The Cat and the Cow: The Lion and the Bull

The power of prediction
no longer resides
in mystical lands

The art of contradiction
where truth often hides
with red hands

One guess is good
a stab in the dark
betting it all on black
the sun will be back
                                tomorrow

Then there are facts
seasons in tidy groups
Again with the loitering Indians
                                  of Summer

We map the lines
plot blocks of time
to build with, tiny day squares
                                  not one cloud cares

What month is it now
Does the sky show us how
Where to get where we
                                  should be by now

A stampede of March storms in
lions guard the gate
unable to keep the thunder and rain
                                   high and away

Moody March cedes to the Sun
with a Spring in her step
Leo moves over after having his
                                    pray fun

Bleating lambs in cowardly shear
flocked in wool coats
Bah-hing about the verdant green grass
                                     over there

Aprils cup is too full
Slushing, spilling about into stream
slurping the porous sky

Is there a pattern
Do you see one
Is it almost summer

Even the water moves
the matador toward Taurus
trapped in the ring, circle, cycle
                                          of seasonal bull.

                           

Feature image by By Desptop (Own work), Macedonian Lion [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Leave a light on

Haiku III
Enlightenment glows
brightest in dimly lit rooms
refracting in-sight.














Pruszkowski "Falling Star" via Wikimedia Commons

Fishin' Ain't Catchin'

Here's a silly story 'bout
somethin' I gone did quite a while ago
that was un poco-No!
Mucho loco!
I tried to try on another state
as though it were up to me
deciding my fate
You see, sometimes I feel restless
like I'm always late

Taking only what I could fit
I rode the black steed
like that Don Quixote that many read
I was headed for Texas
on a trail for new exes
So cliche,
to put it that way
but I was looking for my soul mate

Holy Longhorns that state is so BIG!
and those hairdos ain't no wig
either way
it was plain as day
I ain't from around those parts
of achy breaky hearts
but I shore did get the hang
of trying on some Southern twang
an essential part of wearing the state

A church on every street
BBQ's and malls, all to escape the heat
But I have a thing for a handsome horse
I stayed on golf course
started a divorce
and let life take its course
and there were lots of miniature deer
running rampant like my timid fear
caught in the headlights of fate

My feet hurt after not too long
Only eight months, enough to see the seasons
and gather my reasons
affecting my gate
those boots don't fit me
And from my own slang
anyone could plainly see
This little Jane Doe
needed to get to walkin' and go
on living it couldn't wait

There's loyalty in love
not a necessity but is necessarily
better, letting the butterfly be
Every place
like a profile has a certain face
as happens to be my case
without wearing a mask
life lived honestly is an arduous task
just like heat and hate

Fondly I think and remiss
about the temporary bliss
of being someone else
seeking desperately
a cowboy in boots with a sweet southern drawl
a sprawling ranch estate, a man that calls me "doll"
Dressing up is fun at any age
leaving the comfort of your cage
Fixin' to find
a fish in a lake
hookin' myself as the bait
but I got no more patience to wait
I'm done dallying in this state
I was running late
on catching up with my fate
dwelling in my hometown state.


Image of painting by By Stanley L. Wood (1866-1928) (http://www.wild-west-art.org/Texas-Cowboy.html) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Before this Pine is Done

When we moved here
there was a plain picket fence
and a giant pine tree

We painted the fence white
then the tree got sick
its tips tinged with red fever

Kids walk by
on their way to and from school
every day, so I made it special

I added a sprinkle of magic to the mundane
tacking up, installing a little elf door
or for fairies and dreams

All ages stop, to wait or knock
all ages smile, at her shade and hope
all ages now notice the tree

They came early one morning
parking the wood chipper outside our window,
waiting for the hour

They've claimed two others
on our street, but ours stands
in defiance and sheer self-reliance

If I could only bottle the woodsy smell
of that dripping syrup, her savory sap
it makes me drool too

And I too feel like one of the children
when I smell her sweltering bark, perfuming in the sun
making me want to simply play and run
(just for fun)
before this pines perishing time is done.

"Obsessed by a fairytale, we spend our lives searching for a magic door and a lost kingdom of peace."-Eugene O'Neill

The Fertile Fields of Eliot

'Tis not a formal invitation
To attend to these notes
With aggressive condemnation
Yet I stress
As futile as the clean is for mess
That I shall drain the sludge
That seals the gaps
Seals holes in his Glory

Upon entering a sacred wood
We may safely venture unarmed
In these wasted lands
Led guided by a master,
a verbal maestro
The Snob Elitist,
a.k.a. T.S. E.

