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Tag Archives: Symbols

…And Silence Looms

The guillotine extends

And annelids we are

Bisected harshly,

By all the edges we’ve embraced thus far


The adder puffs

The lamprey’s splash turns red

Stinging, struggling

Tearing, gnawing upon


The wolverine

And the panther, both

Sharpen, their many rows


Leaving but

Prayer…and then

Only Silence—


Forever looming—


Another string undone.




A Sleeping Witness

Dreams are the harbingers of prophecy. They are the conscious decisions made in a world of subconscious space. Within each wafting glide of wind and dust, sand and religion collide in trust—deciphering visions of abstract states, encoding tomorrow’s future with the promise from a forlorn and forgotten state.  Application of belief transforms the deepest realm—where the flickering sands of altered terrain become placemats for each inspiration we awake unto.


While the many doors we traverse abed, may never unhinge their paths, momentum, nonetheless continues forth, where through such forward action, thrust upon this life’s fate, our nerves becalmed by the understanding and the knowledge, that no matter the hardships our physical beings must bear, our minds shall persevere—each strain of burden and every stress of fractured straits—the tumults ever hovering near, creating an alleviation of sensation and a today that serves as bridge, between a bountiful future and each impossibility our yesterdays had just explored.

A Castle’s Tale

Deep beneath the castle’s walls, stands a tunnel century’s old.


Hidden well below where the moat runs most foul, is a boulder grand yet hollow, which dictates the opening, of ancient earth, connecting this world to the world beyond, so seldom known as creation’s first.


The height and width alter and vary greatly, shrinking where the elves were rumored to had carved for days, then enlarged to immense depths, whence the seabirds wept and the dactyl’s flew, which coincided neatly to the point when the giants crawled to take cover from the magma storm. Deep down under they would surge and bore, pushing into the passage from the caves and homes left alone way up high.


Candles filled with fragrant oils live in secrecy still, taking but a match to time a glimmer, resurrecting the shadows of the past below back to life in the present now.


Months can be lost, at peril’s cost, if wandering is what one will chance in order to protect their life.  For the tunnels sprawl in every direction, multiplying to impossible dimensions far and wide, this was to prevent the insurgencies of marauders, thieves and skulled vermin alike.  If the route be found by afflicting scourge, increase it would, through impossibly dim and unadvisable paths, with traps that trick and rocks built to slip as foot nestles into loosely designed crags and lifts, all constructed by lantern’s light, to the staunch delight of the ancient inventor’s chiseled face, thusly decreasing the likelihood of escape by the wayward travelers misguided fate.


It is said, of those last to live during such a time, when dragons roamed the horizon tall, and the tunnels were alit each the seasons from winter and back to fall.  It was here, at such a time, that there the legend spoke of be claimed, as only a single cipher man could see, and that being one truth above else and all.  This one chance to find direction, the one possibility to maneuver safely through, to direct pathways where there where otherwise none, could only be found by those travellers moving from aristocracy and out into a rebirth of primacy, only found outside, beyond the castle’s historic, if not infamous golden walls.


The legend also states, that the only manner to map one’s way, is to stand immovably still, and reflect deep inside and let the heart and soul adjust to present time, thus stirring a merger of space and self, melding together the directions and the key, which alone creates the light to see the many paths as they be, true and real as man himself ought to be.  This light to guide shall be for the pure alone and it shall lead to the farthest point from the castle’s walls, where a gate stands, to which the traveller will insert the key and thence sing of freedom’s song, as journey be done, unlocking the last of the ancients hidden mysteries.



A Sketch Book Of A Tyrannical Mind

A Tyrant’s reign may linger only momentarily,

But its reflection adheres itself

upon that and every subsequent pause to come.


When pressed up against such parallels,

metaphors stir deadly,

as inane banalities singe

the questions formed from life itself.


It is here, where one will begin the retracing of misplaced steps.

It is here, where one will bear the burden of countless contemplations.

It is then, when one shall determine the likelihood of impossibly spelt designs,

finding, that it, is indeed, entirely possible for innumerable lines to be scrawled in chalk—

Such outlines and scenarios should wrench at one’s inner

Fears, reincarnating the depths of mankind’s deepest seated horrors,

the unknown, to haunt both day and night—


The senseless and the needless often leave the most difficult residues

to wash out from both concrete

and the raptures bred through one’s own

hollowed bouts with time.

Waterfalls and Rafting Wills

there are periods, which impede progress, through nature alone.

we have the commas which are but blinks to the waiting one

partakes upon, surfing along a lonely raft, amidst the howling

tailspin of a mercurial sea, fifty fathoms deep


Collecting one’s wits, is a method not unlike the act

of counting sheep.  In each case you make stronger your case

by barricading your surrounds by focused shells of incognito,

hoping to replace the commas with a semi-colon or a station

break, one that refuses to bog down the airwaves with inane

ads that promote items nobody cares about, yet if nothing else is playing, or your arms

are too full of laziness, you are forced to witness audibly, the pathetic

pangs of marketeers, as only the desperate of the lot can stand silent as their

voice is heard parsing out these muddled and purposefully convoluted examples of

cliche, adages and the latest trends in action verbs.


