Thank you to Mark Antony Rossi of Ariel Chart for publishing three of my poems in the September issue.
Thickened Scent Of Voices As Images Of The Infinite
Within the thickened scent of voices,
hear above the buzz of those presently singing.
Lay eyes and hands on fancy sculptures reflecting magic glows,
individuals seeing a different dream,
one by one with an image
of what they believe Heaven knows in their minds.
A sleeping babe, dressed in a robe of innocence,
oval eyes and a small mouth,
having no idea of his great journey ahead.
Birth
A maiden, graceful
lush lips of her blissful smile and flowing hair,
and eyes of great delight.
Youth
A lady all knowing, yet old and gray,
her life understood and recalled
through filmy windows of the past.
Old age
A dying rocker,
barefoot and bearded,
saying hello to death,
perhaps like a wizard he once knew.
Mortality spent
We unravel the mosaic.
We see past the gallery of each mind
to see each of us transparent through to the soul.
Every soul’s true veil pulled back,
like an easel cloth removed,
revealing all resplendent arts and scents of the universe.
The Decade Within The Beats (Streaming)
Truces, pacts, and trade deals, televised war
conflict-hot or cold.
Bomb strikes, strikes-Ché Guevera.
Riots, draft cards burning in pockets,
on streets sit-ins, walk-outs, protests.
Paint it Black- Civil rights:
Thurgood Marshall, Robert C. Weaver,
Black Panthers M.L.K.
Ed Sullivan in the middle, helping all voices count,
knowing that music is the great link:
Blonde on Blonde-
Warhol channels Marilyn
Leary weds Window Pane.
An actor becomes a governor,
and through public sacrilege, a Beatle becomes a pariah.
Indira, Fidel, Leonid, Charles (oui, oui)
Space walks, Moon landings, Star Trek (Spock)
Maharishi or Manson
Walt created a small world
later, entered a larger one.
Dick Speck, Chuck Whitman
Bobby and Robert and Martin (tears)
British Invasion, Fab Four, (screams)
Woodstock, Monterrey, (wowing electric!)
Newport. (controversial electric!)
Rawboned courage,
front and center,
in that unsettled time,
as the beat went on,
and it still streams.
Standing On The Edge of Occasion
The anti-clockwise appeal
of stepping back,
hoping to bewitch into constant reminder
the passing slurry of long-ago voices.
You’ll now be nothing but a silent onlooker,
so lose that dramatic woe.
There are no more dances-the ballroom has been razed.
You experience the great gulp,
exhale the fog that memory can bring.
Step left,
and even with so many banal sorts
someone always goes mad,
enduring wordless conversations that reflect gestures
meant to move mountains in a world of emojis.
And in the the valleys between
lies the greasy path,
that slippery slope of high-living indulgence
Step right,
and you may even find bald sobriety.
This is the place where eagles stop
and roost, and stay.
There’s a unique tolerance here
that requires some special thinking.
This is where you imagine you’ll be understood,
only to find unwelcome schemes
to play against your cerebral exercises,
a place where strange thoughts seek to intrude.
Step forward now.
Breathe in all the love.
You’ll sense an uplifting shift,
an equal pull of fine, upstanding emotions,
an affectionate trend to do what is good and right.
You’ll discover all this in a silver wrapper of joy.
Read the handy future clocks.
Jump from the moving swing, and never fear.
The only important surface available to land on
is the one that houses unimpeachable truths
of opportunity and possibility.
