you are emerald blue: your words torrent, power

you are emerald blue: your words torrent, power
profound, propel waves apparent as they crest
even before they spontaneously break upon distant shores.
the very fact that you are is in and of itself
testament to forces i can hardly fathom,
(no, not the divines, benevolent or wise
beyond wise, nor ones who hold sway
over the guise of lines and rhyme) yet drive my desire
to rearrange posts i hold fast: restack axiom over mantra,
restore the disorders caused by magnetic pulses
you periodically discharge. i cannot square
how mere happenstance, or strain of alchemy
i am presently ignorant of, ultimately sculpts your form:
protracts flawless ripples which radiate from your core;
harmonious shuddering even when not provoked
by phases of our oscillating Moon; ardent
scion of celestial verses we lovingly call our own.

in the annals of the horn

in the annals of the horn
there's one where one paints
frail miniatures
by candlelight:

portraits and landscapes
and still-life; stamps
to be used for postage
as boy plummets—

tender feather, gust-blown
toward pearl toned daughter
who waylays for ages consigned
to musty isles; surfaces frayed,

although scattered still bound.
gagged, to some extent,
out of tradition and another
affliction— somewhat plain.

ostensibly opaque
yet oh, so luminous—
exudes most lustrous glows
even now.

quiet reins in but din

quiet reins in but din,
as though
within a giant tin drum,
reverberates
in your name;

one white cloud
in the sky— no rain
forecast,
yet,

is this shimmering
dawn or dusk
reigns
still?

to profess as though cicerone of our tongue

to profess as though cicerone of our tongue,
less the requisite color or diction—
let alone contextual touchstone,

is a bit much, for an upstart. you purport
to be tenth in line, we do not doubt that
at all; we've observed that you are

hooked, without barb, yet suspect
less tackle than bait— a savory form
of chum and so traditionally sound.

but your hasty prescription for a mass in wait
(to its abject objection to propulsion itself)
is seen overshot by the turnout here,

what's more, take note: messages sent from afar,
especially ones at desperate times— not so in Braille
as much in tongues, most certainly shroud an avatar.

he yearns for summer's growth

he yearns for summer's growth;
stems that taper to tuft
where he might brush lips,

mouth beyond sheer and sensual;
mint fresh, both sharp and rare—
crop; he exhales yesterday's breath

as thoughts spring forth of skin,
translucent, and touch, which may in fact
palliate a clutch of azures anon.

one with exuberant smile

one with exuberant smile,
shield and a form of sword,

dure as baked tile, glazed,
brittle boned. worn smooth

not so by age as such born—
bred, yet still wet gilled

and scaled; embarked on marathon
crawl to marrow and a dawn.

dagger-toss is in vogue again

dagger-toss is in vogue again
and neither mirror nor shard are smooth
as chrome, unless reflection tugs

perceptibly strong,
thus, gauze and suture retort
luxurious and rare for them.

oh my, lioness

oh my, lioness,
Hemingway's quandary
arrives across H & M--
pressed for clearance
and returns

red-cheeked,
not embellished
with pride

yet cub yelps
and trails
shy smile.

yes, the time for bonfire draws near

yes, the time for bonfire draws near,
September twenty-seventh to be precise.

Timket came and went this year—
it really was a bust, as you recall;

Meskel's the time for cross
and perfect yellows, sprung wild—

flame aroused from Helena's on,
blaze fierce, demera— my constant.

the 'u' in turn does not return

the 'u' in turn does not return
when dispensed evenly as butter

on splayed baguette

toast. when done, count matters most—
evens do not as opposed to the odds.

yet, i agree, there's this:

even if cheeks do not require powder,
nor frame nares, yet sport lips

of a sort— intimate with hiss

of silk and assorted gauge of hose;
perk and point as heels peak

on stilt and scaffold;

i too might fall if thus lorn, but then,
that's a bit of a stretch, i suppose. yes?

