All Poets are but Lonely Children Grown

All poets are but lonely children grown

in a cocoon of intellectuality

scornful of weather observations

seekers of deep truths

too simple for them

so as to be obscured

shamelessly

confuse the masses into adoration

with rambling complexities of abstractions

seekers of romance

scared of love

tender from trauma fantasized

too scared to be vulnerable

the only access a maze of contemplative adverbage

runners, they are

excusers

explorers of strange lands, of odd deeds

to you I say

I say

I say

give it up.

Earth Poem

"A dull evening in a run-down village
Eyes half asleep
I recall thirty years
And five wars
I swear the future keeps
My ear of corn
And the singer croons
About a fire and some strangers
And the evening is just another evening
And the singer croons

And they asked him:
Why do you sing?

And he answered:
I sing because I sing....

And they searched his chest
But could only find his heart
And they searched his heart
But could only find his people
And they searched his voice
But could only find his grief
And they searched his grief
But could only find his prison
And they searched his prison
But could only see themselves in chains"

 - Mahmoud Darwish -

Hands on Drums

Shamans' hands on drums
thump-thump-thumping rumbling thunder rhythm running
through warm wet ground
to our enshrouding clouds of somber doubt
scattered by the beat, sweated clean
tumbled off in roughness close enough to love to rouse our groins, our groans
building, falling
to a hum that slithers
slips my post-coitus posture
and I'm up to prance the pasture
grooving along our mud-floor room
in motion, inertia shunned, no thought, all sound
unwound in a dance unbound by the roots of youth and spoiled fruit
rotten trauma bonds sluicing like juices
out pores of old wounds in one long
pump of frothing blood from
shamans' hands on drums
before the stumble into
rum-sodden slumber.

The Silent Poet's Song

“Bluebird” by Charles Bukowski

there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I’m too tough for him,

I say, stay in there, I’m not going

to let anybody see

you.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I pour whiskey on him and inhale

cigarette smoke

and the whores and the bartenders

and the grocery store clerks

never know that

he’s

in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I’m too tough for him,

I say,

stay down, do you want to mess

me up?

you want to screw up the

works?

you want to blow my book sales in

Europe?

there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I’m too clever, I only let him out

at night sometimes

when everybody’s asleep.

I say, I know that you’re there,

so don’t be

sad.

then I put him back,

but he’s singing a little

in there, I haven’t quite let him

die

and we sleep together like

that

with our

secret pact

and it’s nice enough to

make a man

weep, but I don’t

weep, do you?

“The Silent Poet” by Connell Green

there’s a poet at the bar who

likes to drink alone

but we talk sometimes,

because I know

he prefers argument to

conversation

so I argue with him

about the best dogs

to bet on.

there’s a poet at the bar who

likes to drink alone

but I pour whiskey in him

and he talks

slowly

like he doesn’t quite know where his

words are going

but he knows exactly

where they’ll never go,

he’s always walking the line

between anger

and

silence.

there’s a poet at the bar who

likes to drink alone

but he watches you with eyes

that see too much

because they’re so far

away.

there’s a poet at the bar who

likes to drink alone

but I’ve read his poetry

so I know

there’s a bluebird in his heart that

wants to get out

but he’s too tough for it,

and, though I long

to hear

its song,

perhaps the appeal

is in their

secret pact

of silence,

and anyway I know

he’ll never let it

sing, will he?

A Walk on the Beach

"Are you lonely here with me?"
I ask your curled form before the fire
and you but gaze up resignedly
'cross books half-read and carcasses of wine.

I flee your curled form before the fire
breaching the stillness settled like a sheet
'cross books half-read and carcasses of wine,
flotsam scattered on an empty beach.

Breaching the stillness settled like a sheet
we descend from cozy cabin into winter's rhyme:
flotsam's scattered on an empty beach
below seagulls croaking crooked chimes.

We descend from cozy cabin into winter's rhyme:
waves whispering secrets of the deep
below seagulls croaking crooked chimes
and regal eagles perched 'top cedar trees.

Waves whispering secrets of the deep
an endless note played on nature's lyre
to regal eagles perched 'top cedar trees
against the moon drawn pale and tired.

