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.