After the Beginning was the Lie

And lies made flesh flamed into hard tongues
unable to resist a purple crocus not in prison
putting its gentle truth behind bars of locution
for the simple crime of blooming mysteriously.

Thus flesh made words, no poem is innocent but
a shadow flashed, itself an enslaving lie that casts
our goodly yearn into a belief that words are real.

The purple crocus poking through the snow
is its own excuse for being.

I don't even have words for that.

Do not read this poem.

Counting On Time Has Its Own Challenges

A face of purple flowers bloomed at quick once
from a petaled bower confessionally esoteric
with buds surprisingly glas and gorm in season.

Not many choices but the haute septime attempt
when the mosquito bites your cheek so piquantly
and the best laid plans are south abandoned now
to a sanguine reposition of racing red corpuscles-

When I ascended into heaven I descended into hell,
the reality of every living creature plus one and you
spins in blossoms and fortuitous bites ground earthly
like trying to explain a silver mirror to a blind person.

The pattern yesterday was maniacs in courtesy cars,
tomorrow it will be something else that faintly mars:

today the blossoms drifted up like snow.

Weather Report

Silly as naming fires or counting acres

there is a blue door that might open
at dusk with oiled hinges as redolent
of autumn musk as the vibrant voices
bespoke of late, faint Teutonic love.

Hind legs always attract in season.

You can hear them best in late October
then it's all gone mute come November

Dragonflies

After the red goulash with pork and sauerkraut
came floaters tiger striped with a show of wing
sour in the grapefruit sky but with uplifting flits

that demanded palms lifted too in supplication
to a funny green moment joyous and wordless
when the dragonflies dip and mystify at sunset.

What do children think of when it rains?

It's only water falling from a grey sky
which purple striped umbrellas make
funny in a summer warmth when thin
shirts call awake that slumbering sigh.

Going for a smoke in the wet grass when
lights tend to flicker & deny a needy feed
of the monkey, a graying annoy that now
crashes in a minute by a then pouring sky.

In the blink of an eye a rainbow appears,
split by the pale jagged flash of lightning,
when moments earlier in the black crush
excitements seemed a more pressing joy.

Brushing a ringlet one, two clasping a goldfish,
what do children think of when it suddenly rains?

Nothing Was Explained

Nothing was explained about the overture
or anything about carpentry, else melodies
would have been rabbited into harmonies
and a proper house have risen rafter pure.

Tophats garnered in a graying church yard
spoke little about the sand that chucked him
into another silver place where cycles shim
cry into galaxies grown past reddish beards.

The black fluttering arises out of a long mirage
of ice that shimmers in the heated desert land,
reeks of diesel that, seeped from ancient sands,
brings dry vibrations that, deft, deflate his visage.

Chiming zills are struck until from nubs a riches blood
flows into a dry wadi where his ooze alone once stood.

Old oak cannot easily flex

Ain't gonna fake it as white seagulls fly are
flown into black vultures that turn on high.

Seen a caterpillar blue reaching also for sky
back legs stiff poised, feet in a grasp unmet,
poignant beads seeking, widely, all the rest.

(A butterfly poses in yellow and black for
a red-headed girl born to speak to it best)

Better use new hickory, old oak cannot easily flex
when quanting a punt across the cold morning dew.