Wild Animals & Ghosts.

•November 14, 2012 • 1 Comment

From

a hill

I saw

a light.

Night

is

melting

into

dawn.

The wild

animals

leave

tracks

like

ghosts.

Down

in

the

town

restless

souls

wake

from

dreams.

Kookaburras

are

sitting on

a stump

laughing

at

the

world

under

the

ashes

of

the

moon.

El Duende.

•November 14, 2012 • Leave a Comment

My soul

yearns

for

the song

of the

sea.

 

To swim

into the

depths

so

I can

hear

those

black

sounds

singing

in my

heart.

Prophets, Gods & Prostitutes.

•November 9, 2012 • Leave a Comment

It is clear to me that God has disappeared; dead as a door nail.

People go to the country;to the wilderness to dwell with butterfly’s.

The cities harsh truths are too cold for the God-seekers;

too plain; too ordinary.

Still I love the steel and concrete. The red light shadows of my misspent youth where my Madonnas

lay naked for me to pleasure. Here was God in all its delights.

Grapes of sex. Sweet delectable truths.

God has no polite manners in the hustle and bustle of the streets.

The city breathes heavens and hells every second.

A page of the prophets lies on every street corner, and in every crusted lane.

The Bible of revelations dwells in the cities; its wilderness the crack joints;its needle ridden gardens,

and homeless Johnnies living out of sight.

Only a sudden splash of violence wakes us from our apathies;our own hidden journeys.

But, for the ones who flee, who feel somehow superior by hugging a tree.

The ones who quote Nisargadatta.

The ones who munch on alfalfa sprouts.

The ones who change their names to Willow or Vishnu

say God is nature where woman, man, and tree speak.

God is a circle; perfect, and unspeakable.

Now you may say I’m a cynical bastard,

one who is dented by time,

and maybe, just maybe, your right because I am no Wu-Wei Warrior of truth.

Still, it is in the city with all its blood and fury

circling in our wastelands

this is the place

for me.

Kings & Bastards

•November 8, 2012 • Leave a Comment

Growing up in Sunshine,

train journeys,

hot and smoky

carriages

of my youth,

past the brown river

of my murky

misgivings

where

glue smells

enter

my nose.

The train

speeds across

the bridge

to my

childhood.

My father,

the

general

of his tiny

army,

sits

like

Buddha

in his

emerald

chair.

We fought

our war

guerrrilla

style.

Street

to street.

Winner

take

all.

We drove

to the

cemetery

in a silver

ghost.

we buried

our father

in the

cheapest

coffin

we could

find.

Coming

home

the sky

rained

yellow

dawns.

Inside

we drank

all night

till sober.

We couldn’t

even

cry.

Blow the Wind.

•November 8, 2012 • Leave a Comment

In the diamond  light

cries of the kookaburras

cut through the trees.

Men stand on the old

bridge, smoking,

drinking beer,

eskies

brim full with ice.

Across the way

wood smoke

lilts through

frosted air

with the

smell

of earth.

We dipped

our cray pots

into the river.

Anticapation

turned to silence,

then a sudden strike-

cries of yes

you bloody bewdy

rang through

the mist!

Secret Corridors.

•November 8, 2012 • Leave a Comment

I am I

not you.

Forgetting, things I do not see;

who at times I manage to visit when walking.

A memory, held a moment; no more,

then, dashed like the wind; gone.

I am I

not you.

Who sits at his desk typing words.

Who feels the presence of the rippling

quiet…………..

Who craves the silent roar.

I am I

not you.

A secret corridor where prayers exist,

and a shelter for the birds; who are

holes in heaven

for us to pass.

I am I

not you.

A howling madman of blinded sorrow

who dwells in dreams,

and nightmares of cathedral bells struck,

my kingdom for a drink,I cry!

Words Falling.

•November 2, 2012 • Leave a Comment

Poets:

We

are

the

crazy

bastards

of

Homer

and

Catullus.

 

The

Catullus

of

the

racetrack.

The Homer

of

Springfield.

 

Poets:

We

are

the

words

of

verse

falling

on

to

the

rooftops

of

Prague .

 

Always

leaving

questions,

never

finishing

our

poems;

 

enigmas

to

the

end.