April 11, 2019

this thought of you reading Eliot to me ....................................................................... #Glo/NaPoWriMo2019

photo by Shaun Wilkinson
via Shutterstock





A dawn chorus stirs us 
birds take to preen perching 
songs beaked, cutting into the wake of day 
they're flesh seed magnetic crumbs 
of darling starlight 
fallen to dust 
as we all must 
one day it seems 
though time erodes 
our sense of permanence 
our sense of willful obstruction 
to its endless march, its endless hunger of our bones 
and our intentions to outlast how far time goes 
time knows, it will indeed bleed from us 
the last ounce of our humanity 

and this, poem says 
is music 
to our ears 
birds are sundry shooting stars 
with their hollow reed fingered souls 
tolling the ley lines 
we find them harbinger and omen 
and we pray their passages 
to mark ourselves 
bowsprit knives 
with many lives  
purified by tides 
and this odd sense 
of knowing 
how, to dance 
here and now 
on this ride 

EJR ©

April 10, 2019

no room here for me up there ........... #Glo/NaPoWriMo2019

'Participants', Lisa Yuskavage 


horded infidels ride rite whiting horses 
today is third week beginning 
spring in the Northern hemisphere 
under dapple skies and scented fingers 
of high minded rain, they rummage possibility 
left over from last night's front pushing through 
my dreams are spilling into poems again 
no gain to tract shun or some pact done 
to insure myself against myself 
so I write, mottling the words 
bottling any disambiguation 
and dragging myself 
covered in abstracts 
like a duffel bag 
disguised as a home 
how a heart lives ...

this vignette 
is covered 
in travel stickers 
and mountain 
into sand 
music ... 

a lone gull skims tidal entry and retreats 
eats of me what it can, my bi-valves up breathing 
I spit up myself, another piece of seaweed 
drawn circle down, elliptically ever closer 
then farther away from the shore 
until, upon tongue of land I land 
a storm perhaps skirts me towards, forwards 
where wear is a worn pattern in the thatch roofs 
the small houses on stilts a few hundred meters from the ocean 
and in the morning there are the sounds of chickens and a dog  
one morning the fates came to me, a proposal 
in their breast they held me, to become 
what they were so ... 

I wandered to a bank of pay phones down the lane 
remembering to call god and saying to myself 
before I dropped that dime 
yes, it is better to be me in hell than it is to serve 
those who ignore humanity, in heaven ... 


EJR ©

April 9, 2019

post Edwardian ............................................................................... #NaPoWriMo2019 #GloPoWriMo2019



and then poem says go f*ck thyself, take me as you want to 
perspective is my dying lens to this world you've 
already given short shrift to and having you already stating 
you do not particularly care for its rise from chattel demise 
all I need is to reprise your memory with this recording 
of staccato arrested development 

but your lapel flower poison ring 
your petal mod squad singing angels, 
they change me 
my mood glow sows watt content 
eyes can be bent 
bought then sought for 
scent, bone ground dust 
the wind is always full 
ghosts, chalk lines, tears, 
laughter and a revere of rain 

and then you so aptly throw 
gull-ed divinity my way 
have you gotten 
passed rotten 
have you been 
deep breathing yet 
I haven't either 
Winter is one 
long overnight later here
where wear is weary me
and the stars scratch gold flecks 
across the long nights 
in my eyes too 
where wear portal gains 
what used to be 
the glory of early Spring 
an open window 
and birdsong 
spilling back in 

EJR ©

April 8, 2019

light reading material aka cloud seeding the indicators ............................................................................................. #NaPoWriMo2019 #GloPoWriMo2019

Illustration by Boris Diodorov 



we made what was considered 
a risky proposition at the time 
our souls for immortality 
the thinking was that 
we could shepherd the fraility 
of our bones and flesh humanity 

every community that arose 
usually near where rivers flowed 
from ancient mountains 
still standing 
after the awakenings 
of cataclysm and cull 
these river towns 
full of thieves 
and thistle gardens 
had a stick-to-it-ive-ness 
to ways we work and play 
to ways we produce Life 
as music and art 
acknowledging 
to the self, that 
without which 
infinity granted 
turns 
another hell 
all 
together 

she had a bed chamber feather routine 
witch was one part poutine 
one part fondled memories 
and one part arrest 
where fingers, lip and tongues 
run off to when 
wanting to be 
articulate limbs 
ambulated soul 
keep on moving 
rain and tide 
mother may I 
basket myself again 
where the milk runs 
sweet water a 
gain

it begins with stories 
to children 
and the falling asleep 
the dream realms 
are carriages 
of contracts 
for the spirit 
to remain 
embodied 
whilst soul-less 

a blessed guess 
would be 
looking glass 
getting past 
facts as faces 
facets of what is 
getting bloody 
letting ourselves 
into why tomes 
are bones 
the poems find 
for soul to remember 
why it is this way 
we came to know 
joy too stops time 
without bargaining away 
another part 
of our soul today 
we die to live 
we live to die 
matters not 
slothful or spry 
without Love 
there is only 
why