So, silence is a virtue as is patience but patience we have found is too

intertwined with the greater fabric of existence, where, at this point, it

is much easier to seal tight ones tongue, than it is to enjoy the obscurity

of senseless needling of words not yet wrung.


Calamity is too far a signalizing beacon of distress, to even contemplate

venturing down such pavements rich in its unique brand of insecurity, so

we shall let such barricades block the shelters for the poor, not the needy, no

but the impoverished sense of self that we tote about our necks like the rock

bearer at a beach-side funeral.


Scorched earth, apace with brandished birth, a colossus impregnated by

the nymph of dream, who at one time, not too long ago from where stand

our laces tight tonight, penetrated softly the singularity of fertile plight, billowing

up it’s cloud of brand, brainwashing the unobserved with the ever gently placed

slight of hand…magic

is but reality

with a

splice and

a twist


Elbow grease, I forgot the origin of such a phrase, but I assure

you, I did, at one time, fully know the etymology of the words within, as I have

been known to spew forth numerous times below…yet tonight, when called upon

the callouses harden beneath the shadow of a self-proscribed atomic clock, leaving

me alone with the dangerous temptations broadened by a littany of harsh-flavoring, lozenges for the

diffused, broken, pummeled and oft abused by the speakers busted knuckles, residing a layer deep

beneath where bruises rear their ugly seats…


I love poems that are interchangeable.

I adore the voice that cackles and creaks yet always

manages to, in one fashion or the next, to contort

the rambling dichotomy of a distant day, into some

token land a mere rhythm but a minuscule of proportion



yet, no matter the marathon one can and often shall march,

there inevitably grows the foundation, the bridge from meander to

vine, the collapsable bridge-work latticework wrought with steel plated

stitching, that, of course, leads us, eventually, tunneling beneath the broadstrokes

that are the mask and key, the fortresses buried above this submerged sects of disassembled

oceanography, where, time shall splice us into a warped warbling gaze of impression, teleporting

us to that point, where one more word

will be one more

choice that pushes

the pen up and over

the jagged crags of edge

that is

the waters of our stead,

forcing the gasping breath

to free-fall, antiicpating the

wet beneath, shockingly prepared for

that final sight,

before your shell is

carried off like leaves

lost at sea, that once

carried the potentiality of

a mighty wise expanse of tree….ENDINGS

are but BEGINNINGS in disguise, or, at least

that is what this writer revels in, else-wise, lest

all these many tricks of turn, be lost, as is

the ashes contained within our yet to be placed

unable to be cauterized space to burn….END>


An unsure arm gently bends—
crooked L shape curved at wrist,
flicker do the digits, syncopating

A cleansing purity crashes—
from sea foam, old impossibilities collapse,
initiating newly formed rationale,
that’s calming to the disrupted soul

Sidles of emotion,
swirl to clock—
focusing’s configured,
rearranged, for tides
stir the remnants,
oft forgotten

Dividing the rise and fall
momentously swallowing
all of you, entirely,
from gyration of fists to genuflecting wrists, broken
but sharing a flat, with the symbolic 7,
somehow making ills insignificant and meaningless, at least
for the then and now

In a house of Cards, the Jester is rarely dealt


or is it lunette….but best not dwell, lest this powder keg just might

spell that three letter acronym that starts and ends with a T.

Petulant paws

of a dagger’s draw

Coddle the curdling

cacophony within

Ambiguity sneezes

and we yell “bless you”

only to realize

you just pissed this

atheist off

Ice flows south

Won’t last long

Ice floes north

where the emblazened

paths dare not play

Fortunes found

and glories gained

But can’t take it with you…

In this crooked vial here

a pathogen itself reveals

a dirge to be, the

ultimate silencing

of that dreadful


Guess you don’t believe in ghosts?

To which/a vicarious applause let’s go

because/a shuffling of the deck

springs into so many directions

you just must sigh and let the

ants carry a suit away

Buttresses of tea

provide me the energy

to think in calm notes

of sawgrass, sprucing

demeanor with each

sip I take

and this is about the point the little yellow one finds my tongue…

and I shortly afterward ask,

Why do those impalers surfeit so?

happens to us all…sky bright/dark light

Perhaps a pink one will fit better

or a blue, perhaps a white

I don’t know,

perhaps a little less

is a ton bit more

perhaps I’ll fall asleep right here, on this broken tiled piece of floor….