March 7, 2017

like me ( a howling Remus and Romulus darling )

hen toothed with regale 
shell broken skin 
any moment slagged 
in the bubbles 
and spits 
of observation ... 

we were mostly Antigone kept 
while Prometheus slept 
Morpheus and the fae 
would say ...

the wonder 
and awe 
our never sum 
our wind 
rain and err 
when there 
lather chaos 
fragrant entrances 
exits with feasts ... 

<birdhouse theater story, continuum calling bees>

my daughter is a mad weaver 
I spied her vocabulary list 
and sped into it like a poor kid 
with a pocket full of change 
heading to the candy store ...

the twenty words are woven 
into this vignette from here : 

( to you the reader I hope it doesn't matter 
that I didn't list them as much as splatter 
them from here on out, it was to prove to her 
we could find a way inside the words 
so that we could felt the light 
with how shadows embrace 
every underpinning 
of our souls 
or knot )

commencement gradual 
imperceptible rise 
tide surfing spawn mechanical(s)
wading through organic portal geometry 
asymmetry is pure ardor 
chaos vine-d at first, thirsty bones demanding attention 
with fervency we staged reprieves, make believes 
made marionettes in trees 
told every nose to hold a crown 
while we watch eyes become kites, 
each a different color 
wafted wanting 
wear became sate  
wind in carve satiated, ate ... a nap waiting to happen 
with marks left behind 
as a way to say 
what thoughts came 
through today

I hijacked that single printed 
sheet assignment of words 
and said I dare you to hand this in ... 

she didn't of course but just the same 
spry sly and wily I am her father 
and partly held to blame 
for her at least 
thinking about it 
for a bit 

(which of course is me as water is to ducks)

In the beginning of every story 
there seems a sentence 
in which the writer induces you 
by tone as a sensory perceptive 
tuning in of words 
you might imagine wanting to say ... 
as if the writer were 
some linguistic angler fish 
with a dream state fob of feel 
wielded to reel you in, 
to begin being content : 
bones, flesh and skin of a soul 
what will and its binary partner Love 
seek to sing while aglow with life.

With quiet fortitude, I leaned into the wind on the journey home. 
Sledge loaded precariously, hounds at the ready howling, I command, we commence. 
The night was many knives, we were thirsty thieves, a team for destination. 
We could have waited the night, that would have been prudent, 
but would have missed the northern lights. 
Winter has many countenances, a new Moon sky a-swept 
pierce lit stars and Borealis, being among the best. 
Luckily, my dogs were mostly rescues 
and very amiable to the task at hand. 
So any endeavor became joyful bonding. 
Some were emaciated, nursed by pack and me to gallop strength. 
My house was their house, a true abode for human and loyal beast. 
When knowing the trek was to home, they sped against distance, 
a torrent of legs and open mouths. 
The reaching of said destination with its reward 
of kennel and play was an elixir. 
They taught me how to be benevolent to myself, 
how to feel myself still a part of nature. 
When one is injured, we might all stay together in convalescence. 
And I quite suspect, they all see apparitions, their friends passed perhaps. 
A pack, they sense, is always there, aware wearing 
past present and future in the thin 
membrane-d warm kennel 
living-glow-of-bones-Charnel house


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