Eid Mubarak

To my friends celebrating, Eid Mubarak. I hope you guys have a wonderful day!

Eid Mubarak

Don’t be afraid friends,
Words are powerful sure,
And these ones are beautiful,
And joyous, sing them —
Celebrate them,
Celebrate this season of our differences.

Unite under the crescent moon,
hold your sister, your brother,
hold your aunt, your mother,
and hold your friend, your lover —
this feeling is the same.

Forgive the ignorance,
Be joyous in the wide expanse of life,
Feast on the plenitude of love that surrounds you,

Let us walk together,
Hand in hand,
And celebrate this season of our differences,
these differences are lights,
tapers that illuminate the night.

–

Follow me down the rabbit hole:

To my dear friends who are celebrating Eid, I hope you enjoy yourselves tremendously. Love you. ❤

(1) Eid Mubarak:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eid_Mubarak
(2) Eid al-Fitr:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eid_al-Fitr
(3) Ramadan:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ramadan

Les lumières grises

For my cousin Alyssa, who wanted a poem about Paris in the rain. Poetry month day 16.

Les lumières grises

Angry elves bundled,
Hunkered under
Floating Mushroom caps,
Bobbing down
Sidewalks, running into
Metros, scowling at,
Murky puddles, avoiding
angry drops, lava —
falling from the sky.

Atheists joined in silent vespers,
Crowded behind foggy panes,
Staring at the beads,
Hitting and rolling,
Down —
Down —
Down —
Calming the fray
Equalizing everyone under
a cool blanket of grey
Soaking sorry saps into
Submission.

—

Follow me down the rabbit hole:

Don’t touch puddles in Paris, you can never be sure they’re water.

Gospel Harmonies

For the geniuses of Diatessaron: Darren, Carl, Erik, Simon and Stephan. You inspire me.

The staff
Of life
Has many notes
and many heights

Fly me between them
Soar on the treble
Dragged me through them
Crawl the base
Transported to some
Faraway place

With parrot wings
Icarus triumphantly sings
Highs and lows,
Notes no one knows,

So close to the sun
feel the vibrato,
vibrate with the feeling,
of false bravado.

Unter den Linden,
Fast pace,
New face,
I chase.

The amazon rushes through,
this volley of sounds,
Infused with your faraway ground,
Running– faster and faster.

Get me up,
No bring me down,
Basking with urgency
in the notes you’ve found.

—

Follow me down the rabbit hole:

These guys are seriously talented! Check them out!

http://prog.teamrock.com/news/2015-07-16/diatessaron-all-the-way-track-premiere

Gin (or why I can’t fit into my old skinny jeans)

For Ty, who suggested (very wisely) the title: “Gin (or why I can’t fit into my old skinny jeans)”. This is poem 14 of poetry month! Nearly half way!

Gin (or why I can’t fit into my old skinny jeans)

Swill it around –
Clean and clear,
Nothing goes better with Hendrix than
Hendricks – Let it soak through,
Delicious juniper flavour –
In a pinch, Bombay will do.

Feeling Naughty?
Have Beefeater with lime,
Those panties will be gone,
If you’re running on Gordon’s time.

Sure, some might call them hedonic,
But nothing’s quite as fine,
as a good old gin tonic.

Beauty Every[where]

For Pete, who sent me a picture of the Kearl oil sands at about 430 am. 

The day broke
Freed from the night
Lawns sprinkled white and bright,
Onward still the pistons pressed,
No attrition, crushing through the Robin’s nest,
Feel the fresh breath — smoke.

Melted crayons dripping from on high,
Vermilion, Mango and Goldenrod,
Blending together so all might laud
These colours sweet, unflawed
A tapestry through which personalities have clawed
Woven in prairies and rising skies.

Even in the most long lost places,
the days are blessed with many faces,
Quietness in these machined pits,
And bits of stillness laced with grit,
Lest these moments go to waste,
Allow them to deface blackness with grace.

—

Follow me down the rabbit hole:

A Whale of a Tail Tale

For Lisa, who wanted a poem featuring frequency, rhyme and exaggeration. 🙂

Strolling along a beach, I wished,
to see a glimmering silver fish,
and when I turned my eye, I spied,
A rainbow whale- hundred feet long and eleventy meters high
To me he did croon
A wonderful whale of a tune
About oceans deep and evenings spent,
aneath the moon.
Then I saw it, atop his back
a small round saddle, flat and black.
Perched right near, his tiny top hat,
With a voice so small,
to the gentleman I did call,
“Might I come adventure with you,
And explore the big cerulean too?”
With a smile and a wink, he said “Hop on”,
And so together we sang the wistful whale song,

“High, high, high,
and low, low, low,
swimming the seas
we go, go, go,
Past underwater fire bees,
and thickets of kelp,
Near diamond anemones,
Though old ships sunken still calling for help.”

He took me to his home,
where the earth meets the sky and basks in gloam,
the land of tridents and Posseidon,
where each breath widens the horizon,
where you can harmonize with mermaids
and sirens in golden glades,
A virtual technicolor arcade,
With fountains made of lemonade,
and grand coral palisades,
where rays and sharks walk the promenade,
Sleeping on rays of moonshine,
Peaceful and enshrined.

