The Spiritual Recluse and the Bebop Prism ~ Sample Poems

st monans

a broken jawline
of staggered stones
speechless
before the archaeology
of wind and wave

here lie the bones
of st monans
the sandworms scroll
in their coiled
calligraphy

a monastery
of marigolds shelter
the shell-capped sage
from the ruins of memory
and disconsolate sea

dig this

before the archaeology
and the sticks and bones
held up by the straight arms
as proof of our origins

worlds wove wonders
ages argued and aspired
people played
children chimed
earth enjoyed

so dig this
you diggers of dirt

maybe below your feet
is something above
your heads

maybe the skull
is devolution
not evolution

maybe history
is hysterical story

and your academic groove
just a jungle beat

while the lost gods
stellar improvise
to the wild melodies
of a swinging universe

beach boy

in a few stray
photographs
as random as
the scoops of feet
and twirled stick swishes
in leven’s golden sands

I sit cross-legged
on tartan blankets
or crouching
in hawaiian shirt
with bucket and spade
of blazing red

a beach boy
with a smile for a horizon
and a squint for a compass

I gaze through
the glare of myself
from the past to
the present and back

as ordered as
the combed etiquette
the sandworms scroll

as random as
a milk white pebble
among the dour shingle

bebop

a broken jawline
of stoned staggers
preachless
before the musicology
of sinned and slave

is really

bluesy black blows
blistering
energy elegance
exhaling
blind bleeding blasts
blaring
organs of orgasmic opulence
opening
pale prayerful pearls
playing

bebop

bop and be
bebop

speechless

syntax
played upon a tin sax
angels
angles of light

lost chord
measuring the cost lord
argon
friends become fiends

sun shines
learning not to shun signs
speechless
listening in tongues

calligraphy

if I could write you
you would not be a poem
or a story
or a drama of dark romance

you would be the pen
not the word
the ink
not the letter

if I could write you
you would be a flourish
a long curl
a delicate eternal
stroke of my heart’s
calligraphy

mozart’s mother

think about me when you claim
my son for your own

he was the baby I bled into life
and congealed into genius

he was the child I composed
and scored into my flesh

he was the man I loved in dissonance
and harmonic mode

think about me when you claim
my son for your own

you gang of wolves
you deus I am
you art of moses

I was his mother and he was my son
a never broken chord

my angel antidote
to and from the ruins of memory