mount of carnage

to go into the mountain of carnage  
we cross four bridges and (a) maple forest(s)  
seeing the hybrids sleeping under the ( brush )  
         -          saving energy for the winters blow.  

cradled along the mulberry strip,  
where small chicken(vultures) raised their beaks.  
a lantern turned on to the shunting of buffalos.  

( the storm settled in. )  

i reached into my pocket and pulled out my umbrella  
for the tapping, dripping, tapping toe of the clouds feet  
which was making me drizzled with water-specks.  

up the side of the slope the slant was tight.  
two ridges connected almost making one.  
the roots of trees grew in and out of the side of the hill  
like they've sewn themselves down for a nesting ground.  

( the top of the mount isn't that far ahead  
but be-careful not to wake the firebird,  
for he may feast on the slew of coconuts. )  

watermelon dreams


i sprint.
the watermelons are already ripe
in the blooming summer yellow tide
falls over the hills, glistening trees,
their leaves fall so blazingly like small
fireballs from the war of the sky gods
and ground gods are fighting for time.

i spring.
and soon i fall into the patch of freshly
woven watermelons so damp of dew,
the fresh smell trickles my nose of crimson
spirit. the seeds spittle out of my mouth
into the ground, and vines spew out of the
brown soft dirt filled earth. i cry to water
freshly bloomed flower petal briars dancing.

i walk.
out of the forest of full sweet water chimes.
we heard back the ample amount of picked
juicy fruit in our hands and only drop a few
for the animals to enjoy the over-elaborate
red and green, colors spew and plump skews.





winter doesn't wait

'It is winter and it does not wait.'

The snowflakes fall upon the faces
Of Russian soldiers marching forward;
The temperature drops to a grueling freeze,
And our uniforms do not withstand the cold.

Our fingers' become a numb - red,
Burning inside our gloves.
Our march becomes slow—
The muscles in our legs tightly clinch
From the unforgiving snow...

Troops begun to fall.

Our shoeprints collect behind us,
Along with slushy mud and death;
It's sad when men die from the cold than war.
Our memories trail along side us,
Keeping us strong and dependent

Because our families are looking
Forward to our return...
Our kids wait for their fathers who left
To come home a hero, and tell them stories

Of War, and there victorious words.




frogs laugh too

this little gully floods
when it rains.
frogs gather in the middle,
sitting on sprouting weeds
laughing amongst their selves.




( the one below this is just one I wrote to have fun with : I hope you enjoy! )

blue spide.r.s.

Sequels to memories
Two hot days in spring
And the, the and look in
Out besides the waters
Cold creasing turning
Corners running under
Blue September spiders.

poetically, not


i don't think, lately,
i've been that poetic –

the words i write
come out in forms
unethical and autistic

with no real dimension
of image or style,

broadening the curve
of limber brain and
a little bit less understanding

than normal – i come with
nothing to give, to offer up...

other then what is written
down on the scrap piece of
paper, these last few days.



dream and imagination

we walked through the night
of a midnight moon. we noticed
our cigarette fire searing the dark

cutting it out and filling it
with red coal light, like a tiny
low star wavering in front

of our smoke-filled faces.
the cool air stroked our hair
with the breeze casually wiping

by. ashes abandon us...
we walked for an hour or more
talking about life, our lives,

but not about us. (nothing was like time
spent just watching his face. his
lips move so perfectly, speaking

flawlessly – plump juicy. my ears
ignored him sometimes as my brain
imagined us kissing so flawed,

unpracticed; let go and set free. )
the cigarette burned down, so i toss
it to the ground, falling with my thoughts.

i looked into his eyes, a bottomless pit of blue.
his deep eyes make me shiver. i lick my lips
which gives him a wrong sign.

we turned around and trailed back home.
my sensations wanted us lost in the woods
so we could be alone together. i tried

a time or two saying 'i'm confused,
where are we going, i think we should
have went left a few yards back...'

but he smiled and said "i'm hungry,
aren't you?"



mirror a man

mirror a man:
crying.

a tender heart
refurbished...

i, inside,
remember

Natural

Arms

Holding

Body

so close
to chest

and sounds
of heartbeats

reply close
love nests

in ear;
drums

march
on.



hitting the blow