Magpies

RWP#120 using the image Gathering...credit Alice Popkorn



MAGPIES

Magpies
siting on the fence
bold
an early riser
stealing the light
always waking us up
ready to lecture
chew us out
tease our dog
then steal his food
magpies
sitting on the fence
having words
with some distant coyote
berating the gypsies
reprimanding
the cowbows
dressing down
the lost buffalo
that once roamed the hills
magpies
sitting on the fence
correcting
the mourning poets
with their dead words
castigating
the agnostice tabernacle choir
and their lost hymns
jawing
at the drunk umpire
who couldn't count
magpies
sitting on the fence
laughing
talking
waiting
you are me
I am you

TIME WITHOUT MEMORY

RWP#116...a draft Using this photo by H.Koppdelaney


TIME WITHOUT MEMORY

It has been a blink
of clock ticks
ticking away since conception
lost forgotten moments
never to be returned
progresssing towards a place
where memories are lost
moving on to some other time
with a declining body
without a fresh metabolism
no longer hung up
on high button shoes
and unrealistic dreams
to a place without heartache
or faked death below the watchtower
leaving the burning palace of conception
the distant temples of conquest
and the shadows of the past behind
now in a dark boat above a river
surrounded by advice never taken
blinded by the expressions
never spoken
with some ancient ferryman
guiding a lost soul
of some newly deceased
across the Styx
a river of no return
descending to the underworld
the last voyage into eternity
where nothing is real
where souls jitterbug to jazz
beating to the hearts of yesterday
lost in no sense of conquest
listening to Huxley's psychobabble
and his meaningless abstractions
that never rhyme
without lords or creatures of faith
clutching to their rusted boughs
drinking a sweet adrogynous liquid
celebrating the dead survivors
who once moaned in the graveyards
lonely and frozen in time
gazing at the bright searchlights
that shine on the nuns
playing tennis without rackets
invisible with no strings attached
beyond the light in the tunnel
without struggles or sober thoughts
moving towards time
that has no memory

BELIEVING

RWP#115..



BELIEVING NOT KNOWING

believing to be washed away
to some unknown place
not knowing if my robes
will be clean or dry
believing there will be poets
in their solitude
not knowing if there will be angels
that make me cry

believing to have insight
into some sacred mind
not knowing if the journey
will be covered in gold
believing it will be a pure land
of sober drunks
not knowing their language
of stories never told

believing the air will be pierced
with beauty and jazz
not knowing if the notes
will be felt or heard
believing Satchmo will blow his horn
along Bourbon towards Boogie street
not knowing if it will be birdland
or the land of absurd

HOME

(using one of the words from prompt..red) this is a draft

HOME


looking through the eyes
of yesterdays perceptions
beyond forgotten places
there was a sea of red
above some flooding torrent
of endless tomorows

in this disenchanted place
I once knew as home
now tarnished like a bronze arrow
after centuries of rusting salt
my head keeps sailing
towards some crackling winter storm

tomorrow I will awake
before the ancient dawn
touching the universe with my fingertips
standing still watching the stars
gathering silence with simplicity
listening to the distant dolphins at home

SWEATING IT OUT

RWP#113


SWEATING IT OUT

Welcome to our sauna
the home of many bums
there is plenty of room
to sit around naked
sweating in silence
discussing the facts of nothing
forgetting the lost days never found
and the dark nights of nowhere
without headaches or snapped minds
reading Huxley, Kerouac and Marx
watching the medieval tombstones
floating down the silvering creek
towards a tidal wave of water
where nuns and monks dance
and tiny fish swim
in a torquoise sea of light
where no one has invented ownership
or discovered hate
we sit silent with our breath
disolved in our space
sweating it out.

ROOM OF DREAMS

RWP#112....prompt..something inspired by wallpaper.....my bedroom as a kid.

ROOM OF DREAMS

It was a sanctuary

the walls were special

plastered with baseball cards

the whiz kids playing pepper

a catcher in the grass

the splendid splinter swinging his bat

where the real world was a diamond

my room of dreams

lying on my bed every night

staring, dreaming

at the bums of Flatbush roosting

Newk, Duke, Campy

Jackie dancing some jitterbug number

before stealing second base

always the centre of the diamond

my wall of dreams

with the moon sliding through the shades

staring at those cards

I became that gangling black kid from Mobile

Hank hammerin another out of the park

Willie making another basket catch

a kid from Spavinaw called Mick

doing it all

in my room of dreams

unable to pull up the covers or sleep

summer always in my bones

playing suburban stickball

where the season is forever

travelling with suitcase Simpson and Satchel

I became Minnie Minoso

and all those cards on the wall

my world of dreams.

TALKING TO THE CHAIR

RWP#111...inspired by this photo...credited to Milad Gheisari

TALKING TO THE CHAIR

Don't be afraid of me

I just escaped from Essondale

some vortex beyond city limits

a mental hospital

where they think everyone

has mood disorders

where nobody understands sanity

giving brain creasing operations

when I only wanted a sex change

experiencing moments

of my mothers sexuality

dipping downwards

to the lady of death

with a scar on my head

from the lobotomy of menopause

I was a lonely transexual

standing on a bed of thorns

playing a persian piano and bamboo flute

whirling, singing and sufi dancing

a colorful pastiche of gypsy sounds

taking me to some heightened state

looking for the spiritual genius of Buddha

reading Rumi and slurping words

from my bowl of ambrosia

expressing lost thoughts while crying

for the love of a lost mother

inspired by conspiracy theories

and last years nightmare

of the blind locust with a carving knife

when they captured me

taking me to some sanctuary of deprivation

where the wind doesn't blow

amongst the conversations

about squash and onions with no memories

constantly agitiated

jumping, dancing doing push ups

tangled up in delirium

preaching cheap propaganda

I refused to become a slave

of conventional ways of thinking

where ideas get lost in the universe of senses

battered graves with blind vision

and muscular ghosts of sanity

hanging from the burning fire escapes

with lost souls on three legs

wobbly, squeaky not broken

I took my axe to the bughouse square

walking out without my insanity

or black dress

I quickly stood still

putting up my hood to hide my face

to escape the ravages of my mind

and the shivers of terror

looking for the road to Vlychos

to play my flute

or maybe a taste of Bombay

I started the journey

towards the spiritual light of Buddha

and your silence that's not broken

don't be afraid of me.