Archive for the ‘art’ Category

Losing Our Pulse

June 19, 2016

Losing Our Pulse



December 24, 2014

The Devil is a great pretender
Every Devil knows it’s true
Behind the soul of sweet surrender
Does a Devil cast his view
But the soul of sweet desire
Dances blindly in the fire

See the Dog seek man’s permission
In fear against the striking hand
There lies the soul of sweet submission
As any Dog can understand
But the soul of sweet desire
Dances blindly in the fire

With all the world beneath their feet
Hear the gasping choirs sigh
Shouts the soul of sweet conceit
As every Angel sings on high
But the soul of sweet desire
Dances blindly in the fire

See the Fool; the gods abuse him
In his hands the puppet strings
Without the urge to ever use them
An eagle born with broken wings
But the soul of sweet desire
Dances blindly in the fire
lake flacid


December 19, 2014

Your dream fills my
Ears nose and mouth with
Vanilla scented ocean water
Thousands of fingers squirm like
Maggots in a dragnet
Your puckered lips become
A bright red life-preserver
I reach in to discover
It is evening; we sit rapt
At a scarlet table
Your strange palmistry maps
My future without you
I thought that I’d never
Have to see you again
Now one more timetotirzah


December 9, 2014

If you try to run from me
I’ll build you prisons you can’t see
I’ll turn my fetters I’ll twist my ropes
Into my lofty music notes
If you try to block your ears
I’ll make you see what you can’t hear
I’ll take in your glance for questioning
The picture’s voice is deafening

aeternum vinculum


October 10, 2014

Artists do not make good husbands
So I tell it, it must be so
But when he tries to tell it to you
You cannot know it as he knows

Artists do not make good lovers
He must step back to view the being
A hardened hand that barely touches
Little else beside his brushes

Artists do not make good listeners
With blinders on he views the hues
While you talk about your day
He is somewhere far away

Artists do not make good lenders
He never borrows what he gives back
Money is a sea to him
The wealthy cast their nets within

Artists do not make good leaders
You cannot go where he wants to go
There’s no wheels around his tires
There’s no pavement on his road

Artists do not make good living
He translates life to dying things
The line is cold and unforgiving
It binds the mind and clips the wings

Ida Lea

August 8, 2014

I come from old Tuscany
so good sir, you can trust in me
you won’t find better company,
then to spend it with me.

Oh, I’ve flowed once through Florence
at my dear wife’s ignorance;
what great deeds of abhorrence
were a pleasure to me.

But upon my return,
I was sorry to learn
that my dearly begotten
had forgotten poor me.

Thus no longer Roman,
through the land I’ve been roaming,
for I haven’t been home in
some time you do see.

With a swift ankle flick
from her boot I’ve been kicked;
oh, I’m growing homesick
for my dear Ida Lea.


August 8, 2014

Through history doomed to repeat
Man sleeps at mighty Nature’s feet
The flood of blood and tears through time
Becomes Her beautiful design
Nature’s woof and Nature’s warp
Slices through the Angel’s harp

Flowers bloomed during the day
Fall by night to Her decay
But those inhaled during the night
Exhaled anew by morning’s light
Nature’s warp and Nature’s woof
Smashes through the Devil’s hoof

Human forms and human whims
Dangle from Her mighty limbs
Human hopes and human plans
Are wrinkles in Her aged hands
The hands that shape indeed redeem
The hands that build our Mother’s dream