The Anclote River with the Power Plant
Past
Letters take flight
into the dark night
that inhibits sight
for mental delight.
Words are syllables
for which meaning is critical.
Sounds pound around town for the giveable
to make living more alive for the liveable.
A speaker speaks with tones.
A painter paints with strokes.
A singer sings with notes.
A writer writes words to connote.
The spot where the umbrella lies
ties the knife we could find
to its most intricate bind
in the incision of mind.
My guide and I came to the hidden road
to find our way back past the darkened toad.
We passed to see the beauty of heaven bestowed
in the stars that shined above the trees in a row.
Thought is slashed as it were with color. The far flight of those immortal others, the ever-returning stars, our brothers, saw the lightning at the end of summer.
There was darkness past dusk in evening. Humid hail fell
as my father descended to the earth to tell
my mother to throw a handful of pebbles in the well
with the swell of giant looming walls in the thunderhead knell.
What roots clutch, what branches grow
out of this stony rubbish? You don't know.
You cannot say or guess. You only sow
a heap of broken images, where heat and hail had been thrown
to beat the dead tree that gave no shelter.
The cricket cricked a creak with no relief from the evening swelter.
The dry stone had no sound of laughter for your elder.
The black shadow under the large rock told you to dwell there.
Come to the shelter of this hard dark rock. I will show you something different from talk of your shadow at morning striding behind your walk or your umbrage at early evening rising to meet the hawk.
The square was there in a stone cube as a chair.
Come to the shelter of this hard dark rock. I will show you something different from talk of your shadow at morning striding behind your walk or your umbrage at early evening rising to meet the hawk.
The square was there in a stone cube as a chair.
I'm going under my soles
with the moles
digging holes
for the troll.
The gremlin resembled a weapon. It could not take the emblem. Seven Kevins were sent to the Kremlin. Their parts resembled the need for assembling.
It sounds like the voices are snoring but if you snore then you ignore the warning. I'm not done exploring this soaring to implore tomorrow morning to adore what it must for the adoring. I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
The fresh wind is wild
for the home too.
My dear Irish child
where are you?
I am entitled to the thrust given by the gust that blows the dust thus.
Proverbial words are applied. Wait to receive your answer. Step inside. Let the butterflies fly to realize the size of what they flutter beside.
I am entitled to the thrust given by the gust that blows the dust thus.
Proverbial words are applied. Wait to receive your answer. Step inside. Let the butterflies fly to realize the size of what they flutter beside.
She sat in the Chair
like a burnished care in the air.
Light glowed on the marble where
the shine lined the space there.
The mirror showed visions
not derisions
advancing without collisions.
Dreams dove into decisions.
The standards taught were wrought with fruited vines from which a golden Cupidon peeped out behind. Another hid his eyes in line with his wing feathered fine. The flames from the seven branched candelabra refined the shine. . The light reflected upon the table. The glitter of her jewels rose to her sable. Satin cases poured in rich profusion to enable the vials of ivory and colored glass without labels to ooze unguent scent from unstoppered fables.
The standards taught were wrought with fruited vines from which a golden Cupidon peeped out behind. Another hid his eyes in line with his wing feathered fine. The flames from the seven branched candelabra refined the shine. . The light reflected upon the table. The glitter of her jewels rose to her sable. Satin cases poured in rich profusion to enable the vials of ivory and colored glass without labels to ooze unguent scent from unstoppered fables.
Powdered or liquid. Troubled or confused by the ooze
sense was drowned in odors that were moved
by the air from the freshened window. These were behooved
to fatten the prolonged candle-flames into Latin grooves.
They flung their smoke into the laquearia of Libran sight. The pattern was stirred on the coffered ceiling beneath the higher height. Huge sea-wood fed with copper burned green and orange in the candle light. It was framed by the colored stone in whose sad plight a carved Griffin took flight.
They flung their smoke into the laquearia of Libran sight. The pattern was stirred on the coffered ceiling beneath the higher height. Huge sea-wood fed with copper burned green and orange in the candle light. It was framed by the colored stone in whose sad plight a carved Griffin took flight.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Stand and deliver a shiver there.
Stand to abide by and help the breath of air.
She sat under the firelight. Under the brush her hair
spread out into fiery points of conditioned care.
Points of light burned bright, then became savagely still.
I did not wrong you with any act of will.
I will not cheat you on any bill.
No fraud has caused you a death of chill.
----------
The near ninety heat of the October beat
hit the concrete until it stressed my feet.
There was no crowd, only cars in the street.
I had not thought cool air could provide such relief.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled.
Each step fixed eyes to steps impaled
with slow staid fixity up the low grade sidewalk as the trail.
Oh how I wish I could just sail
to the place where time kept the hours
with a dead sound on the final stroke of power.
Three and nine are square.
Test your care
if you dare.
Raise your thumb.
Six and twelve are plumb.
The vertical did come
before seven and one.
Three and nine fifteen are level.
What the devil?
The horizontal hands have a bevel.
Please retard the sun with a gentle mist.
Let earth realign her axial twist.
Enchant the land with the magic of amethyst.
Give this wisp of season another suitable glimpse.
The cones of pine and cypress lie upon the ground.
Dune sunflower, goldenrod and oxeye daisies abound.
They garland the sandy coastal bed outside of town.
Monarchs, falcons and warblers fly here to hang around.
The twist of tangled cord and the elephant tube
that go with the wet-vacuum
extract water from the AC wizzer wahzoo.
The testimony of hot days has to be exhumed.
The river’s flow is broken. The last float of leaf
docks and sinks into the wet bank with relief.
The cool wind crosses the hot land for belief.
The nymphs have departed unseen.
Sweet flow of water, run softly until I end my song.
The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers, discarded thongs,
handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends or plastic bongs.
It bears a tonal shift in the quality of the autumn light's sarong.
A rat crept softly along the bank
through the plant life, over the plank,
dragging slime on its belly from the mud in which it sank
while it was fishing in the dull water, brown and dank.
There, their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors
departed. They left no addresses for the rector.
By the waters of the Anclote, I sat down and wept for the specter
of the local sceptre . . .
But at my back in the rattle of the bones,
a chuckle spread from tear to moan.
Death’s second self, sealed up all, in the all alone.
You saw in me the glowing of such a tome.
There lay the deathbed on which he must expire
consumed with that which he was nourished by
that in the ashes of his youth lies the tie
that you perceived in this mortal cry.
This makes your love grow strong
to love that well which you must leave before long.
Now the sweet swell of song
can carry the tune before it's gone.