as much as she tends

as much as she tends
to vanish in the end,
swallowed by thirst

of sand, parched bone-white
and wind-blown perfectly flat;
stretched, formed and etched

over horizon's yon; land,
not entirely abandoned
although ostensibly expired;

trek the faintest trails left
behind and stumble upon a gash
from which she erupts time

and again; cast, at somewhat
impossible slant, divine
tone and undulating form

bathed by setting amber light.

those, the numerically able

those, the numerically able,
not of the roman kind; yet, in a pinch,
those too should satisfactorily compound,

and why on earth not?
but i digress; now moving right along—

for us, equations, which run parallel are thought
as much as love and longing are not
when they arrive.

although we know Gödel’s was not less than Bach's—
not even by an inch; we still favor, for balance,
ones beyond averages, over all.

thank you, Shell

hello all,

my dear friend and super-talented poet, Shell, of forget me now fame, has gratiously voiced / recorded one of my recent, little, poems,

you can find her recording here, please do give it a listen

and also, don't forget to hop over to her blog where you can read and enjoy all of her own wonderful poems.

i promise that you will be delighted to read her works,

as i'm sure she also will be to "meet" you, if you introduce yourselves and leave her your comments.

(thank you so very much, Shell. i look forward to hearing this one's older sibling too - i'm sure you know which).

my dearest, you've got it

my dearest, you've got it
but it's not disease.
you need no pills and for that matter
neither pricks
please.

surprise is not in order
for you've had it from the start;
from first bristles grown on hide

of asses which roam free
in the Serengeti (they did once
and some still struggle now) and of course,
though hoofed not horse

pelt for their alternating form;
surface to pit; dermis
and beyond.

yes, travails of progeny bind, that’s one;
others— etchings: processed chemical;
to gut and especially the heart,
digital or analog is immaterial.

excavated at distinct parts, reliefs

excavated at distinct parts, reliefs
reveal forms distinguished by decimal.
digits, splendidly slender, fixtures
encircled— clearly trim, held still.

a dialect woven— wound and strummed
as if on twelve stringed harp. tuned
dad gad, emit modern tone but echo
mostly ancient murmur; uniform thrum.

this too is not about tint

this too is not about tint,
a has-been, mere vapor blown,
settled, wiped clean and thrown;

"i suppose you know", he says
memory is said not to be keen;

neither are plans, penned,
even if partially grown,

for despair paints,
as you know,

are opaque and spoilt, instead
of brights or spring tone,
burnt umber in rancid oil.

as you can tell, my love—
this one is not about high-art, at all.

when nine-hundred and sixty sound few

when nine-hundred and sixty sound few
and the ones which already flew

(a flock of a dozen or more,
each of seven squares, no more,
linked-up, hip bone to hip bone)

are forever gone,

i stand—
at a loss for words,
granite faced,

tired, yet a bastard,
prepared to vomit—

will and clenched hands
and whatever else i can,
i do.

it was not a comet, not this time

it was not a comet, not this time,
nor was it one of our very own
shooting stars,

you know the ones,

they streak across the southern sky
usually when we are out,
around this time.

an hour or so before dawn,
solitary stances, interrupted—
jolt, thrust and bang, bang,
they are shaken and then are gone;

shudder first,
undulate, later on;

it was so then, and oddly enough,
also now, once again.

oblong envelopes stack themselves high

oblong envelopes stack themselves high
on surfaces all around,
none of them square,

figures within, helvetica and bold,
politely penned,
rasp,

shark tooth sharp;
if we pass,
we can bear down fast and hard.

not so the ones from abroad
or towns only a few miles
to the north,

which rarely come; flimsy and frail;
shy sentiments sport pale pastel
outerwear.

is it the licking that has this effect
or that they are so rare? plus, those do not
stack so well.

the flames in your bones

the flames in your bones
are intense. subside when doused
with a potion or something else.

reignite, without fail; monotone drone;
a split second after dawn or following
a sort of wood-wind reveille,

at any time— even if not blown
shrill at all; all consuming
boorish breeder of charred remains.

it's plain matter of circumstance

it's plain matter of circumstance
and acquired powers
of persuasion—

beware, my love,

for all, someday,
may be made to say:
five's the sum of two pair;

regardless of color of eyes
or persistence of
lingering conscience,

given a form of stress,
a Rubashov or otherwise,
shall each have to finger a Julia.

