Sadder than Shakespeare's Death was Wanderer

On a spring day at the death of Shakespeare
Stormed through the quiet tundra Doc Williams.

Against his advice I strike my sonnets
Don't can't take me away from my illness.

I write my own medicine into it.
a yellow flower blooming in letters

They are a part of a song left unsaid
If love was within it went unnoticed

Though pleasant enough an afternoon was
Everything sort of seemed a disaster.

Nothing seemed serener in centuries
What I remember of you, Wanderer

Is how you come into the poem Moaning:
"Where have all of my people gone Away?"

Life on Earth

Life is a mystery    Life is a gift

as It answers to nobody’s questions

it is to each and everyone a fit

neither is better or worse off for it

while promises many that go unheard

abound in the heart of private soul

untouched as if never made a product

embittered only when it shuns itself

lives beyond the recess of earth yet lives

protected in the rainment of its cloth

what is the skin of the natural made earth

but a reminder of what has come first?

blind love: Ariel

blind love

April 10, 2014 at 2:55pm

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I'm neither here nor there alive nor dead
i occupy two different dimensions
red skin and bone pink and spotted
my name causes loss of breath Edith

The gift of war ever peaceful at peace
there are no terrors don't visit on me
i bring the key to the door of truths
i believe would never need evidence

if some such as the meek ringing with verse
even metaphor rushes eaglelly,
a lights to a high point alerted beak
Wings drawn to the trunk and talons secure

first I would listen to the wind what says
why does it would it could it should try
I'm nothing to go magic on geez.
leave me with my self admiration

poor piteous me Shakespeare, nunnery
inhabited by martyrs of errors
I'm too dumb to be credible and so
Look at what passes for a language,.

You get me but pretend not to care
between two points a line to draw

Feignglitch's Law without Love Love Doesn't

When Feignlitch formed and worth was surrendered

Little birds with their songs tweeted out

broke from the silence a continuous

chatter raked minute apostrophes wrought

where world under the nearness of a poem

Zephyr encounters no entropy

instead it is all the time aftermath

going and spending of laid wast hours

no oh to surprise or see as sacred

but in the nest of the waking birdsong

roosting the key to the answer at once

Whatever makes sense because it doesn't

takes waste from its bitterest waste and want

as though not a measure of anything

in the moment from tomorrow that's now

the flower that bloomed bright in the future

to lose a language is to lose a tongue

being or not without happiness how

far went oucasted and was blown to dust

as love without law without love doest

La Aureola de Maria Izquierdo, 2005

La Carreta, 2005

The supple skin of the circus tent

will be lowered, folded,

packed for travel.

In Maria Izquierdo’s painting, La Carreta

the sky droops, distant in the night,

its wounded hues go purple at their edges. 

The circus has closed.

Pale blue clouds are chased by the darkness.

The mottled gray horse looks past

its left shoulder and deeper

moves into the circle. 

The clown is fatigued. 

He’s swaddled in shadow.  

The strongman hunches low, arcing

with a green heavy ball

and the acrobat changes her clothes.

A high wire artist wraps up her sores.

Actors load the cargo on a flesh-toned cart.

The tender colors of the canvas glow

vanilla, ochre, yellow,

so like the shades of mother’s milk. 

a light which makes me consider

a thing my own mother,

also Maria, said to me.

The nipple is the most poetic eye.

It feeds the inner skins, spins,

and tints the silks that line

the chambers of the heart,

the lung, the liver, all the human

organs.  The circus is the body,

bloomed then blanched as the cart

cures and carries it away.