Gibbous Waxing

The palette of the sky is a Prussian blue

Fine and clear

A smattering of stars

A thin line of swirling veridian green clouds on the horizon.

The moon, it is Naples yellow

Words have passed over my lips

Spoken in firm resolve

The cerulean blue of your eyes

Flashed with a bit of manganese

You did not answer

You turned away

I sit alone under the waxing Gibbous moon

My pockets empty, a treasure lost.

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I Wish

Candles in flame on significant days hold promises untold

That with the moment of exhale through parted lips

A kiss of air transmutes the power of flame

Within that breath are the unspoken desires of the corporeal body

The yearnings of the invisible soul

That flame turned puff of smoke wafts in spirals upwards

The aroma slightly sulfur perhaps perfumed by oils distilled in ancient manner

This pleases Clothos, Lachesis and Atropos as they spin, weave, and cut

This please others too as Krishna’s blue cheeks take on a purple  hue

Kundun is aware as Jesus is too and Odin with scowl, he is happy too.

If the wisher is wise the smoke is meant for just one

The power of one is greater than three

One wish for One

Who helps the most, who needs the job, who carries the trust, who gets things done

Every night at midnight I blow out the flame the swoosh is a whisper, my wish is your name.

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Icharus Exposed

There are questions asked on warm winter mornings

Tell me dear, why is Atlas pictured with a globe on his shoulders

The ancients believed the world was flat

In such breath of thought, frozen in air, came Icharus

Knowing the history of aviation and the age of mountains

Why did the wax melt?

I have never been in a plane, my feet are never far from earth

But my soul has wandered high at night

Mornings I wake to find snowflakes in my bed

I am brought back from sleep by the telephone

Everyone needs the longitude and latitude to attain attitude

My mind has more down than my pillow ~ I don’t have an atlas

You could be doing better things with your time

Like being curled up next to me, trying to sleep when it hits

As you climb higher the temperature drops ~ you freeze

If you go farther there is no light, no oxygen, no warmth

I reach for the phone thinking this is somehow important

The Greeks were wrong he didn’t melt, He froze

Or maybe he burnt up on re-entry, ah but then he would disintegrate

And if he were frozen he would shatter into a million pieces

So many problems, but I know he didn’t melt and so did the Greeks

As my head hits the pillow, receiver in hand, a feather rises.Image

It’s All Sixes and Sevens

Hours separate two

An ocean flows between

Astralplanes of space and time

Asphodels grow thick

On Carpets of Spring soft grass

Telephone wires wrapped in glass

Mute and cut voices drawn together

Paper travels cheaper than bodies

Every point of an ounce costs

The value of a word jumps like

Closing cost on gold at the end

Commodities traded, stamped, and sealed

Air mail, surface, fragile, this side up!

My emotions are handled by the disgruntled

Blue polyester wearing  employees of government

What do they know of metaphysics and higher planes?

Union is completed when on foreign turf

After having trod, trod for generations

Chalk white, slightly wrinkled, canceled

Envelope frees the body of soul

Like Jerhico the walls of time crumble

Throat torn, heart ripped out

The pulse of my words

Beats in the reader’s mind

Making the dissolution of reality

Reaffirming the chaos of one.

It’s All Sixes and Sevens

Hours separate two

An ocean flows between

Astralplanes of space and time

Asphodels grow thick

On Carpets of Spring soft grass

Telephone wires wrapped in glass

Mute and cut voices drawn together

Paper travels cheaper than bodies

Every point of an ounce costs

The value of a word jumps like

Closing cost on gold at the end

Commodities traded, stamped, and sealed

Air mail, surface, fragile, this side up!

My emotions are handled by the disgruntled

Blue polyester wearing  employees of government

What do they know of metaphysics and higher planes?

Union is completed when on foreign turf

After having trod, trod for generations

Chalk white, slightly wrinkled, canceled

Envelope frees the body of soul

Like Jerhico the walls of time crumble

Throat torn, heart ripped out

The pulse of my words

Beats in the reader’s mind

Making the dissolution of reality

Reaffirming the chaos of one.

How Telemachus Came To Be

I am the Buddha

Rub me until I shine

Like the lights turned out by God

Years

Eons ago

I am the silk-sand of Becall’s voice

Wafting through the cavernous halls

Think with cauliflower, or that which it resembles

I am the answer

And it is Yes

Like the feeling between my legs

Crying for the gentle feel of hand

Total concupiscence

100 Years ~ written 26th November 1994

In an age when fiber optics transfer light through water

A wedding occurs between Southern son and North Eastern daughter

He is Tzarevitch, Prince to the King

She is a Duchess up and coming

The union of continents is secured through telephone lines and light

One hundred years lay dormant tradition until the time was right

With crown, sword and orb the two-headed phoenix rises triumphant

From ashes of a firing squad, a  bird blessed by the Hierophant

Amo, the perch on which this joining rests

Declares the dawn of a millennium of bests

Michael, Raphael, Uriel, and Gabriel laud praises to heaven’s ceiling

While cherubs dance and whirl and spin, their glorious laughter pealing

The dove joined fire in a covenant which arc’d the world’s wide surface

To unite two brilliant souls to the wires of infinity’s greater purpose.

Falling Asleep in Biology

I have spent hours with Socrates in the lab

We have examined everything from onion skin to the eye of a cow

Still we ponder over each object brought to us

How it helps to explain our life: technical terms only need apply

Socrates has confided that he always thought Aristotle a bit pompous

Discussion of the spirit is something for Diatoma and the mystics

He shakes his head and says he’s no witch, I laugh

The door flies open and in trudges Jung, arms heavy with research

There are dreams and connections which any good Freudian shuns

Among his collective consciousness and synchronistic files, are myths

Lore which develop and expand the boundaries of scientific theory

Why Einstein and he never had tea is beyond me and Socrates

Socrates and Jung fight a lot, but such similar people often do

They have common ground, on which they walk, oh, they love their knowledge

Somewhere in this fight is the white noise of cells walls, cell memory

And the assertion from the Professor that death is not part of Life

I think Socrates might have words with him later.