202

Posted on February 10, 2011 by urbansonnets

The future is cloudy from where I stand,

and I just need to see a gleam of truth,
I just need to hold a fistful of sand
that won't turn to glass as I leave my youth:
I have lost all contact with my talents,
it appears, though I know I reflect them,
but I lack a sense of how to balance
my need for expression with directives:
This is a crude poem – analysis
of self as prosaic as possible;
I am not kidding when I mention this –
I maybe think I am the obstacle:
Of course, a bloody hand or bloody heart
spills over into rhymes, imperfect art.
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201

Posted on February 9, 2011 by urbansonnets

Dry ice, black eyes, no peace, all bravery,

all ears, all sights as sounds, as archery,
up high, down low, too slow, the knavery
of black knights in tears felled by treachery:
Let us not call it a feud, the matter
was misguided enough to look away,
to turn the cheek and to close the chatter
till the next chapter's subject steals away:
I used to watch Gumby as Quixote
in the spaces of clay tablets-as-books;
each Rocinante is also Pokey;
Blockheads – knaves – Goo blues Dulcinea's looks:
Escape within, it brooks no gallantry:

Dry eyes, black ice, no breaks for peasantry.
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200

Posted on January 21, 2011 by urbansonnets

What a glorious day! The snow did fall,

and I almost did – almost broke my foot!
But, no! I stood up, and I did recall
that my reasons for dreaming were the truth:
This is strange grammar: reasons into one
"truth," like roses shoved into a thin vase;
the hips must be nipped  and dried in the sun;
I nearly broke my foot, fell on my face:
As zodiacs change, so evolves the mind,
though the meanings maintain the Heavens' hold;
Nature is not what "Dis-covery" designed – 
did the meaning maintain, the Heavens hold?:
Today, I twirled around the ecliptic;
I stumbled and turned a royal mystic.
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199

Posted on January 21, 2011 by urbansonnets

I feel as if floating; I am the haze,

the fog, the mist, brumous air, the aura;
I expand, penetrate the worldly maze,
particles streaking through fauna, flora:
I am suffused with spirits of fresh times
when intuition and feeling were guides;
there was time for work and a need for rhymes
to decipher the moonlight's moaning tides:
Presence was absence, absence was presence,
internal external; now walls abound
which protect the pocket as "common sense"
though there's nothing in common above ground:
Underneath it, of course, life shares one mind;
my numinous cloud climbs forth to remind.
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198

Posted on January 21, 2011 by urbansonnets

Volcano with a lid, eruption near,

the air is ominous, the bones broken
which are strewn all around, strewn due to fear
of the volcano with its heart broken:
There were rumors and legends of the Fall, 
of when the gods and the planets were one
until the volcano undid it all;
the volcano spoke, and Time had begun:
The lava's magnanimous magma marked
its trace as the fertile valley rose up
from the ashes of Time, ashes unmarked
by the stigmata a timeline throws up:
The wise men covered up the dark chamber,
unaware of the stigma their aim bore.
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197

Posted on January 19, 2011 by urbansonnets

I shudder from my sheer incompetence,

sheer like a summer day's curtain glowing
despite the darkness of the cold living
room from which all my histories commence:
The weather's on the channel, big red L
that marks the spot, shading like a specter
across the crusty-old tropic tether
tracing the torrid with a see-through shell:
The big red L sails right to my cooled home,
and the tristful heavens implode on me!
The vengeful tropics explode from TV!
I break-dance for rain wherever I roam:
I put out the pot to catch the drippings-
such stagnant odors of stucco strippings!
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196

Posted on January 19, 2011 by urbansonnets

In these quiet moments when the only

sound is the light, rippling overhead like
a distant cascade, you murmur, lonely,
resigned to face up to fate's counterstrike:
You were lovely at the vanguard, fragrant
like a sylvatic forest where slaves found
freedom, if only for a while;  flagrant
delights linger like liquid on scorched ground:
They sent the dogs at them, the painters too,
who could paint the paisaje into fiefs;
each great deed you've done, they must now undo,
as they throw your saviors to the live reefs;
Soon enough, they will repaint the coral,
wear it on their heads and call it laurel.
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195

Posted on January 18, 2011 by urbansonnets

MY FUTURE IS NO LONGER YOUR FUTURE,

my future is wide and blank and massive,
kind of like my present, trapped in nature
where the snow conquers all but falls passive:
When it all melts, those great nymphs will regress
and settle at their pond, with quivering
banks and glittering ripples, and caress
their golden threads hellbent on delivering:
But don't deliver, my glorious nymphs!
I want to break my thread and patch my own
heart. Why can't I sit and gaze at the lymphs
that flow from those streams in which gods have flown?:
Can I make my own fate, read my own pact?
I'll save this sparse race from dying in tact.
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194

Posted on January 18, 2011 by urbansonnets

In the silent park, 

reading poetry
my verses went dark, 
my spirit was free.

The bees did flutter 
around the white haze
of heat like butter 
melted on the gaze.

The words were woozy,
 crashing waves on rocks;
please, mam, excuse me; 
my heart knows no locks,
other than the rain 
when it starts to fall
just as you were fain 
to heed nature's call.

And run with gold wings 
on your seasoned back;
I know what time brings: 
the mysteries of lack.

The honey sings now
 the sweet siren's sound;
lights like danger howl, 
there's no life around.

Except for you, me 
and the potential
to become the sea 
and be essential.
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193

Posted on January 16, 2011 by urbansonnets

If each black Swan must be a question mark,

what does that make of the lowly black sheep
who must baa and bay with bloodshot, soot eyes
while its diamond heart lies in carbon fleece:
Nature's so floozy when she lets in Gods
to see her matrix in the golden pond
where seven patos born from seven pods
did persecute the eighth down the glass sand:
And they chased him into the oil, smudged
his golden coat with slick, gooey darkness
and then laughed and laughed as the seasons budged
and it was spring! Time to clean up the mess!:
And he dipped his plume in the font de oro,
and was reborn a living, dying crow.
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