Brown
from Colors
6/20/2009
By Me
Lost in where the hazel iris meets the black hole of time.
Spinning, spiraling, solely and sourly out of sight,
Where it snows white and Frost’s bite travels down my spine,
But despite the cold weather that evening by the woods,
The seeds still germinate in the roughed soil into that angiosperm.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Blue
Blue
from Colors
5/27/2009
By Me
Straight out of an impressionist painting by Gauguin or Van Gogh,
From far, they paint a picture of boom and bloom and colors of life and above;
From close, they are drops of the sky’s single yet divided spectrum.
Their sight defies time and transfixes me in a surreal state of bliss and ignorance.
Who else do I speak of, but you my dear humble but timid blue.
from Colors
5/27/2009
By Me
Straight out of an impressionist painting by Gauguin or Van Gogh,
From far, they paint a picture of boom and bloom and colors of life and above;
From close, they are drops of the sky’s single yet divided spectrum.
Their sight defies time and transfixes me in a surreal state of bliss and ignorance.
Who else do I speak of, but you my dear humble but timid blue.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Annabelle Hathaway
Annabelle Hathaway
from XX
6/18/2009
By Me
Annabelle Hathaway
Is that girl I met one bright blue day.
She was a brunette that lived by the bay.
At the same time, noon, every day
Under the shining ray
She lustfully or lovingly lay
In the beach by the bay.
Like a vampire she stocked her prey
In the tender night not day.
With every guy Annabelle hath a way.
‘Till that one risqué
Summer, where she met that Spanish hombre
Who spoke of Italians like Dante.
Annabelle loved the Spaniard’s wordplay
As poetry was his forte.
She had met the Spaniard at an artist’s soiree
For a newly established painter’s birthday.
But as Sunday became Saturday
The Spaniard grew weary of her superficial horseplay
For Annabelle had a nice Spanish dolce
On her arm, and loved spreading gossip and hearsay
Of the adventures with the artist, but his mood turned to gray
Annabelle was not a muse and weighed
His heart and hand down in disarray.
And that my friend is the gay day
With that inevitable fray
Where Annabelle did not hath her way.
from XX
6/18/2009
By Me
Annabelle Hathaway
Is that girl I met one bright blue day.
She was a brunette that lived by the bay.
At the same time, noon, every day
Under the shining ray
She lustfully or lovingly lay
In the beach by the bay.
Like a vampire she stocked her prey
In the tender night not day.
With every guy Annabelle hath a way.
‘Till that one risqué
Summer, where she met that Spanish hombre
Who spoke of Italians like Dante.
Annabelle loved the Spaniard’s wordplay
As poetry was his forte.
She had met the Spaniard at an artist’s soiree
For a newly established painter’s birthday.
But as Sunday became Saturday
The Spaniard grew weary of her superficial horseplay
For Annabelle had a nice Spanish dolce
On her arm, and loved spreading gossip and hearsay
Of the adventures with the artist, but his mood turned to gray
Annabelle was not a muse and weighed
His heart and hand down in disarray.
And that my friend is the gay day
With that inevitable fray
Where Annabelle did not hath her way.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Sevensevensevensevensevensevenseven
Sevensevensevensevensevensevenseven
7/13/2008
7/13/2008
By Me
Seven: Indulge in the mathematical
Algebraic equational manipulation
Of seven plus two and seven plus four
Where seven minus five redwoods fell
By seven minus four cranes
As seven seconds, minutes, hours, days,
Weeks and months bleed into years
The lucky number will meet its tragic end
But dare I say the number again
Seven
SHUT UP! Who said that?
Did you let that number run rampantly?
Hogwash, balderdash, I don’t believe you!
As I bite this sour stone I think
“Will I ever see that green day once more?”
Seven: Indulge in the mathematical
Algebraic equational manipulation
Of seven plus two and seven plus four
Where seven minus five redwoods fell
By seven minus four cranes
As seven seconds, minutes, hours, days,
Weeks and months bleed into years
The lucky number will meet its tragic end
But dare I say the number again
Seven
SHUT UP! Who said that?
Did you let that number run rampantly?
Hogwash, balderdash, I don’t believe you!
As I bite this sour stone I think
“Will I ever see that green day once more?”
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
The Republic
The Republic
from Travels
8/17/2009
By Me
He lies dead on the floor after the senate
Has their way with the emperor. Shakespeare
Erroneously recounts the mere, ear
Line, tale. The self-empowering death threat
Was Taken at Lagos. Travels to present
Tense show only fractions of what was then here.
Their kingdom was not spared much like Lear’s.
This, a collection of dubious debt?
Hardly! It was an auto-annihilation,
The old left in fancy devastation.
History, art, culture does not fall alone
Disdainful pillaging sets a new tone;
One followed by the ruling religion,
Placed by Constantine in the rich less region.
from Travels
8/17/2009
By Me
He lies dead on the floor after the senate
Has their way with the emperor. Shakespeare
Erroneously recounts the mere, ear
Line, tale. The self-empowering death threat
Was Taken at Lagos. Travels to present
Tense show only fractions of what was then here.
Their kingdom was not spared much like Lear’s.
This, a collection of dubious debt?
Hardly! It was an auto-annihilation,
The old left in fancy devastation.
History, art, culture does not fall alone
Disdainful pillaging sets a new tone;
One followed by the ruling religion,
Placed by Constantine in the rich less region.
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