... math is known

... math is known
to be good
fun

when

one adds one
or else
subtracts another

as well

multiplies
otherwise
divides

or even squares

when found
to be
practical

or forced

by convention
or some other
form of order

then

sums or averages
all before one
is done

as such ...

you run the ward as lab

you run the ward as lab,
conjure means to juice basalt;
liquefy solid granite.

don't act surprised
when dust clouds

and while you're at it,
sea salt forgotten wounds,
for good measure, i suppose.

and how do they become

and how do they become
delusional—

diminishing regard
for fact, deride the evident,
and peddle another form of wisdom,

forcefully at that.

barely able, yet stride aloft
atop modern hill;

Pharos-nouveaux
build scaffolds of straw
for pyramid?

walls are crystal clear

walls are crystal clear,
land perfectly flat
and square.

kittens Guineveres, the female ones,
but every Tom, not quite
Lancelot,

some bring to mind Méléagant,
others simply do not
do that.

notwithstanding venue or visionary plot,
always based on temperament,
and what not;

even still diamond glare may render one blind;
addle the flow of staunchest vein—
fluttered heart.

intone buoyant melody of interior song

intone buoyant melody of interior song—
render me languid and cloy and worn;

the wind rustles pea pods gently grown
their delicate clatter rattles forth and on

from over the horizon as just one thought
or even another one is formed.

this, in my private alphabet or hers alone;
in a zephyr's gust a woodwind whir,

with a soupçon of purr in now familiar tone,
sings to me, my caroler, in modern form.

oh no, love, you have it wrong

oh no, love, you have it wrong,
i'm no Keyser Söze,
neither am i a contortionist
with Cirque du Soleil,

far from it, my life is plain
as a pikestaff—
no butler, no driver,
not even henchman,

and further, the only staff i have
is a part time gardener.
my main role is of Father;
while the other, some sort of Mother.

and if you were to, now

and if you were to, now,
somehow,

what should i do but belly-crawl
into a damp, dark trench
and long

to become but hard slag
or black coal,

otherwise
should i simply pretend to ignite,
faux-hiss and fuss— sputter or spout?

and yet, all that i likely might
is grow ever so somber and quiet,
slate-gray and ice-cold—
that's all.

oh dearest, i beg you, please,
kindly, do not.

as for me,
never would i forget you— not now,
above all that i have come to grasp
this propinquity of ours,

finally—

and what if

and what if
those yet to come forth
are confined to encores

played in dissonant keys
as somewhat minor variants

of this and the ones
which already
have?

should you by chance

should you by chance
find your way

to my gate
tonight

my love

and find
my house
to be dark

presume
that i too
am out

pacing

your vestibule
and wondering.

not this one

not this one
my love—

possibly the next,
if we stop

at all, given
the parallels

we are
on.

this is the moment

this is the moment
of the wiser;

malcontents hover (spout
and steam and spill over);

that's what they do
as they have done

from the start,
no matter who or why

or where or whatever else
may be wrong,

even when not—
for no discernible reason at all;

regardless of a newborn—
tiger, or rabbit, or dragon;

even still, by the time
snake has come.

every order is taller

every order is taller
than the other

while
doubt reigns supreme—
casts a familiar
mechanical din;

clatters
and clangs along ancient tracks,
headed nowhere for certain;

smoke
billows

and trails
overhead—
azure

is marred by grays.

divination

a fluke is a fish—
sometimes my dear. and flounder,
we certainly will.

byte freak. did you think

byte freak. did you think
you could code your way

out of each mess with a simple flip
of a string; bits, lazily compressed;

then traverse and skip limb over limb,
long, slender branches,
heavily laden—

precariously bent
and ready to snap,

forever? statistically impossible—
you should have known
better.

warmth

warmth
radiates
from her core

updrafts
beneath
his tired wings—

permit
him to soar once
more.

