Friday, December 2, 2016


Lone Wolf


 

The moon at full yawn leans out of an indigo sky

Shimmering beams reach down to catch your eye.

 

Against the black cold, a spark ignites,

suddenly the fervor is burning bright.

 

The wolf in the woman is howling tonight

She’s alone and proud, and ready to fight.

 

Scarred but not skittish, marred but not mad—

Her pain’s making you forget all you’ve had.

 

Sacrificing her soul at the sound of your call.

She’ll lay down her heart in the shadows that fall

 

Never to be caged, she’s destined for the kill

And you know it will be your greatest thrill.

Hearts in the Half Moon


Cheshire smile, hangs cock-eyed high on black and smoky canvas,

throws subtle light on misty trail, the maiden finds her way.

Over rocks and ruts, and branches low, she dips and bends—

a ribbon woven over the path tied to her lover’s heart.

She has no fear; she feels him near—her breast a cadence beating.

Now breathless in her joy she sees their hidden place of meeting.

A shadow shifts and pulls her close. The air is passion-laden.

Cocooned in reverent arms, he lays her upon the earth

Their murmurs rise sewn into sounds the midnight creatures make.

Bared flesh becomes a ghostly glow upon a bed of moss—

side by side and palm to palm, soft lips brush sweetly lips,

and eyes to eyes like heaven’s stars that fall across the sky.

Small minutes in small hours, emotions, secret, swell.

The song thrush sings: Time is short and dawn will soon reveal

infinite love branded bright as holy souls hold tight.

A parting promise—this journey made—gone into the night.

 

GRACE


A circuitous journey is the sum of our days—

Between heaven and hell, we endeavor towards grace.

Dominion surrendered; must life be defined

By insignificant sanity or madness sublime?

 

Is heaven a few drops of what we most wish,

Delightfully licked from the holy chalice?

Hell is the interim, mournfully sown,

Like Anna on the tracks and Dulcinea unknown.

 

When our corporal concerns are extinguished by death,

Do our energies on earth amount to chaff?

Slammed between the polar extremes we’ve been given,

We accept that pain is so much of living.

 

Courageous men have faced cowardice;

Success without failure, cannot exist.

Love must be known for hate to breed;

Ecstasy mingles with agony.

 

Truth balances upon the lies that we wield.

In the darkest of hours, bright hope is revealed.

As the sun sets ablaze the epic we’ve lived,

The end of pain is a sanctified gift.

 

 


 

Cutting Board


Fragile ridges of viridity pulse under vitreous skin.

Rapacious compulsion, rapier plunges—straight and deep.

Satisfied in her release, as scarlet cells diffuse-to-seep

Precious ruby bracelets—down her arm, adorn so warm.

Glassy-eyed and mesmerized, she’s subdued by steady calm.

 

Premeditated deceptions conceal designs of childhood crime.    

Mitigated madness shadows her shame, so sadly worn:

Rose garden with its razor thorns; quickly caught—purposely torn.

Her pain set free—she lives to see—another day to come;

Scarred and marred: a cutting board, is what she has become.

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

George Harrison-NPR Commentary


George Harrison stopped being a Beatle yesterday. According to him, they would each "go on being a Beatle" until they died. Surrendering to his extended battle with cancer, he left the stage as he had played on it...quietly.

George became a part of my life, on February 9th 1 964. Sitting Indian-style on the floor of my childhood home, I was spellbound by the sounds that sprang forth from our '58 Philco. The "Fab Four" had exploded into the American consciousness and though I was only nine years old; it was the beginning of a life-long love of music.

My love affair (AND borderline addiction) was further fueled when I bought my first, cherished piece of vinyl a year later. Columbia's release of Meet the Beatles made millions of lyrical revolutions before it was retired and replaced by a copy I still possess. Through the transformations from vinyl, to tape to compact disc, (I've yet to break my reference to them as records) The Beatles' complete anthology has been the cornerstone of my music collection... And with every release, George's inimitable, and sometimes, melancholic, strokes of the guitar captured my heart and moved my soul, shaping and reshaping my reverence for music.

 The Beatles were legendary for their masterful integration of each one's unique talent, a fact that sometimes makes it difficult to separate the part from the whole. My admiration for John and Paul runs deep; however, while they commanded the frenzied infatuation of the girls at school, I saw and heard something in the ever-evolving and unmistakable sound of the Beatle's lead guitarist.