EJR ©

April 7, 2019

amphion and niobe ..................................................................................... #NaPoWriMo2019 #GloPoWriMo2019

Apollo Destroying the Children of Niobe - Richard Wilson, R. A. 

disrobe me, see 
we lamping on 
the long views 
we gathered round barrel fires 
those first few Winters 
after the plague masses 
of the third temple conversion event 
wiped out most semblances 
of what society used to be 

we were one of many organelles 
bells and tells 
humanity's tenacity 
to cling to what holds us here 

multi-dimension-ists sow blood in the rain  
trying to harvest hunger 
as the Earth turns 
towards morning 
after surviving 
scavenger night 
seas of endless mouths 
seize the dark in us 
that was never meant to be sated 
let alone given 
a pedestal 
and store front picture window show 
the mannequins 
in suggestive poses 
clothed in what undoes 

there is a sign 
on the doorway 
leading to the well 
it says 
" remember 
as I rise 
a story to tell 
each day 
mustering courage 
enough to brave Love enough 
coding ourselves 
into the wind 
selling nothing and 
alluding to everything 
singing songs 
or little pieces of them 
reminding ourselves 
of place and palace 
of art 
and expression "

maybe 
this memory 
of the play Annie 
plays on 
in the flickering light 
of my once right mind 
but all I see now are 
bodies without souls and 
minds harnessed away from joy 
still, I rise Maya 
as there is
as I remind myself 
Hope 
which stayed behind 
to comfort Pandora 
when all else seemed lost 

EJR ©

April 6, 2019

when children became time ravagers ................................................................................................. #NaPoWriMo2019 #GloPoWriMo2019

'The Progression', David Ho ©


we spent our early lives 
on the outer planetoids 
from nurseries in dim light 
to raucous training realms 
powered by cosmic wind farms 
the day time sky 
was mostly Summer midnight 
in Earth's Northern hemisphere 
a gloaming tilt-a-wheel 
of dust held 
in long stabs 
of fallen star light 

we were carrot-ed 
with a return to Earth 
a return to the place 
we all thought and were taught 
that we came from 
we were garrot-ed 
by bate and switch belief systems 
and as such grew 
to distrust instinct 
and to depend wholly 
on our plugged in 
surveillance enhancements 
but some of us knew 
we had read old books 
that were kept away 
by mad men and women 
in shacks built 
from old shipping containers 
outside the facility walls 

yes, some of us knew 
crumbs in the woods 
are there to be 
eaten by crows and 
the rain throwers 
the re-populaters 
the glass house vindictives 
the stoning crowds 
the teeming orgies 
of more please 

yet, we gave ourselves 
a most human thing 
we gave ourselves, hope 
that we could circumvent 
the transport systems 
and be able to regain 
our divinity 

most of us never read 
the Pied Piper of Hamlin 
or Hansel and Gretel 
and never understood 
the graffiti painted 
on the shacks outside 
"birds eat bread" 
"adulting makes one dead"
and it was just as well 
life in a cyborg factory 
made living, hell 
so we would 
hold out our palms 
press them against the tiny porthole windows 
praying for Pandora again 
praying to feel 
praying, praying 
preying 
the faces 
we made 
trying remember 
what it may have been like 
to be 
human 
humane 
bones, flesh 
and souls 
in the rain ...

EJR ©

April 5, 2019

a dream realm spill over (a funhouse portal poem) ............................................................................................. #NaPoWriMo2019 #GloPoWriMo2019



into seam factories 
where skin gets sewn 
over flesh and bones 
I placed my bets 
my/our hopes 
spirit become filling 

the dolls were made to look like us 
at a time in our lives when we possessed 
or were possessed by great joy 
I never understood the power of a smile 
until I woke one morning longing for one 

I said to myself 
a sharp left 
while crossing a bridge 
is too far a choice rendered 
to make it back from 
poem in thought 
to what buys me another breath 

yes, poem says 
choose me 
to live 
to breathe 
to love to grieve 

I never believed 
in a soul having tones 
that could be fashioned into a language 
but there I was 
begging Morpheus 
to keep sowing my demise 
before my eyes 
would wake 
and peel/pull 
the Sun back over the rooftops 
across the streets 

I am filled with a sadness 
here, at the end of the poem 
perhaps I better call in to work 
and leave no doubt to how fast 
manic goes down hill lasting 
past the first cup of coffee 
perhaps another to turn the page 
maybe a small orange 
or that thought 
of you 
dolled up again 
remembering when 
we used to be
instead of some/one/thing else I see 