I blame no one name
But if it's all the same
It is he alone who is to blame

Erecting dams for prose
Guardian of the flood
By constraints,
All knowing but not telling
The river which way to flow
Noah which way to go
The momentous movements
Hidden in the mire of man

Suspension bridges belief
Spanning the poetic license
Taught and timbered, framed and inflamed
The blue fire of Philosophy's stone
Which scalds a heart hidden in darkness
Smoldering with the stench
Of discontented plumes
And disconnected assumes
The heavier weight of the world

Mixed tonic of iconography
Solipsism of stoic strategy
Affixed in unclaimed expat geography

So sweetly I've savoured
Those tasty tactile delights
Morsels of decadent bites
Poetic assent of form
Lingering aftertaste of the warm
Acceptance of a well
Balanced diet, of moderation
Passing on the idealistic
Proposition of disillusionment

Little boy Eliot seeks parental
Pride, approval, worth, and weaning
Of need
The last child walks heavily of graves
Mortally detached and eternally tethered.

A bull is stubborn and simple
we expect it so
Do not punish the fox for being sly
Do not resent the elephant
(because he won't forget)
Do not play circus tricks
As a lyrical fix
Escalating your idleness into entertainment
About a metaphor matador,
Even Hemingway
Had nothing would say
You see red too.

Compulsive insecurity that showers
With spiders
Forgetting to rinse the fear
Of knowing it's there
Outlining the shape of influence
Tracing is not art
With my one free hand to draw
Upon the influence
The way our souls talk to our body in music
It breathes unconscious life
Resuscitating rigid forms

Your critical eye watches over
Eternally skeptical
But resigned to accepting submissions
Of only blind faith
The eye turns, the shoulder ices
And the nose responds
To the stench of stale judgments
Enshrined and knighted into law
Affixed in the time of the critic
Preacher incarnate of the Great Hermetic

I attended this sermon, I've listened from the pew
And after this rhetorical confession is through
I'll forgive your moral platitude
Replacing judgments and spiritual certitude
With reverence and esteem
Cropped from the cream de la creme
Piping hot, or saying not
What isn't there
Your moral discrimination didn't care
Honesty is surrounded by pungent air
This is what it means to be a critic that's fair
Expressing your opinion
Over your self-proclaimed poetic dominion.

To date I must admit
I shan't comment on certain merit
I have yet to tour your Wasteland
It is among the trips I have planned
I suspect your poetic tour
Has a certain Eliot-ian lure
But with all the sour and cynical criticism
A creamy dose of witticism
Can take off the negative edge
Or positively push you over the ledge

Though this poet won't- I shall never yield
To the pessimism of you, T.S. Eliot or W.C. Fields
Both of whom are safely dead
The latter of which once so aptly said
"If you can't dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bull."

Constrained in my words I think I did neglect
Despite all the decent and mediocre words I reject
I am unable to honestly reflect
My sincere gratitude and eternal respect.






Image of T.S. Eliot by Lady Ottoline Morrell [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sprinkles on my Sunday

I like sprinkles on my Sunday
slathered with syrup sticky in grey
dripping in melted sleepy-eyed gloom
sliding down panes of my room.

It turns me rainbow gay
not to be taken the wrong way

In its darkness- I sneak a smile,
life agrees, Its been awhile.

The pungent scent of pavement
emitting its stench of sealed fragrant
plumes of sweat
musty and wet

Dissolving salty sugared beads
Once barren earth now growing weeds

Is it
drizzling a bit?
Was it
just some spit?

I think felt it on my nose
(I hate it squishing between my toes)

As though the leaden sky
releasing a bitter sigh
drools in premonition
soothed by heavy submission

Rushing she pushes a bitter wind
Herd and gather inside the thin-skinned

She peaks on her progress
breaking clouds to see her mess

sinister rays
threaten the sprinkly days
this restless phase
an extra scoop of praise

A hazy solemn Sunday treat
A lazy indulgent guilt free sweet
On a day of cleansing and forgiveness
Weather (or not) blessedly religious.




Image of painting by Paul Cornoyer (1864-1923), "The Plaza After Rain",[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Olive to Fly

The ship sailed West on Sunday

The wind was too wild on Wednesday

Our arrow plane rips the paper sky,

severing space for itself, its edges unfrayed.

Flapping fabric waves airily

sewing smooth loop-di-loops

prepared with packed parachutes.

Cruising like a Caddy,

on the wide open highway of the sky.

Her name-I love,

“Olive” was her name.