An endless note unplayed on nature's lyre
is the silence of loons adrift in aimless peace
below the moon drawn pale and tired
as we walk beside the breathing sea.

The silence of loons adrift in aimless peace
brings me thoughts of what's transpired
as we walk beside the breathing sea
I feel the distance we've acquired.

Haunting thoughts of what's transpired
lurk behind and slowly creep
to show the distance we've acquired
and all I want to do is sleep.

You lurk behind and slowly creep
happy to have been, dreading the climb,
and all I want to do is sleep
as we return to cozy cabin from nature's rhyme.

Happy to have been, dreading the climb
I shed the runners from my feet
as we return to cozy cabin from nature's rhyme
I hang upon the clock your leash.

I shed the runners from my feet
seeing it's taken ten minutes' time
I hang upon the clock your leash
reminded of promises I've let slide.

Having taken ten minutes' time
done is your day's sole activity
I'm reminded of promises I've let slide
as you settle back into stillness heavy.

Done is your day's sole activity
as I dress in funeral work attire
you settle back into stillness heavy
curling your fur form before the fire.

I dress in funeral work attire
and you but gaze up resignedly,
your fur form curled before the fire,
I ask, "Are you lonely here with me?"

A Dead Spring

Where, in fancy, has my vigour flown?
Did it sense my winter
as I frolicked in the orange leaves?
Left alone I feel lonely,
fixing in the freeze,
lost mid dreams of a dead spring.

A Weasel's Dream

Back among the burrows
'neath the bumblers and breeze
a weasel's family sleeps
a quiet snooze with dreams
of meadows green
and mice too plump to flee.
Life, offer me
the happy feel
of a weasel's snoozing dream.

Hungry as I Lie Content

My very fingers are foreign

like old logs fallen

riddled with twisted veins

heavy

the structure crumbling

under its own weight.

Where has my youth

in such subtlety flown?

I must have been sleeping

as it fled the bed

dozing as it dressed

planted the lightest of kisses

upon my brow

to flee to brighter lights

wilder nights

hungry as I lie content.

the Gardener II

Once upon a Dream
beneath the cool shade of Willow
the Gardener sips tea
smiles on all Creation
wonders
imagines and dreams
a dream within the Dream
and the dream is thus:

The Gardener kneels at the edge of Pond
sifts Clay
to find a Seed
a new complexity of the Seed of Life
the Gardener smiles
knows how to tend it.

Around the Seed
the Gardener traces a Being
of the Gardener's own imagination
as all Beings are
and the Being is thus:

an Eye to seek Beauty in the extraordinary
an Eye to realise Grace in the ordinary

an Ear to seek Wisdom within the Word
an Ear to realise Truth within silence

a Voice to speak the Word when sought
a Brain to realise what language to speak

a Nose to seek taste when surviving
a Mouth to realise a smile when thriving

an Arm to lift when climbing
an Arm to cradle when falling

a Hand to mix paints and stretch canvas
a Hand to brush a Masterpiece

a Leg to seek Adventure in wandering
a Leg to realise Stability in resting

a Foot to seek Wisdom when following paths
a Foot to realise fertile soil when planted

a Sex to transport the Seed through danger
a Sex to embrace and nurture the Seed to fruition

a Lung to Breathe
a Lung to whisper Wisdom within the Word

a Chest to Protect
an Abdomen to hold Life to the Being

a Mind to guide the Being through Life
a Heart to guide Life through the Being

the Gardener covers the Seed with Clay
in a little hole in the center of the Heart
a hole the Being will never find
but ever seek
a hole the Being will never understand
but ever realise
the source of the Being's dream within the Dream
holding the Knowledge of the imperfection of knowing
the Understanding of the imperfection of understanding
the Wisdom of Equilibrium:
Good and Evil as two halves of one whole
Dark and Light as one
Feminine and Masculine as one
Being and Nonbeing as one
Reality and Dreaming as one.

The Gardener awakens
traces his dream steps from Willow to Pond
in the Clay are two babies
one is Adam
one is Eve
the Gardener smiles
tends for them as they grow.

