My writing

[hXc]

In mourning, sea fog
Makes small things visible.
Pearls cling to petals.
Pine needles are fringed with glass.

The sea breaks against rocks.
Heaving back, it breaks again.

What does the wild rose know of its beauty?
Have you any idea what you've given me?

This is now called "Small Observations: I", and there is a part II as well, but is instrumental. There will hopefully be a part III soon too.


And here is some more poetry, fairly recent stuff.


[Untitled so far]
Fishing for a man's footsteps to pound out from a boy,
hands grasp behind my back, catching the spirit heartily


A Lie Guarded
I have washed myself
I make no excuses


Andante
Debasement
harboured latently
our unique brand
of imperiousness.
With ever demand -
forlorn resistance.
Perceptive probing
unerringly
unheedingly
sinister.


At Least It's Biodegradable
Grain of sand in my heart
irritates and builds a pearl.
Sometimes a seedling falls away
goes right to the toe,
dissolves, and strengthens bone tissues.
Healthy, right?

There's always the fear
the pearl will swell and grow,
filling and stopping the chambers.
My heart unable to beat it to death.
Who will kill whom first?


Living
Sometimes we can live a thousand years
In a single day.
And still life is not long enough.


The Beatles
"All the lonely people,
where do they all belong?"
Forty years later
Still no answer.


"Three Senryu For Addicts"

Serenity
The highway to work -
broken briefcase, strewn papers -
prayers under my feet

Courage
Empty white paper -
my pen's shadow meets the ink -
stepping away from heaven

Wisdom
Branches out of reach -
children jumping for apples -
I bow low for mine

[hXc]

No Rain Underwater

There is no rain underwater;

Forty-seven days with no measurable rain;
today arrived a downpour. I thought
about my river's swollen banks and mudscoots,
fallen trees and sunken branches, a clutter
of rotting limbs beneath the murky flow.

I thought about my river and her fishes;
the stability of their unhatched roe, and
the twisted rope that dangles, sways
with the water's ebb and flow-
hanging from a poplar tree,
it waits as if it knows
the misery of the prisoner who sits
last in line on death row.



Our Humanity Is Under Attack

There is some kind of force trying to destroy our humanity.
Humans think, question.
They dream and envision.
Human beings love as well as hate…and the love is stronger.
Is it me or do others feel the shame when love is spoken for life?
Why is that?……why does that feeling exist?
Never feel ashamed to love any part of life or better yet the whole thing.
Never let them replace love and passion with a pill.
Never let anyone tell you its anything other than a soul keeping you alive.



Postmodernism

Tehre are teims wehn
the ccnpeots of lunagae
and the rateliy of wdros
edelus me.

[avgas]

this is all far to emo for me to care

[hXc]

this is all far to emo for me to care

Ahhh, the calssic, "You write poetry so you must be emo."
Mods, can these two posts be removed? Thanks.

[avgas]

Ahhh, the calssic, "You write poetry so you must be emo."
Mods, can these two posts be removed? Thanks.

no just asking - do you read what you write?
Poetry is not all doom and gloom

[mstriumph]

Maybe you've got deja vu.

all over again .....

[avgas]

So. Onearmedbandit you pussy shit, too afraid to insult me in the open?

Wow there is a deja vu here.

[hXc]

Artistic Soul
You paint your pictures with powerful words and disjointed sounds.
Like whispers floating through a life not so strange.
I see you there, like my reflection, understanding.

It is an obsession, isn't it?

The need to conjure the spirits that plague our brain.
To release them out into the world of indifference.

Will we come to be or will we be changed?

Life is the media we use to create being.
Soundness and soundlessness keep our balance.
Away from over analytical reasoning.

A place to escape.



As A Porcelain Wrecking Ball
How many angel-headed hipsters can dance on the head of state?
It depends on the poet.
Ginsburg had it easy, when rock and roll songs
Were still written for dancing
No one writes rock for dancers, these days
I don’t think anyone remembers how to dance.

Sometimes, we remember to live without fear,
Sometimes, we remember that dancing is more than motion.
Mostly, these things sleep, sung off
By hate and acceptable angst. America is filled
With caricatures of ancient rebellion
And not very many rebels.
I think it takes more than beer and piercings,
Blue hair and pre-fab punk.
You can’t fight with directionless anger
And expect to get anywhere.

[hXc]

As Shadow Moves To Light

From each match
more sleep rises,
blinding caffeine activity
to the smoke.

Activity slips
into a raincoat
for a walk
through an ashtray.

The perspective
vanishes into a yawn
as I run out of cigarettes.

[hXc]

Ten Thousand Tons And Counting

Drinking the poison always seems like great idea
Until one become aware of it’s true nature.
By then of course it’s far too late for anything good
To come from the experience save an ending.
Generally bittersweet, but somewhat satisfying
In a dark kind of way.

[Hitcher]

Welcome back!

[hXc]

Cheers mate. On from time to time but we 12hrs out, so not often when others are on.

[hXc]

Here's something to think about. Played about with a bit of rhyme for once. Tell me what you think.

Far Out West

Is it sometimes best to pass away young?
Ask the man in the iron lung.
Shall wealth be shared by the many or the best?
Ask the sage like a pauper dressed.
Is love embodied in a diamond ring?
Ask the seagull with the oil-black wing.
Is there a time when the wise seek a noose?
Ask the maniac who can't a meaningful sentence produce.
If you never slow down, do you never grow old?
Ask Hendrix and Morrison, worm bitten and cold.
Which is mightier, the pen or the sword?
Ask Santana by the world adored.
Shall every soul have an equal say?
Ask the billions whom to dead Gods pray.
Is it best to seek grace or clamorous fame?
Ask Epicurus or Lennon; they'll tell you the same.
Who is wisest, the old or the young?
Ask the girl who put the flower in the gun.
Is it cruel to shake salt on a slug?
Crueler by far to give an addict a drug.
Is life a fierce struggle or a sharing of love?
You'll get a true answer from the hawk or the dove.
Will the future be bright or the end of days?
Ask yourself how you can better your ways.

[MSTRS:Me]

Nice!
Was KB your inspiration for this line? "Ask the maniac who can't a meaningful sentence produce."

[hXc]

Up with this I will not put!