Sea Surface of the Clouds by Wallace Stevens: A New Stanza

In that November off Tehuantepec

Night stood still with the slopping of the sea.

Just some moonly white melted on the deck.

And made one think of tickled chatter

And smooth noises. A slow mint green,

Tip-toeing through the white, pristine.

Of ocean, sways her wavy tendrils

Who then, stays to watch the fun that

She chippers, playing with her lashes.

Chippers? The buzzing hovers round

the crocheted waves of blue flex and coil

Ce fut ma vie, mon amour, le bleu.

The sky whispers a tune of chirp

And smiles gazing down at the curvy

Tendrils. They reply with sweet nothings.

Pearly clouds fluffen up the open space

like freshest pillows feathers flurry

The moon reflects frost unto the blue.

(Full poem here)

A Metaphor (Poem)

Spunks creativity with pink lamps
speckled smiles spread around
the yarn ball unfurls itself and rolls
to the edge of the Earth over the cliff.

The ball mushes and morphs itself into
the ripples below. Minting ambiguity.
Sassing through, her fingers carress and cup
the clay to create shapes. They glow.

Zooming out from the green circles
Leaves. A corn maze. Running through
But she has no care for the Maze's implication
Order is dumb. Leaved branches do still break.

So. She sees the path, and still, ignores it.
Rips through past the leaves. Energy's curse.
Fiery shapes of translucence fester within
and overlap out of her mouth to scream.

She jumps over the barbed wire so that the
textures run around free. Rough sparkles. Soft spikes.
No speed. No time. No pre-associations.
Guess that's how it'll be today. Giving in.

The paper has curled out and the bliss is known.
No constraints can hold spunks creativity
The glowing clay is certain. The pink lamps are true.
The heaviness has dissolved and cleared.

Vertigo

Misshapen spots of heat pick her body back

trying to remember who it was and where

although a part of her, the nagger tries to allow

it all--but she knows she’s just a hedon.

Hedon? Hedonist? Shifty strobes and vertigo

these are the tunes we eat and breathe

the cubes rattle in the glass slammed on the

table-- the lights streak and shimmy with the beat

Questioning. She straightens in the mint green

she wipes her hair out of her face so she can

pump harder and let go of it all, no more chase

chasing truth, but proves hard to hold on.

The cubes seduce and ask for more rum begging,

there is only one droplet of control

before the vibrations swallow her whole, pumping.

Talking talk is always easier claims innocence

Stomachs froth with the poison and slave

to the shifty strobes with few inhibitions

arms express freedom since they can finally

move in unison. Hedonism always gets its way.

Arms lose each other and forget worry

still prices get paid, you would think

that the end would show, it’s a tough bargain

learning truth is always harder with this vertigo.

The seduction lays with the cubes, rattling

there are no rules here, nothing to be afraid of.

Here, lips talk and walk free, but do they really

think they are invincible? Everyone remembers.

Strobes stop shifting and it is light again.

The poison fades and her body is bare, white.

Do they count as “mistakes” in vertigo? Streaks

slowly scratch innocence away with a penny.

It’s a hard bargain, hedonism, that smooth talker,

convincing preacher of invincibility, courage

and the freedom to spread love, but fails

to mention the inevitable end.

The oh-so freaky fade, the vertigo goes

faster than a blink and the cubes melt and

when they do, the water is clearer than glass.

Then the truth hurts. Was it worth it?

Repost: Ashbury's Punishing the Myth

Punishing the Myth 

(A repost of a poem by John Ashbury that speaks for itself)

At first it came easily, with the knowledge of the shadow line
Picking its way through various landscapes before coming
To stand far from you, to bless you incidentally
In sorting out what was best for it, and most suitable,

Like snow having second thoughts and coming back
To be wary about this, to embellish that, as though life were a party
At which work got done. So we wiggled in our separate positions
And stayed in them for a time. After something has passed

You begin to see yourself as you would look to yourself on a stage,
Appearing to someone. But to whom? Ah, that’s just it,
To have the manners, and the look that comes from having a secret
Isn’t enough. But that “not enough” isn’t to be worn like a livery,

To be briefly noticed, yet among whom should it be seen? I haven’t
Thought about these things in years; that’s my luck.
In time even the rocks will grow. And if you have curled and dandled
Your innocence once too often, what attitude isn’t then really yours?