I remember caressing the body of my beloved first guitar and pouring over my newly acquired Beatles songbook, suddenly seized by a sense of awkward unworthiness. Certainly it would be blasphemous to even attempt to play his work. These days, my dusty guitar sits silently in the corner of my music library. I am content, and still in awe, to hear his music played as it was written.

Comfortable in the shadows of Paul and John, George interwove his distinctive sound throughout the Beatles' music and beyond into his solo career. Here Comes the Sun, Give Me Love, What is Life, Something.. .the words to each song are forever inscribed in my head. One of his last songs, When We Was Fab always reminds of the "quiet Beatle's" poignant sense of humor.

 George Harrison's career is highlighted not only by his musical contribution through the Beatles, but includes his adventures with movie-making, his successful solo career, and his trailblazing leadership organizing the Concert for Bangladesh. 

In the end; however, he liked to describe himself as a gardener saying he lived simply, planting flowers and watching them grow. In his autobiography he remarked, "I stay at home and watch the river flow."

Yesterday, as the river flowed, George Harrison left us. He departed, leaving us with a rich tapestry of music and memory, taking flight with faith, on a journey home to a God who had long guided his life on earth.

Godspeed, George.
Now, my guitar gently weeps.

Caution! Under construction

Having a little trouble getting all the elements working right. Hopefully, I can develop the right layout and color scheme over the next couple of days.

Tuesday, April 26, 2016

Daddy's Education


 
Steep stairs down into hell.

Blue-striped mattress, your prison cell,

Submerged in the dark, drowning in your fears,

Glacially cold and seared by your tears.

 

Bloody nose crusts over under the rafters;

A million miles from a soothing hand—

Too young to understand.

 

The world cannot hear your hopeless cries,

As your caretaker dangles your freedom as a prize;

He holds you;

Defines you;

Reminds you,

Three days now—

No good, worthless, SICK.

“NO, Daddy!”

 

He brings you a red rose as an apology.

Say what he wants and you are free.

Broken like a toy, you finally agree—

Innocence is gone; truth, an irrelevancy.

 

Nine years old and your future is planned,

A million miles from a soothing hand—

You’ll never be able to understand.

 

Cement a smile on your face as you are freed

Ascend into a life that used to be.

Secretly scarred.

Psychologically marred.

Invisible injuries.

Never good enough to please.

Damaged for the rest of your life.
 
“yes, Daddy.”

ICE


Gray trees rise frozen-lonely from a landscape of ashen snow.

Sentenced to endless winter, where arctic shards bitterly blow

Away my crimson days of pleasure. Was love so long ago?

 

Quickly comes Christmas, my friends must hurry home—

Sad-relieved-retreating—to the lives that are their own;

Well-meaning are their whispers, “She needs her time alone.”

 

A glacial space wraps ‘round me, the mantle of my pain.

No spring could ever warm-to-thaw, this icy-bleak terrain.

A snow-blind soul and mementos; are all that now remain.

 

The heavens hear me cursing, broken and bereft,

“How could meteoric brilliance, be burned up by cold death?”

This is not the life I’d chosen; just the one I have been left.

 

Your life force still has passion, blood-fused into my brain;

Your memory is a moment entwined with joy and pain,

Reminding me I’ll never touch your blessed face again.

 

The blizzard wind screams a refrain that chills me through and through:

I never will recover from the fire of loving you—

I never will recover.

Point of Origin



 

Her energy was an electrical arc,

erratically spiking, and with each spark

she blazed with the brand of her legacy—

She’d been slashed-and-burned to the third degree.

 

Inflamed by shame she was a brilliant torch;

radiating emotional heat set to scorch

anyone near, so she drove them away—

Her fiery pain raged more intense every day.

 

She’d been damaged, long ago, beyond repair--

She was igniting a world that would never be fair.

It was bloody arson that seared through her soul,

engulfed in self-hatred, she burned out of control.

 

When her oxygen was gone, she dwindled

to just a flame that could not be kindled.

Incinerated hope lay in charred remains

along with a small girl—doused in blame.

The Noose



Pernicious ply of nylon, finch yellow, knotted, wound

around the oak beam mighty, jerked taut the tethered weight.

A passerby heeded the sound, “Had an icy branch just shattered?”

He did not hear the strangled gasp, or pause perchance to see,

the swinging of the lethal line bearing broken, bound, its dead.

What waste torment can render, when hope surrenders guard.