here's our plan for the summer

here's our plan for the summer;

oh shit,

it's not even Spring yet!
here's a rain check,

take it,

return at the end of May—
maybe by then
it shall be clearer.

should i patter in endless circles

should i patter in endless circles,
anti-clockwise,
as dizzy as i may get,

would time revert
and the faint sound
of your breathing

reverberate
again

next to my heart?

would i feel
your warm breath's

weft
against my neck?

darling, i miss
the purl of your voice, its tenor
in my mind—

i hear it,

but it has grown distant
and faint.

although you seem out of reach
i know this is not so.

call me, my love—
tonight.

the greens, the reds

the greens, the reds
and the ambers are common,
they are well understood;

circles substitute, otherwise snarl—
at critical times grind to a halt;

the blues used to be so rare, although
sonorous hums always release despair,
one bar at a time.

the ones

the ones
with oversized throats
are more

in every respect. danger will lurk,

hearts will flutter double-time.
when glory is at hand when we've run,

even defeat will be deemed victory,
especially when we cross the line
for the first time—

today or even tomorrow.

honey, you've heard it

honey, you've heard it
before; my bruised eyes
are as apricots and sore;

how am i to dream of you
when sleep is less prevalent today?

remember, sustained rains
are rare events in the Mojave;

and what's more, my love—

although it's known as Death Valley,
it's more depression than corridor.

what's a fist-full of code

what's a fist-full of code
worth? binary i mean—

ones and zeros, strung
as orderly trains
or shimmering beads,

yet
a bit
unusual—

extra-traditional
filigree

charm

links
pale-pearl
and brass rings

faithfully
interlocked?

my pit-perfect

Eva Rivas - Apricot Stone



my pit-perfect,
golden delight,

smoothest cheeks,

when prepared
you are known
to blush--

bright red,
rosy-ripe, sweet
and tart.

softer to touch
than a plump
Atlantan;

orchard grown; tawny port
and cedar. candied fruit
and nutmeg

tastes—
essential
and ancestral;

palm-warmed brandy
for my forlorn
soul—

heaven
sent; heavenly
scent.

thoughts

thoughts
flow

my love—

cascade
narrow
and tall

as Kauai
falls

over
deep
emerald pools,

froth
and bubble
and cool;

fervors
course
tropical—

draw
continual
to distant shores;

land
beyond
island.

convenience and all that

ATM's for cash;
a scant few use envelopes
while others get stamps.

on top of it all

on top of it all
weeds are out of control.

on the other hand
a mower and a whacker
patrol;

require a bank roll--
some less, some a lot
more.

infinite splendor

infinite splendor
is expressed

with interwoven strands
of monad and naught

given capable hands
and delicate thought.

the scene

the scene
in eastern highlands
is as follows:

elevated plateaus hold up grand mountains.

they are sliced along their entire length
as if from sternum
to pubic bone;

a depression is formed
much like a sunken corridor; within it pools
have become lakes,

which are occasionally covered
with teaming plumage,

pure white,
bright reds, pink and salmon;
sometimes they shimmer silver or golden;

interconnected by veins
whose flows are meager but rage
during torrential rains

as they arrive
from western shores of the Indian subcontinent;
there, weather is created by the Himalayan range;

monsoons strike fierce blows
as they arrive and make landfall,
yet life there is dependent on them.

it has been
for as long as memory is able to be unwound
in records left behind here and there,

scattered about for us to gather—
to ponder and to attempt
to understand.

