple request to be brought a single rose.

Please let me stop, to catch my breath
look not upon my petals withered
my thorns still own a fine point tapered
the Beast would not forgive the Merchant’s transgress –
ion, so I was privy to a ransom demand, He then Beast, obsessed

that Beauty was to come of her own free will
otherwise Beast would the merchant kill,
(and remember I still lay on the ground, stock still
not wanting to incur the wrath or step of ill will)
either of a Beast, my Master, or the Merchant, and his own disasters

to have arrived a thorn’s point, a life and death balance, no act
no wonder once it was all done, I aged slower than the rest
but for Beauty missed her family and the Beast was in fact

Still a beast,

some say I was put under glass, some say under a magical spell
I was possibly picked up by beauty and she pricked by a thorn
under her skin and a tiny drop of that love’s blood sustained
me, think what that type of love, could do for the the Beastly,

prince,

read the story for yourself, take a dusty book off the shelf
learn and live the lesson for your self and share your love,
like Beauty proclaimed hers,
and the Beast received then became the Prince,
from ugly, and the families all, filled the great hall,
Beauty had a marriage Banquet, the next day
I saw it all from my place, now let me retire, I fade faster
and in the end The Prince, his Beauty lived happily ever after.

Mind the thorns when you lay me to rest.