EJR ©

April 4, 2019

Deucalion and Pyrrha: Humpty Dumpty enthusiasts for sure ................................................................................. #NaPoWriMo2019 ................................................................................ #GloPoWriMo2019

'Red, White and Blue', Joan Semmel 1973

we fell like paper airplanes 
made from clay 
down by the river 

we were meant 
to steal into water  
the way our father 
stole the way 
to have the gods 
submit to our will 

the 
graces placed us 
crag lovely cargo 
we were stuck 
mid way middle day 
storm after storm 
waiting to 
brood fill night 
wading to lift us 
flotsam and jetsom tide-fools 
we were cool 
cucumber rule breakers 
chained to our humanity 
and we never minded 
third person-ing 
what our souls sang 
to the ghost trees 
and it was in this discovery 
that pretense drove us 
to finally buy into 
why Prometheus 
was so very right 
to steal fire 
from the gods 

we were hung 
beneath 
ideals themselves 
mantled, dismantled 
trinket veneer-ed 
before awakening 
righteous need 
for ourselves 
to be or not to be  
free will 

we were 
once
shackled 
feeling unmade 
by the penis 
and its puppetry 
we were taught 
to disregard  
the warm folds 
of the great vagina 
but we knew 
to keep our egg stories 
hidden until Easter 
and to keep on 
throwing bones 
and stones 
behind us 

and because every 
archetype 
was being 
co-opted 
by those 
that would kill the gods 
as opposed to rising 
as the tides might 
above need for them 
into the tucked harbors 
and warm hamlets 
we would take 
to wearing our scent 
in every afterwards 
as this, as we 
were as divine 
a birth right 
as rain


EJR © 

April 3, 2019

weathered satyr, sate her ................................................................................................. #NaPoWriMo2019 .................................................................. #GloPoWriMo2019




there is an unusual scent 
to any money lent to execute spirit 
the human vessel 
and a troubled soul 
are a bones routine, repeated 
per infinity 
though observation 
says 
static cling 
fluidity and 
an elusive muse 
will amuse 
me ... well aye I
fantasize 
about a world with 
perfect things 
knowing how imperfection 
shaped the way words fall 
from my fingers 
like some spiders 
along highways 
made of cracked egg shells 
bits flits tits and ass 
driving the rain 
I'll explain later darling 
just how high and hard we parsed a setting Sun 
but this wry expression of surrender 
was neither sly wit or a complete capitulate 

we took our seats near the entry way from the foyer 
the guest speaker was at the lecturn 
we did our best to not lock eyes with the curious 
to respond to our little scuffle steps 
and muffled remarks 
as we made our way in 
we sought pretense of being 
part of something else

I know nothing 
but the repulsion 
of sometimes 
held against me 
sins of the father 
blah blah blah 
a lather she says 
take a tidal bath 
and lose ourself 
aside a fire 
kite the world 
if you need 
and let it go 
into the deadlight 
of stars 

why do you hide 
in the grottos 
and the pines that beg the cold 
accompany the mushrooms 
and other sundry divide charms, I ask 
she laughs again rummaging my fumbling(s) 
and says nothing lasts past now 
unless of course you insist 
on carrying that shit 
every where you go 

"... near the sea you're free 
to hold onto you 
and not much 
else if you want 
the richest patina 
a human being 
can achieve ... " 

land is post womb 
exultations exultations 
lactates and milk maids 
there for sharing 
of where the Sun went seeking 
slippery elm and other deciduous 
Wintered rooted folk 
mountains breathe rain 
three thee the sea calls us all 
to play molecular shapes 
escapes scrapes 
leaving this taste of you 
monsoon season again 
and the cantilever roof 
reaches, fingering out 
mangrove, branch and root beneath 
steel tin corrugated almost 
catch shell shouting over 
the roar 
we stood 
a quiet embrace 
a little laughter 
coming up for air 
in space when time went looking for us again 
but who then can know what we sow 
when apple seeding is the dysmorphic entity 
a soul sucking surprise parlor trickery 
we sold baked goods on the weekend 
to pay off the vig, a gig hungry endless mouth 
of a divine being once ago 
but every throe or two through 
eons 
and their ghost cries 
chain i themselves 
to wanting 
to the mast 
to the music 
to what remains 
as we fade 
to black 
arms 
legs 
lips 
tongues 
entwined 

we found storms 
allowed us, howl 
sated now 
can be(s) and 
wingless mutters 
udders waxing 
parted glow when a soul 
takes hold 
of its bones 
bleeding out 
ripe and rife 
with Life 
right 
now ...