Alive

For Ryan, who wanted a poem about midlife crisis’!

Quarter, third or mid,
No matter the fraction,
It stems from stopping,
To ask the question

Just barely alive,
But, am I living,
Surely there is more,
than just this existing.

Look through the window,
Onto time running by
Feel your senses numbed
By the endless barrage of stimuli.

Seasons have became acquaintances
to be observed behind a seamless pane
And the meetings have become monotonous,
Chores — rote and mundane.

Stop to see all your things,
Feel them foreign, heavy in your palms,
So many hours spent toiling,
These fruits a poor balm.

The reflex reaction comes in many shades,
A fearful shaking few adventure out afraid,
Quitting jobs and taking planes,
Looking for sunshine, in the shade.

Different words, same melody,
They join in search for a new harmonies,
Looking for the lost bits of entropy,
Seeking frantically – a state of internal emergency.

These beautiful wild-eyed banshees,
Decided to search for more in living
Though safety is not guaranteed,
They decided there is more than just this
Existing.

—

Follow me down the Rabbit Hole:

My new friend Ty created this companion poem with the same prompt!

Preach (the midnight gang of bookstore philosophers)

It is sometimes written
– though never for polite discourse –
That relevance is one of the
Many disciples of perspective

Ryan was a mysterious man
Known only to some across a sea of un-see-able bytes.
Through occasional musings with absent friends
He tried to find his perspective of relevance
Only to discover that his relevance was perspective

When the philosophy of causal conversation had been gained
To his immediate and gratifying satisfaction
Ryan donned the trappings of James Dean
Bought a red car and
Kissed his wife goodbye

Coffee and cigarettes always tasted better in California.

Shedding

Folded, trapped between
creases of your shirt
the only evidence that she was there,
One long, fair, silken hair

White. Thousands – cling to calves, to ankles,
From the friendly figure eights,
weaved though your feet,
Proof of altruistic love,
Pure and sweet.

Under the collar of that itchy brown sweater,
Musty, after many years
untouched on the hanger,
Thin and grey,
remnants of a man gone away.

All these strands,
Left behind,
Weave tapestries of memories,
Freed from your mind.

Voids

For my cousin Maria, who suggested I write about desert roads. 

I have seen enough desert roads
to know stories lay there, untold,
barren seas punctuated by oasis,
Alive in an impermanent frozen stasis.

Look closer, not foreign but gradual,
Each sponges of legends and lore – ancient annals,
Be immersed in these psychedelic channels,
Each rock, each shrub, its own diptych panel.

Though their faces may change
And though they oft seem strange,
They are alive with fusion – a symbiotic synergy,
Moss and fungi cling to all that is slippery,
declaring united lichen – liberty, from tyranny.
Here cacti slumber dormant, until blooming anew,
A violent violet victory hue.

Some are long gravel plains,
Deflated and hard hamada, free from rain.
Or Wadi, who lived former lives –
yes, these dry valleys used to thrive,
Left now to the imagination to be revived.
Or, Chott, the otherworldly salt flats —
Desolate zones of invisible combat.

Places carrying names that resound,
In dark bowels and crevices,
Shira, Mawenzi and Kibo,
Sit heavy – spirits caught in limbo,
But even in its vast empty saddle they sprout,
tiny white daisies, strewn about.
The angry fire that formed this kili njaro,
has long subsided – forgotten bravado.

Some are tall and striated,
Left to the bands to be venerated,
All these layers of the cretaceous,
Layed out — infinitely spacious.
The kingdom of long dead clades,
Homes in soil, in sediments betrayed.

A name with a heartbeat, old Atacama,
Conjuring up images of wild and drama,
She sits waiting gently, patiently,
Soaking in all of Antofagasta,
She is the gateway to the stars,
the last great bazaar before Mars.

Should you find yourself on one of these roads,
Listen for Sirocco and his stories, untold.

—
Follow me down the rabbit hole:

There are so many kinds of deserts! They’re a treat. ha.

(1) Sahara: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sahara
(2) Atacama: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Atacama_Desert
(3) Badlands: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Badlands
(4) Kilimanjaro’s summit: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount_Kilimanjaro

Come at me Bro

For my friend here in Tenterfield, Lucinda (it is cold and flu season at the office) and my Robyn. Viruses, bacteria and poetry.

Come at me Bro

Through my cochlea they did run,
Wreaking havoc on my inner ear drum,
Trampling across my sinuses,
Those goddamn rhinoviruses. 

One bad decision at the deli,
Led to an awful burbling in my belly,
It sure did sneak in so sly,
That motherfucking Escherichia coli.

Sitting by a stream sipping,
Unbeknownst to me it was ripping,
Through me like planes at LaGuardia, 
That hostile bitch Giardia.

Fever left my body febrile and I did ache,
As if poisoned by a shaking rattle snake,
No relief from the cabinet, the credenza,
I got hit by that asshole Influenza. 

All these things can deter,
Even the most worldly adventurer,
But be brave, be strong,
And trust your T-Cells won’t do you wrong.

—

Poetry can be fun too.