Mummy Dearest

Dearest Mum

I want to write someThing beautiful
a Thing true
heartfelt and honest!
appreciative and humble!
but somehow I can't
muster either the Courage or the Focus
to dig that deeply
so I chose to rely
on some secret research predictionality gradients
which I dare but mention vaguely
so that I, with technology, could consider your virtues by health:
your Bikram practice
your eating of vegetables
your impending stress-free work environment
your running/walking
interest in health-minded medicine
your meditation
your OMing
our family's general hardiness
and (with 95% accuracy)
predict that you have another 50 years!

Looking forward to these next 50:
I hope the equivalent of the love you have shared
over the last 50 years
is shared back with you
and you learn even better ways
to share your love.

And on these last 20 years:
I want to thank you
for organizing our haphazardry into a clean living environment
for the ferret feces you fetched from the floor
the books you put away
the dishes you washed
the long trips you drove
the times you laughed at your own jokes
the animals you brought into our midst
you reading the books I read so we could talk about them
you making some delicious dinners
you guiding us to church so that Dad could teach us about reflection
you volunteering at our events

the trust you gave (even when I didn't deserve it)
the love you shared.

And on the 30 years before that:
I want to hear about them
not the facts but the story
what it all means to you
how you became you
so I hope to see you soon.

I guess that's my little someThing
my little gift to you.

Love,
your son Connell


P.S. Happy Birthday!
Let's skype later (text me).

Forever and Longer

If you have the chance to absorb
all of the unhappiness in the world
into yourself
and create the greatest work of art
that man has ever created
a work that will define humanity
by the terms of humanity
forever and longer
would you do it?
There's a catch of course
not that you would be stuck
with all the sadness
forever and longer
but that it would dissipate
from you slowly
and so
you would become the source of all unhappiness
in all the world
but you would be great
greater than the gods
you would be history itself
you would be immortal
as any man has ever hoped to be immortal.
Would you do it?

the First Time

The old man
limps to the kitchen
pours two glasses of water
places one
on each bedside table
leans over
plants a light kiss on his wife's lips
opens his eyes
to look into hers
says "I love you"
as if for the very first time.

Loki by Barlight II

Fuck your reasons, fuck your rhymes

are the only fucks I give to you

Your language is for the content

so fuck your enlightenment

In leiu of sin and piety

I preach solace in contempt

Of Self?--of all and one

and the mightiest of all

God! bow down

that shaggy head of yours

Plant a kiss upon my brow

to complement the scars

ah! Loki! Come hither

I’ll serve you wine, my friend

as you spin your trickery!

Let the silence underneath

the insane cacophony

Carry your whispers to my ears

I’ll listen so patiently

For a million tales

I have to tell

And perhaps one night

you’ll listen

To me

The Letting Go

Reflection of crumpled wino face distracts
Escape artist who hid wrong key
Beat eyes bleed unseen purple tears
Dead streambeds revealed amid recycled rainforest
Source: red lips of temptress
Tonguing Molotov kindling
Tender tinder Marshalls receipt
Beg for lust
Full feral kiss of flames satisfied
Failed comedian's last simper lost
The letting go forgotten

Waves Trailing Deceased Dreams

Waves trailing deceased dreams
leaked as salty droplets from eyes of
spirits made flesh by breath
who hesitated on the threshold of Living
evaporate into Sky as water biding time till reincarnation
fall heavy onto Mountain
dance lightly down Stream
drift along River
disperse into Ocean
eaten by lower life beings
eaten by slightly higher lower life beings
discarded as feces.

Waves trailing deceased dreams
scuddle-black on trembling Beach
pecked by gulls
these grandiose fantasies of little substance
reduced to their meager physical incarnations
to seep back into Earth
and dissolve into Sky
to find some other dreamer
who may hold them dearly
for she understands
they are Life.

