July 26, 2015

billowy and hackneyed...

'it was the sound of their feet' 
painting by Aleah Chapin ©

billowy and hackneyed 

is the way 
my poems start 
a slow mesmerize 
my soul in bellow 
tarantella of near accident  
moving to anticipate 
counting the gates 
finding which ones 
are for my sates...

a poem's eyes 
are lured 
with scent lipid destiny, 
a gelatinous wiggle 
of understanding
and fleeting permanence...

it is music  
in modulation 
crest then trough 
sequence bridled 
and bitten 
reins rained in reigns 
in some sort of impatience 
of forever instantaneous
onto the next stanza please...

between base skims 
and simple 
currents, pools 
and tides, is where 
my poems come
to get lucky 
with their fatalistic ribald 
the bait and hook 
the pull of chance...

all there is to be
taken and ridden 
every way to have 
broken wire first...

I am mostly 
writing about those 
finishing behind me, hidden  
inside memories 
and self-centered 

I paint with words 
to fantasize every sense 
of beauty I can come to know 
in this world where 
I believe, words seek 
to know peddled life...

words that seek 
to come on and stain 
to become a cause 

I got poems that glow crone
rocking chairs underbelly thick forest floor...
you dream in congeal portaged portals...
I make do with re-purposing lust...
anomalies and hominy beans a-simmering...
shimmering in the steamy air outside...
while inside refrigeration takes humidity away...
the maiden-maids have their day...

because, I got poems that glow crone...


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