Born in barnstormer days,

used in crop-dusting ways,

coasting through a Navy phase.

Aloft over land and sea,

thirty owners later,

she took us up for a spin.

By plane of bands, poles and holes

Her martini body knows the sky.

The Hairy Battle of Human Being

Why aren't we done painting the Art of War?
What are we still fighting for?

All the lands have been pillaged and conquered.
The air still reeks of the conflicts we've conjured.

This planets private properties have all be claimed.
Heritage and Historical sights have all been officially named.

Unable to agree that the moon is humanities joint territory.
Unstable people take a stand, repeating family memory.

Still, some do peddle deeds to stars.
The next exurb lots will be refi'd on Mars.

Sacrifice anticipates a victorious tomorrow,
inheriting the debt of our last generations sorrow.

Replacing freedom fighters with tyrannical terrorists,
dancing the limbo line, politico tango in religious trysts

Bad blood curdles staining with fear,
Hindsight is not visible when standing so near.

Death for Liberty, the sacrifice of being right,
betting it all on maybe's and might.

(somehow living in this moral servitude
feels more like rhetorical platitude)

Competitive fabric woven in narcissistic natures,
adaptive and reactive matrix of complex creatures.

Will we only be sated when there's nothing more to take?
Are we merely fated to feuding over pride at stake?

Predictably, in the year twenty fifteen you may find
and even agree, it is well past evolutionary time
that We can no longer be called a species of man-kind
The artists of making War, our masterpiece, a human crime.


Image of painting by John Singer Sargent (1919), "Gassed" Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons. 

The Three R's

I figure,
probability wise its okay
            that you'd be right to say
numbers aren't my thing
            they don't have a special ring

I guess it's totally in my head
             just my problem to portray
subtracting the negative attitude
             they just seem exponentially rude

standing so accurate there
              with an answer and solution for all
circa, around, about, ishes couldn't infinitely care
              even though oddly unaware

I can't calculate
              or translate their twisted tangles
in contemplating these my mind mangles
there's nothing acute about right angles

I see the categorical order
               plus the need to make sense
illiterate to numbers, perhaps this volumes dense
               and my hollow opinion not worth even two pence

I hypothesize however
               that like words numbers can do some magic
and that minus either the solution
               would be exponentially tragic.


Image By Pierce, C.C. (Charles C.), 1861-1946 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. "Classroom of students with their teachers inside a Walapai Indian school at Hackbury, Arizona, circa 1900

Photograph of a classroom of students with their teachers inside a Walapai Indian school at Hackbury, Arizona, circa 1900. The ungraded school is directed by Mr. Murphy (standing at right?). Perspective is from the front of the classroom looking towards the back. About 45 barefoot students are sitting 4 or 5 each to about 8 benches and desks, or standing along the walls. A Franklin stove in the front (at left) provides heat for the classroom. Several pictures hang on the wood walls, including one of kangaroos. A clock (2:40) hangs on the wall (at left). Hats are hung on the back and side (right) walls. Writing on the side walls show math and English exercises. A desk (at right) holds several bottles of ink, pens, and writing tablets. Small piles of books sit on each desk. The bare rafters of the ceiling support the corrugated roof visible above. The floor is made of bare wood planks."

A Diamond A Dozen

Tapping the vein
mulching the marrow
thru sift and by strain
each and every grain
digging for the dime in the dozen
greed glistens with grime
coveting the currency
of counterfeit cubic zirconium
shimmering sparkles dazzle sublime
carbon copy karats
set ingenuine gems
minerals morphed with merits
abstracted stony emblems
outlast our mortal cast
buried, bought and bartered
poised in eternal eminence
crowning ignoble and temporal titles
from birth to berth
East to rise
the West is set
synchronized in circles
rings and tokens
cut, divided, positioned in prisms
reflecting and projecting
facets galore
mining the matter
for a valuable score
but tied in the end
to the ethereal and material
unable to transcend
the philanderous flocks
collectors and inspectors
of crystallized rocks
grains gathered in glass
all the same carbon en masse
fragile fibers affixed with flare
We are all just diamonds from the rough
that you cannot wear
but made of the toughest stuff
on the planet
and diamonds, as we appraise
are better than granite
chalking it up to a chimerical craze
rocks and rings
fire and ice
rule this land of Kings
where stones are symbols
of Divine Beings
touting treasures of troves
by positioning in juxtapose
foresee the clarity, color, cut by the carat
a womans worth weighted by this stat
We must give treasured credit to DeBeers
for the oceans replenishment in salty carbon tears.