Tridi, one three Ventôse CCXVIII

today, Tridi,

i hear you
murmur

in the wind;
in the air

my love--

you are
near me;

as if
you are
with me

my dear.

first drops

first drops
form, later-on
join;

rivulets stream along;
throughout inaugural miles—
cascade and fall;

frowns fashion savory
sighs— lips impart
reticent smiles.

froth bubbles
milk-white— merrily
babbles along;

channel-rides
down embankments
newly formed—

ripples
at the surface
of the clearest pond

shimmer,
dissolve
and are gone.

to call a pear

to call

a pear fruit
and to go on,

in some circles
is considered
poor form.

at a gabfest, for instance,
tractate is mandate.

even if
the subject
of debate

is the seed
of one

savory pome.

hands clasped vise tight

hands clasped vise tight,
knees bent, muscles
forward.

an arm entwines with an arm
shoelace style. tugs firm
at the hips while a dance starts

where necks extend, chins
thrust forward; from parted lips
smiles slip ahead;

cutlass and chisel ride--
a glide, a slide,
a hover;

at the very edge of reason
animal instinct
takes over.

we walk

we walk,
absent-minded,
in the midst
of a foreign concourse;

deep in the bowels
of hive
and home;

of course,

soldiers are sent
to greet us;
spurious welcomes
treat us;

honored
guests;

the rest,

as you might have guessed
is as fiendish
as a hornet
gets

when cornered—

held
by handlers
who are ill
prepared.

i wish

i wish
you would say
more

my love

today
is a day
which calls for

abundance;
prematurely vernal

according
to Santa Rosa's
playmates

pinioned
they serenade

i long
to hear
your cloying
song.

history simply is, even before it gets told

history simply is, even before it gets told,
way before it is written on paper or chiseled in stone;
twirled into lore. we know this,
so do midgets with well groomed lips—

(uniforms starched and pressed flat
before they are worn; in crowded spaces or
on occasions designed to impress; costumes are designed
with a particular purpose. that is
the meaning of design, after all);

yet as Horace says: "A comic subject is not susceptible
of treatment in a tragic style,
and similarly the banquet of Thyestes
cannot be fitly described
in the strains of everyday life ..."

an unfortunate fact
is that one cannot readily tell for certain
what was, as opposed to what is
merely contrived;
the nature of interpretation; re-telling;
one uses intuition and gut instinct

for patterns—
they are present, they emerge
when plotted over space and time—

made apparent,
because they are there.

perturbations are dots attached by dashes—
etched and crisscrossed. (a child's regard for a pal is outstanding;
irrespective of creed or social standing—
admirable); one would think

adults would take note;
conversely illegitimacy is a despicable metaphor—
crude, rude and what's more, a notion better to abhor

by the respectable;
historians and students of social science
etcetera, etcetera.

he disappeared along with

he disappeared along with
clippings of Abraham's beard.
archeologists have found it

to be weird. even more so
the forty four quarters
of silver and gold; coins uncovered--

strung along the entire length
of the northern Silk Road--
Tashkent to Moscova and beyond;

each embossed, on one side with his bust;
on the other-- prints of Abe
or his aspiring body double.

ababbcbccdcdee

hands,
tight,
stands,
right.
might,
look,
slight,
hook,
book.
date,
took,
bait,
gone,
done.

shaken

shaken
again

in twenty
ten—

only
February;

silent
for a moment,

head
bent—

acutely
sorry.

manganese, chromium, and tungsten

manganese, chromium, and tungsten,
plain ore and carbon—

heat, melt, cool and fold—
pound hard and then
start over.

curves
at an odd angle,

slurry quenched—
coated in a thinner layer than the sides
or the spine.

mokume etched—
ice cold; edged fine
to a laser point;

handle of bone inlayed in brass
and in gold;

encased
in wood
and maybe placed
behind glass;

otherwise leather strung—
strapped close
or hung.

fix your eyes

fix your eyes
ever so narrow
and yell 'hell

if i care how,
just make it so.
not tomorrow—

now!'; even death
is not all that final
you know.

dearest anomaly in spinning space

dearest anomaly in spinning space,
you sector-skip and connive
strings as they are cast--
shrouded and faint,
then tokenize

with tails,
with wings,
or similar things.
once again re-strung—

to present in the end as feast
for the curious with squints
in their eyes.

pitch black voice

pitch black voice
flies abuzz with insolence;
lives, dies and gets reborn;
surprise lies—
obsidian and bold;
only to die once
again; continue to hold a stone—
cold, smooth and very well worn.