PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

 

Riding shotgun warrior headed over

mountain range of bamboozled desire

shocked, shot at, electrocuted for

belief and faith in the intensity

         and genius of present life

Desire questioned, denied, prohibited

               by powers that be

 

“Repress the vision!  Screen your eyes!”

but sight without vision is futile

as a trap without a mouse

it can accomplish nothing; lead nowhere

without the vision surely to die

There can be no light without the sun

which was snuffed out by an electrical

switch hooked up by pestilence

 

To overcome is the only goal

but to overcome what is the question

and that as yet we do not know

The pure night with stars and clouds

scattered about the sky and

a moon with a cynical Mona Lisa smile

chuckling beams of light upon us

to dampen the compassionate fires

               of Aphrodite

 

Dust sprinkled over our scalps

in Holy Communion of dream and truth

seeking out new sights, new sounds’

new love, new passion, new dreams

persecuted; fed to the lions; shot full

of insolence and destitution—

but feeding off the madness to create

one’s own illusions and delusions

 

Oh, Captain Walt—madman of the soul

how many times must we cry

the crocodile tears of compassion?

Throw money to the homeless wretch

we see in our own mirror

Does it make any sense?

Or do we just pretend?

 

It’s a pity that we walk about with

Unscathed; unblemished skin and a soul

as rotted and stamking as 3 day old soup

Our blood soaks the skies forming

red rain drops fertilizing our Earth

and we do little but snivel and cry that

it just isn’t fair but then what is?

 

Hanging by a thread in the sky

and yes clinging to faith and love

Pornographic allusions and phallic symbols

conquering the legions

of radical religionists and eunuchs

They holler and yell and I don’t hear

               a word the say

 

Deaf to the cries of falsehood—ignore

and seek out one’s own trail

Path untraveled?  Perhaps,

Think again—renew the love of life

you had as a child—put on layaway

and never fully paid for

Regain and renew; rethink and relove

It’s all one can do—or so it’s said

 

To love another one must love oneself

but how to accomplish this?

Is narcissism self-love?

Or is it self hate wearing a clever disguise

to the costumed ball room dance

 

A song unsung—(such a drag = so contrived)

stuck in our throats—a mere word of hope

we can cling to; it doesn’t matter how

              we do all these things

or whether or not they are real

 

but to try to create a new model

a new improved world; a kinder, gentler

                nation (please!)

Says Lautreaumont, “Poetry must be written

                  by all.”

and with that in mind

the fire is fueled by passion in the quest

of spreading beauty, love, sound and life

 

All in all it’s still okay over African skies

and Asian fantasies—the Occident no longer

an only force unto itself

This seeker ravages the new light and distills

Hope into the victimized—will it work?

Or will it fail—sink like the Titanic?

It sems to boggle one’s imagination to think

of all the possibilities yes it is still

thought and pretended to be illusion

 

This inner glow is extinguished

a gentle flicker of a candle within

as a match is struck—passion relit

emerging from the depths and darkness

in a creature of monstrous proportions

tearing down existing modes of thought

Stamping out the chains of yesterday

pulling for freedom to take flight

 

but wings clipped and hung on a wall

            for a souvenir

but what good can they do there?

Poetry in meter and rhyme and feet

Iambic centimeters assonance

 and whatever other whatever

but what of the soul?

 

Only the madman is left to ask: to scream

out for a renewal; dripping his blood for

               others to live

ripping out one’s eyes to see

Prometheus unbound; Icarus flown

too close to the sun yet

the dream remains a constant

always there like a flashing signal

guiding the ships safely home

 

Do you see yet?

One is thought—One does think

and in for the ride onward and backward

motion is continued regardless of any force

attempting to halt its kinesis

 

Accurate incisions are carefully

sliced as the lobotomy of the poet

leads to schizophrenia

Is it worth it?  Some brave soul mutters

and everyone laughs—or course it is

 

Who cares about the soul?  The sun?

The trees?  The love?  The hope?  The dreams?

              Who cares?

 

A caged animal is angry indeed—the madman

expectorates his venom carefully aimed

                at the heart of the city

Aiming to chop it down into a broth of love

in its quintessence achieving a balance

delicate in nature; demanding in thought

 

A challenge set forth but none

brave enough to accept

seems indeed a hopeless crock that can

                not be cured

a fraud unanswered and of it what shall rise?

The accused man condemned to a life sentence

of Freudian slips and Jungian archetypes

 

One must wonder why the muses nestle

in the soul and weigh it down until it bursts

emitting an explosion of light

and orchestrated words called poetry

               but why?

 

Tubular echoes resound thru a hushed whisper

calling out over the mountains

and thru the words etc.

One does wonder but does one wander

take a single moment to wander carefree

and smell honeysuckle and soak up sunshine

 

Extend the invitation to the spirit

allow it to rise to the surface

and climb thru the skies

In a moment’s notice, it could be a dream

or just a passing thought that whistles by

like a runaway train leaving you breathless

but with nary a memory

 

It could last or be a single pleasure

remote from permanence

It seems a bit confusing but thru the chaos

shines a lucid light

 

“Pull up the anchor!” cries Captain Walt

It is now to end the state of stasis

and begin to move again and again and again

It is time to move, fly, walk, run,

ride, drive, swim, float

We’re off to see the wizard

who is called Prince Arthur

 

When we’ll get there no one knows but

the journey is a must; to the East; to the West;

to the North; to the South

we travel near and far; to and fro

Riding the waves singing carols

about love not hate and lies;

forgetting the forgeries and trying

to fork out a new path

 

and we are condemned by the society

pages that gave us greed, theft and

              scandal

Shame is felt unnecessarily

and hence the dream is born

 

Many a flower blossoms unknown

says some other poet but the importance

is in the blossoming itself-

          not the fame attached

and the searchers shall find that

those who question will come to answer

 

Oh, Captain Walt, jot down in

your notebook of life the secrets

to the simple joys, pleasures and loves.

Indeed, in these words come

the externalization of a soul

laid naked on the page for all to see

 

May 31, 1990

Commemorating Walt Whitman’s 171^st birthday