Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Love must exist outside time
because your voice sings in the same rhyme
Somehow it all just finds me
these imprints in my memory
of how your voice led me
and try as i will to forget
it comes back in a flash
and that must be what Merlot is for
or a fine Chateauneuf du Pape
so I forget how much I was drawn
though a ship through a storm
to your side. Like butter finds scones
or jelly finds toast, like
angels carry prayers and
hands find hosts.
I was assigned and when I run
and hide, like Jonah swallowed
by the whale, the tale is full
of bad stomach acid and ale.

I once kissed the Blarney Stone
and must have swallowed a lepruchaun
because i caught the rhyming syndrome
like turretts of great irish bards
I think in verse
and while its terse
it makes a point
even if out of joint
i throw a few noses
in space. Grace or a curse
I don't know what's worse,
that thoughts come in iambic
slop or not having a thought at all.
Perhaps its lineage or legacy
from great writers in geneology
or perhaps ancient DNA,
from shores of emerald sheep huts
covered in moss. It comes
with the freckles and carrot ruddy hair
my apologies to faint and faire,
I tried to subdue it, but it keeps coming out
even when i shut my mouth
my fingers dance like marionettes
in siloettes in a french country fair.
Oh dear.

home improvements

All the Professionals agreed
the eyebrows needed trimming
the bikini needed waxed
the legs, oh darling, scratchy
and the keratin comes last
the hair needed straightening
the color can't be grey
the tummy could use a tuck
the nails- completely frayed
the pedicure comes with a rub
of reflexology honey of course,
and if we have time
lets exfoliate and hydrate
and facials are half off till eight.
Lets see, without the tip
that will be five-hundred thirty six
cash only dear, theres the ATM.
God might have made you perfect
but he made us to improve it better
said the sign above the cash register.

Time stood still
when i saw you again
five years still the same
I am still standing in the rain
if you wondered.
You are bubbled absent
trouble not immune to fame.
How does all that adulation
fare upon your greying frame?
Are you eating well enough
I want to feed you pasta
and grain wholewheat
the occasional sweet
and perhaps some pino griggio.
Lovely to see you
i think i will believe now
that angels do visit you
especially one called Gabriel.

Your lullabye
stuck in my eye
and i can't get it out.
I shook my head
by the side of my bed
i'm ready to twist and shout

The Hypocrites Food Stamp Oath.

There is an Icon in my pantry-

 a Jesus hanging on my wall-
my candles sport madonnas -
and my rosary will fall-
out the zipper of my purse-
from medjugordje, and what's worse-
there's a font of holy water-
from Lourdes in a perfume bottle-
and Le Mont Saint Michel-
scrolls around boxed cookies from Charles de Galle
duty free. present to me.
There's a pillow stuffed lavender with John Paul II smelling
nicely my room, four bibles in four languages
adorn the coffee tables
There's a benedict metal under the cross
labelled sacred
There's even a prayer in my head
a song dallying round
and that beggar on the street
must be on too many drugs to eat.

 I took a stroll with my smartphone
 that turned dumb on me
as I clicked gleefully images of a monestary
 in a gallery stuck in T-Moble servers
or possibly the NSA
who now knows I quite adore Roses
of every hue and mosaics galore of things called
'Visitation' and blue Madonnas, 'Annunciation'
and gladiolas
yes, I prefer sitting with statues perched on grottos
 than hustle bustling stations of rushing commuters
in drag called business casual attire
 or congressionals calling out 'liar'
 to Secretaries of HHS and what a mess
 they proclaim. The President lied
 and the tsunamic tide
of upset has hit the power circuitry 
in unambigiously mean vitriol .
I prefer a stroll
through rose-land peach and red,
pink and orange and did I mention
Saint Anthony standing without ceremony
holding Jesus in the middle of the Road.
I was yours before time before the rhyme sublime subdued a mind racing through graces and delusions. I was yours through moutains and hills and far away stills of images and moving panoramas in vistas of pilgrimmages on knees climbing holy stairs. I was yours there too. Right behind you counting the holy climb and still am yours though behind a curtain or prisonish grate like a saint I was yours then and now again awaiting some heaven sent deliverance some sign from the sky that i won't die before the goodness of the Lord quietly replies--yes. Its your time.

Groove In G | Playing For Change

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

God Is

A Family.
A Holy Family.

Repeat after me. God is a Holy Family.

The Origin of Halloween

Sunday, October 27, 2013

if God is real
he hears my prayers
as old as they may be
and stored unspoken years
abated, silenced by the sea

if God is real
he knows my cry
in vapid desolation. And never
did i waiver in my dedication

If God is real he knows
i'm true and have been all the while
 For mystery and mercy over misery
i exist still quite undeservedly
I am here for you unreservedly
and that may be the only reason
still I am in earthly form.

What will it take for you to shake
the thorns that imprison your soul
and steal all joy from the purpose
of your toil.

My wait is long my song
unsung, I cannot hold much longer
the grasp on this rope has burned
my hands and my hope needs yet a tinder.

You are the poetry of my voice,
the reason i can sing. To which naked
emperor must I plead do not take my
sunshine away.

6,000 lbs of food on 1/10th acre - Urban Farm - Urban Homestead - Growin...

Don't Worry | Playing For Change | Song Around the World