EJR © 

April 2, 2019

is the conscience a stolen whip ............................................................................. #NaPoWriMo2019



does it break sound 
to keep 
the wind 
moving time 
do bones stave stasis 
knowing the basis 
of why souls surf oceans 
teeming turvy with 
ghosts and names 
are to defang 
broken glass with 
infinity, a cage 
in the rain 
smoothing pieces 
of what we 
defined as love 
being there 
binding us 
to this 

a poem 
can be fined 
fed into 
a new day's arch, ache 
and prowl 
a poem can be 
something 
for the eye 
and not even words 
will know nose 
needs this too 
the mapless 
home 
and you 

EJR © 

April 1, 2019

Here comes another April: an ode to Hansel and Gretel not related ................................................................................................................... #NaPoWriMo2019

'In the Woods'
Michael Hutter ©


we turn ourselves 
hands on wet clay 
wheeled surreys 
foot pedal driven 
open windows 
a given with 
shard palace 
thrown ways 

what poem did 
slid, hid view 
flew the coop 
cuckoo clock 
glockenspiel 
what we did 
revealed 
to ourselves 
that dreaming into 
a cup of coffee in the morning 
under a cold Spring bright Sun 
streamed us in through 
another old window 

more coffee more peeing 
seized door a fee organ grinders 
were not necessarily monkeys 
in bell hop clothing 
they were children in masks, 
Oh star a tasked 
with grasps of fooleries 
and stolen keys for the fishbowl 
eventually, Easter April 
cul de sac parties 
stood me apart 
from usual neighborly emcee 

a truer soiree is a place of hay 
where we could be most anything 
to thrive in a breath or two around to say 
sermon roe, calming clam shell, till to hoe 
wrapped warm our flesh 
as destiny hors d'oeuvres 

here, we are wearing bones, tracing fingers to hollows 
wandering in the wonders of how 
oleoresin mimics death flowers 
we were rapt watch a wrapped coffin wet bar reach us 

she excused herself and left a lingering 
scent to cleave centipedes 
sent two peas would she leave 
me here where the flowers wear me too 
I am not really sure what a poem means 
to do or be at the end of all things 
womb beginnings ring those ends as 
a trivially simple way of saying 
I don't know what's next 
but I am learning 
no guesses thus 
saying to myself 
mostly, a laced any 
thing blesses us 
a held note 
silence 
after the poem 



EJR ©

December 13, 2018

vital signs and other algorithms my radio finds frequencies of ...



it was row after row 
little houses, all the same save 
for some variances 
in the way front doors 
were framed 
porch or none 
this was a mill town 
there were a dozen or so 
along the waterways 
leading to the great river 
most of the city worked 
in them, save for the service industry 

aah the service industry 
the saviors of when 
working class 
gets set free 

this 
inside a dream 
is my awakening 

to fall in Love 
the panic button human trick 
what sickness descends 
when separate 
from nature 
we've tried to live 
for too long it seems 
this far away 
from where we came 

they took the president 
away in handcuffs 
it was all that was tv 
for months 
little did anyone know 
it was stagecraft 
and show 
some thought better 
stayed cynical 
to the end 

the elite are living on the Moon 
and Mars and harvest diamonds and gold from asteroids 
because they can 

someday 
some books 
some set of encyclopedia 
will be found 
somewhere within 
the great expanse 
of forever 
on a relic 
and ghost 
interstellar 
cargo ship 
our history 
paper paused 
better than 
Carl Sagan's 
riff record 
on voyager 
which was appropriated 
by the great leadership tribunal 
after that final Earth war 
the one where we became 
prisoners here 
and up there 
specked fools 
velvet black night 
were where 
humanity went 
long ago 
we're past 
saving, almost 
16 tons 
and a soul hung 
with the dust 
of becoming 
property ...


we had but one  chance 
and there we were 
nervous as all heck 
about to be undone 
by our jangled mangled 
sense of calm 
we said 
it wasn't going to hurt 
it did 
and still does 
ghost pain poem 
the limb that once was 
an attribute 
a finely tuned resolute 
surrey with fringe at the top 
we rode in style 
beatnik beauty queen 
eyes lined 
a turtle neck on 
with a wool high collar big lapel coat 
you wore me the way you wore yourself 
every time 
I loved you for that 
bliss followed 
my heart 
into dust 
every time 

we turned towards morning 
towards other poems 
the fantastic parts 
we were still sleeping 
dream vestiges 
the crumb-lings 
of darling 
and derring do 
we children 
of Prometheus 
and Electra too 
hide beneath 
the swing path 
waiting for the sun 
we are stealing 
what is 
known as 
the rite 
of passage 
just how 
we too 
ascend 
heavenly rooted 
right here 
living 
animals 
into stewards 
again 
we gained  
perspective 
always loving 
the rain 

EJR ©