Two Weeks

Last night, I noticed the spots.
round and red, they appeared on my chest
"Oh my G-d, your back, its bad" said my friend
Thinking back to two weeks, please don't let it be

100.3 F, as a matter of fact pointed out Ol' Therma
No, they aren't even itchy, they don't itch!
There no way, I've had them before
It can't be allowed-- I'm older now          right?

Two weeks ago--
two weeks though.

Trudging through the rain holding bags,
We held ourselves together with simple frowns.
My sister had the red dots, but we walked--still
with disbelief at the dots.

The bags held her bedding and clothes
For the others had asked timidly,
that she move out of her room to another- alone
so her leporous state would not spread

I helped and fed her but nothing prepared
for those two weeks and half later

My fingers search my body
there are bumps on my scalp, ears, and neck
One throbs particularly large behind my ear
these dots, they don't care.

Snooping around my body
Wreaking pain, with every step
Is that a hornet on my tonsil?
Nope, just another one of the dots.

They blister in form with pus
Only withstanding soft cotton and calamine
Unimaginable pain that forces tears
And the friends say "I must stay away, I can't get it".

"I know exactly how you feel" says
my sister- my only redeeming soldier.
She hugs me close "Don't worry, we'll start a
support group for adults with chicken pox after you heal."

Then we laugh for a while
at the absurdity of the happening
adults getting a childrens' disease
Somehow though, it's very hilarious

How funny, that life, I guess
has its' ways of making crap into comedy
The two sisters who both got the pox
within two weeks of eachother- as in solidarity to each other.

The Unnecessary Bark

Settle muscles deeper within the crevices of the sheets.

If God won't let me fall asleep, fine. 
I won't sleep.
I'll just day dream for a bit.

White lines go back and forth to create a pattern of whicker baskets 
curling around peas vining up and down
The wirey mixtures create a canopy,
around a coned cape of fabric.

Inside the little fort there is a pair of jeans 
with bluer flecks among the wash.

The pocket is shining and beating. 
What is in the pocket?

Gaze shift sharply vertical to see 
through the frayed pocket the light 
that emanates is deeply saturated 
with a rich marbley brown.
Outter edges of the rays are golden 
but the inner stay light and white.

Somehow the marbley brown conveys … a message.

Through the soft webs that break and part
like fresh melted mozzarella
Comes out a stream of mindful ism that starts off
small and grows as you tear through
I pull off the excess white webbery from my fingers.
The letters are clear In the air to read now: 

The blanket fort and whicker patterns.
The Amber marbley unexplained brown.
The light that emanates from the jean square. 
Was it dreamt? Was it real? Was it even important?

Inhale, just soak up

the ocean air and leave out the salt. 
Drink up the smoothie, leave the ice.
Ignore the brain freezes, the sun burns, the unnecessary bark.

I swear, you will be happier once you realize that all which you gain is under your control. The frosting is all you can taste. The best part of the muffin. The good night text. The end of a good book. When the Advil kicks in. When the rain stops falling. The record of sprints on that day. The morning latte.  The moment when you finally fall asleep.

Stream of Consciousness

Straight geometric triangles come off from the edges

of the thoughts that circulate her mind.

She hangs on to every word of her friend’s story

like the last pinch of mint in her gum, or the bottom of the cup.

Gravitating towards the less opaque shades of carolina blue

and the circular marble tables at the shops

she observes other people in their areas of expertise

Does everyone choose their destiny? or does it choose them?

The transparent globes of pearly green succulents have purple tips

the fins of the plants are perfectly hard, with a glowy white film.

Remaining silent, she has learned, is the most wise thing to do.

Those stories can be dismissed like the endless crumpled drafts.

Sometimes the corners of the crumpled are opened,

to reveal the inner heart of the artichoke, her fragile hopes.

The geometric lines illuminate and soften, and a white light

shines through them, the listener is appreciated with a smile.

these succulents, distinctly wave at their sides, softly.

each have their own ideas to share, magenta, sea foam, amber.

These creations of G-d are ethereal, and unique in form.

She thinks her thoughts are stupid, but the beauty is still there.

Yes, everybody thinks their crumpled drafts are far superior

but that statement lacks in point.

The various lines in the notebook,

do not rule our futures.

On occasion, we write above or below the lines-

which we don’t realize is still allowed.

Guidelines do not always follow truth.

Truth does not follow the guidelines.

Instead, let’s enjoy the foggy mist and throw up the leaves

make angels in the snows of confusion. Ask the snowflakes.

Jump into the questions and observe the crumpled drafts.

Let’s drink to her stupid thoughts, because the beauty is still there.