Cradle

The god about the microphone
exhales the finest octave
of this moment
(all time)
of this place
(all space)
as the crowds they
sway and chant their shared pain.
The god
who is big and black and doe-eyed
summons all the precious music
from his lungs again
and again and again!
as the trumpeteer he
lambasts his feral roar
as the cellist she
strums her sublime shriek.
The god and I
drift in silence
on the skiff built of his passion
seeking his sad siren's song
beautiful beyond description
transcendent beyond recognition
an ethereal beauty not heard
since the days of Mozart or David.
When there is nowhere left to go
I drink of his tears
so that the god does not drown
alone.

The Gardener's Dream

Beneath the cool shade of Willow

the Gardener sips tea and dreams

a dream within the Dream

and the dream is thus:

The Gardener kneels at the edge of the Pond

takes clay

with patience and surety

there is formed a being

one in the Gardener’s own image

as all beings are

and the being is thus:

an Eye to seek Beauty in the extraordinary

an Eye to realise Grace in the ordinary

an Ear to seek the Word within Sound

an Ear to realise Wisdom within Silence

a Voice to teach the Word when sought

a Brain to know what language to speak

a Nose to taste when surviving

a Mouth to smile when thriving

an Arm to lift when ascending

an Arm to cradle when falling

a Hand to mix paints and stretch canvas

a Hand to brush a Masterpiece

a Leg to seek Adventure in wandering

a Leg to realise Stability in rest

a Foot to seek Wisdom following Paths

a Foot to realise fertile soil when planted

a Sex to transport the Seed through danger

a Sex to embrace and nurture the Seed to fruition

a Lung to Breathe

a Lung to lift the Word beyond noise

a Chest to Protect

an Abdomen to hold Life to the being

The Gardener looks at the perfect creation

and knows that the most difficult task arrives:

the creation of the imperfection

that which will hold the being to imperfect Life

and the imperfection chosen is thus:

a Heart to rejuvenate all other organs with Life

to remind and to guide

in the center of the Heart

there is a little hole of pure Love

a hole the body will never find

but always seek

a hole the body will never understand

but always realise

the center of each being’s dream within Dreams

holding the Knowledge of the imperfection of knowing

the Understanding of the imperfection of understanding

the Wisdom of Equilibrium:

good and evil as one

dark and light as one

male and female as one

being and nonbeing as one

In the morning the Gardener awakes

and lying in the clay there are two babies

one is Adam

one is Eve

the Gardener smiles

and guides them gently as they grow.

to my Priestess of Black Shrouds II

To my priestess of black shrouds
I owe my lives
the lesser physical
the greater spiritual.

To my priestess of black shrouds
I tell no lies
I speak not in fancy nor fear
I act not for acceptance nor love
since both she gives
freely.

To my priestess of black shrouds
I bear no guise
I am frail and afraid and fractured
she has no inkling how beautiful I
look
she has no idea how ugly I
feel
so we have no pact to continue
such an illusion.

To my priestess of black shrouds
I cannot compromise
and midst the mist of her embrace
I too am blind
for but a moment
like a rose in spring
my heart falls
open.

Within the black silks of my lady's sight
I am stripped bare
naked I am nameless
and though I fall unto my knees facing the almighty
fear of insubstantiality
though I flog myself in the mountainous shadow
of my shameful shame
not she
together we know only bliss
full darkness.

to my Priestess of Black Shrouds

To my priestess of black shrouds

I owe my lives

the lesser physical

and the greater spiritual.

To my priestess of black shrouds

I tell no lies

I speak not in fancy

nor in fear

I act not in search of acceptance and love

for she gives both

freely.

To my priestess of black shrouds

I am frail and scared and broken

she has no inkling how beautiful I

look

she has no idea how ugly I

feel

so we have no pact to continue

such an illusion

and in the midst of her embrace

I can forget it for but a second.

Within the black silks of my lady’s sight

I am stripped bare

and though I fall unto my knees in the almighty weight

of my shameful shame

not she

together we know only bliss

full darkness.

I Keep Her

I keep her

from my friends and other lovers

I keep her

safe from the taint of those who love

what I am

not who I am

I keep her

safe from my sad longing for love

of my handsomeness and brain-wrought brilliance.

I keep her

safe from my weaker self

who craves the petty pleasures of approval.