You use words like crude tools,
their legato stifled, stuck
in the back of your throat:
the guttural warble of a broken spade
sunk into rich and fruitful soil
or a hand-fashioned sandstone axe
flung wildly at sleek metaphors.
For B. B.Don't let them talk you into contracts, deedsFor B. B. by thou-shalt-not
of empty words that bind your noble mind
into a world where you must sow another's seeds
and have not yours but someone else's axe to grind.
Ask them no questions - veiled and shining smiles
illumine paths that lure the weak and tired
into a golden cage of riches, conquests that beguile
the blind - that do not sate but multiply desires.
Be your own question mark - a mystery to their cast,
a threat to their distractions, to the wall
they've built around their homes, their children and their past,
to keep the darkness in and others in their thrall.
- Ask if you must, but ask with music clear
that doesn't skulk like phantom words around their prey,
that rings bright, free and true, that fills the ear
like summer fruit with sun and night with day.
And only in this day-soaked light your answers seek -
a certainty beyond all knowledge false;
cup wisdom with both hands from source unique
and inward turn your gaze and still your pulse.
Beyond the p
SilenceYou can not write silence onto a page.Silence by thou-shalt-not
You can not send a blank letter.
I wish you were here so I could be quiet with you.
BlueBlue by darkcrescendo
Saxophone smooth in a three-piece suit
enters Blue - cool and suave, disdainful
to those of duller class - the crass
beiges and browns seen down the street
and around the town.
Electric, Blue glides bar-ward, in charge
and smug with martini charm - rhythmic
in conversation, his words slide
like the saxophone ride he came in on.
Red can't leave him alone.
He presses convivial keys, playing
the spectrum with a smug smile -
It's an old game with new names
and people to mix with. He smirks
his way to Ebony.
'How have you been?' and all that jazz,
just the casual quips and usual digs
of the typically hip, tripping
over tongues and each others' ego.
'Hey, gotta run'
Over to Green, and the game is on:
Name drops, topic-hops, the usual
shoptalk of performers at play -
Plucked strings sing a telling tune.
Green leaves with Envy.
Saxophone smooth in his three-piece suit,
Blue waves like the pacific ocean, breaks
the last ice and serenades the senses
with a warm smile directed at the party.
Time, as a GodTime, as a God by wildoats
I want to know Time
as a man who tiptoes
between my eyes while I'm asleep,
wearing socks and walking softly,
trying not to disturb me;
a telephone call
from an ex-lover
where hanging up
is always an option,
despite the repercussions.
I want to know Time
as an alarm clock
that rings only when I want it to,
and willingly shuts off
at the touch of a button.
Or else I'd know it
as a garage sale, where I could
pick through items that interest me
and leave the rest to other strangers.
Instead, I know Time
as a fresh man in a suit,
who stands in front of me
with a nametag over his heart.
He always wants to shake my hand
while I'm trying to talk to other people.
He pulls me aside and tells me,
in his slick voice, "Hey, man -
I've got a business proposition
that I really think you'd be interested in."