Image of  Cullinan diamond (uncut)"the largest gem quality diamond ever found, in its rough form. It is 3,106.75 carats (621.35 g, 1.37 lb), about 10 cm (3.9 inches) tall in its longest dimension. It was found January 26, 1905 in the Premier mine, near Pretoria, South Africa" [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

A poem by D.H. Lawrence, "Lies About Love"

Lies About Love 

by D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930)

We are all liars, because

the truth of yesterday becomes a lie tomorrow,

whereas letters are fixed,

and we live by the letter of truth.

The love I feel for my friends, this year,

is different from the love I felt last year.

If it were not so, it would be a lie.

Yet we reiterate love! love! love!

as if it were a coin with a fixed value

instead of a flower that dies, and opens a different bud.

Image of painting by Carl Herpfer 1836-1897, "The Love Letter", [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A Change of Heart

How can I abhor thee? Let me query (further not)-
I shant utter of malicious, villainous, atrocious quirks
My heart doth relentlessly sound, regardless of nausea or nigh
For the end of my wits so oft' the case yet
I cease to resent thee in still so many ways- Lo'
Must needed solitude and with mustered fortitude
I need thee truly, which is certain no phase
I want thee-Tho' only to be truly
In good intentions, with no more mentions
of deceits and demons from saints-No more complaints!
I shall instead abhor me, sincerely evermore.

This poem was inspired by "How Do I Love Thee?" (Sonnet 43) by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 1806-1861.

Finicky February

No primal forecast
of biblical lions and lambs
but peaking out of the burrow
beheaded in hibernation
Phil is drug
tail first
-wait-
On the 2nd
He doesn't care, he belongs to
Fickle February

No! Do Not Come In
bearing scentless roses
oblique and obligated
as the date is so stated
candlelight of lights refrain
women and wine stain
invisible ink made black and blue
and more blue than black (again)
Fickle February

Throwing rocks around
sweetening the deal
secret tokens and trading cards
diamonds and chocolate
She's a shape-shifter of melted ice
requiring rosy reliquaries of romance
Fickle February

Jacaranda's and Apple Blossoms
White winter Jasmine
Witch-hazel Sweet-box
all brazenly in bloom
icy appeal of a happy tree boughs
skeleton limbed bones poking thru
mimicking the mockingbird's song
Fickle February

Happy and hopeful
singing into spring
wallowing in winter
disappointments dashed
rekindled by revenge
which counts the ways
of these 20 something days
Fickle February

Rain and sun with snowy flowers
mystical manners
of this monthly matter made
Sinners and Saints
Lovers and Loners
a figment of our fabrication
Fickle February

Just a moment

Have you ever read a quote
that struck a certain note?

Or seen an incredible and baffling painting
That boggles your mind to near fainting?

Have you heard that song they redundantly play on the radio,
hasten to hearken-it's about something that happened to you...

Even when a dusty filed away book
Is about your life, once you look...

Preserved in frozen magical moments like these
picturesquely public are life's encrypted pleasantries.

For you cannot share
what was always there
nor would anyone care
about your internal affair

Melodious muted moments

When words won't work
silence sounds sweet.

Image of painting by Albert Joseph Moore(1848-1893) "Seashells", [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The value of depreciation

Deny that we are better whole
For love is loss! Sacrifice is loss!
All the giving takes its' toll,
gambling on return, a coin of toss.
Tho' loves worth the investment-
it does yield a return.
Albeit, a candied sentiment
made of sweet words we learn.
O how do we know its true,
Not counterfeit in kind?
All love that 'tis shiny and new
in growing time goes blind.
For spotting true love there are no glasses,
But lo when you're not e'en looking, that love surely passes!

Image Published by D. McKay, Philadelphia (http://archive.org/details/talesfromshakesp00lamb3) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. "Tales from Shakespeare" by Charles and Mary Lamb, 1922.


*Inspired by Shakespeare, 1564-1616 (who isn't?) "Sonnet 116"

Terra Firma

The mountains spill their dirt downhill

And the hills give up on the valleys

The palette mixed of mud and will

With wanton erosion to appease

Nothing one can keep for good

All things betrothed by buried Earth

In all trees being equal to wood

Why the emeritus mirth?

See the mounds abound the domain

And the offspring shoots rise above

No human souls whole may remain

If which no one should love

And take notice of roots strangled in fear

And the green lights trying to escape

What could grow without a drop of tear

If the soil won't stay in shape?

*Inspired by "Love's Philosophy" by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)

Image By U.S. Forest Service ([Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Elkhorn Mountains, Oregon.