speak low
We could speak poetry,
language languid with eloquence and charm,
evoke meanings far beyond
common conversation’s command.
Spin me daring scenes and inspirations.
Call my essence to imbibe shared meditations.
Lean mean serene obscene,
we careen floor, wall, ceiling,
fulgent air of ecstasy’s semantic
Speak low, my wondrous love.
Echo within interstice of heart and mind.
Lift magic’s metaphoric blind.
Elicit ribbon binds of pure enchantment
only poetry can conjure.
Neptune’s Fool
I burst my bubble daily
just to feel the pain.
I paint my face up gaily,
and melt out in the rain.
My bag of tricks is magic.
Yet no one calls to buy.
I wish my life were tragic,
horrendously awry.
‘Twould explain my sad refrain:
so bravely strong, heroic,
a saint, stately and stoic.
When truth be told I’m just a bum,
the very lowest common sum
of higher expectations.
So, let’s elbow up and drown in rum,
libertine libations
(congratulations obviously optional).
It’s not that I’m exceptional
(what a wrench that was to say),
but that the conventional
I label reprehensible.
Freudian snake crawls a cross,
a highly wired state.
Too late to deny reliance
on random strangers’ kindness,
I issue this groveling plea:
Feed my sustaining fantasy.
See my poetry, and shout out:  “How profound!”
Art Magic
Listen to the heart of bliss.
Lie supine on vibrant sand, inhaling,
under oceanic starlit sky.
Breeze breathes eternity, circles ever
inward to divine intricately
expansive poetry —
thought in magnificent splendor.
All art is magic; all magic is art.
Yet they are not the same, and part
of wonder’s widening landscape.
    Riverside romance one dusky June
    Turned into a winter poem
    By firelight – light of the moon.
    We loved and parted all too soon
    Each to return, a separate home
    Riverside romance one dusky June.
    I catch a glint, a ring of spoon
    Flashing through the tale I spin
    By firelight – light of the moon.
    Sometimes at night I hear you croon
    “We never had a chance to win.”
    Riverside romance one dusky June
    By firelight – light of the moon.
We are a well at the center of the Universe
suspended like a spider spun out from
a web of space and time
All that ever is, like sea and rain
catalyzed by light, is processing
or other illusions
into effervescent poetry
A forest is a poem
in a language of life, of action.
Symbiotic energies swell into echoing song.
Bright catalytic light, dark layers of still
nurturing long decay, fragrant rhythms
hold tune to animal play and parry,
seeds joining in emergent glee, new forms
for old, set in sound and fury.
the word itself carries mystery, tales
of magic and remorse,
of maidens hiding from giants and
handsome knights sworn to fealty.
Sweet sprites, winsome serpents and ravens
whisper oracular spells to trap or free.
A mere parade of words may create no sap,
no clinging moss, no berries enticing birds
to build for a future family.
Yet a forest is most certainly
a poem.
A Woman Disappointed and Disillusioned, Courageously Facing a Seemingly Empty Life
Dressed in sadness
Depressed to madness
Mad to believe in passion,
which never lasts beyond the hour.
Shrieking to bequeath the
power to stand, to breathe.
Time appears, macabre hag
preening her wares.
“See how it was, how it could be.
Drag and drop your face, your fate
onto a printed page. Can you see
new meaning? New lamps for old.”
She cackles, like
a metronome.
New maps for a new age.
That charming village erstwhile
known as Hell
has realigned into Helvetica.
All that pain and sorrow
tomorrow’s poetry.
Life’s a Mad Dog in Heat; But At Least There’s Art
I want a poem, painting, song
to be authentic
heart to heart,
mind to mind
Not to tell me something about you;
to show me more of me.
Poker as a Metaphor for Poetry
Play the cards you are dealt,
inflated for the gaze of your opponents.
Don’t squander emotion reactively.
Enjoy the thrill of being in the game.
Pop Quiz
What is more useless than a poet, and why?
Encloistered in my artist’s garrett, threadbare garments more holes than whole
Paint spattered, unruly and unkempt
Barely aware of the need for sustenance or even air
Entranced by the necessity of exploring, exposing my vision
I am the essence of romance.
Writing words on paper, I am merely effete,
Despite my black attire and permanent scowl.
Even if they are good words, finely wrought, expressing deeply true emotion
They are almost literally a dime a dozen.
To expose my wound is inelegance, to explore my essence a narcissistic malaise.
I am the real deal — the poet-philosopher, the idealist dreamer, the journey’s fool.
Surely I should be surrounded by accolytes at my feet, honored to breathe the sacred
Incense of my magesty.
Yet here I stand with bills unpaid in the squalor of a rented room,
Unadorned by idolatry.