Thursday, June 1, 2017

Brute Hill

Brute Hill

Ula La was a frycook
at Joy DuVeeve's saloon.
Rusty Naylor was a gambler
who overshot the moon.

Two Gun Shogun smoked his long stemmed pipe;
his katana made no sound.
Little Mort the Undertaker put
old Rusty in the ground.

Loup Garou and Bill McKinley
passed Brute Hill on the high noon train
to catch a bite at Joy DuVeeve's
before the plague coach came.

Heart of lead
and heart of black fade out without a sound.

Heart of gold
and heart of green still laugh and still beat on.

~June 2017

Optional Musical Accompaniment

Some silliness for Fireblossom's Paper Moon

Images: Going West, 1934-35, ©Jackson Pollack. Fair Use.
The Women Friends, 1917, by Gustav Klimt. Public Domain

Sunday, May 21, 2017

News Of The Whirled

 News Of The Whirled

It's all pix
elated into mess, crackled
digital distortion, tonight's
broadcast. The set's

A hunger, a shadow,

black furred blur
of flesh and age
mouths at the edge

never still except the lull
of false hope

its only cunning.

It's all so neat
so cancelled and concluded
here at the ending

and yet occluded

the ordered home so long


 a house
by earthquakes.

~May 2017

 posted for Brendan's News

Images: Stardust, 1993, © Peter Alexander. Fair use via wikiart.otg
The House of Ill Fame, by Heironymous Bosch, circa 1500. Public domain.

Friday, May 19, 2017



Open the gates
of your lips and let me
pass, even as
you ripen mine
to that soft splitting
by your tongue.

Trade me your hands
for this furious waste,
breathe thaw on
the frozen plates
that slide and grind
our ties unbound.

Cast each threadbare
husk of garment down
upon the changing earth
so we may turn, turn
from dead to worse
to life again,

popping like milkweed
on the wind, red blood
to white spires, tassels and
catkins of old desires;
and afterthoughts,

argonauts, two
fools of wide waters
floating the blue storm
through clouded pillars
over the shoals
of a thousand suns.

~May 2017

 Images: Milkweed, author unknown, fair use via internet
The Argo, by Lorenzo Costa: 1st third of 16th century via wikimedia commons

Thursday, April 27, 2017

In Question

In Question

I am the woman
in the question
in the dream
that only dreams can answer

the promise
in the stem
before the bud
that only a rose remembers

the fragrance
of the jasmine
in the night
when darkness claims the flower.

I am the sun
that clouds encipher,
the star whose face
is cancelled;

only losing
rain and coming night
reveal my light.

I am the woman
in the question
in the dream.

~April 2017

Images by Odilon Redon, Public domain, manipulated:
The Breath which Leads All Beings is also in The Spheres (Le souffle qui conduit les êtres est aussi dans les sphères) 1882
Cup of Cognition~Child with Cup ( La Coupe du Devenir (L'Enfant a la Coupe)

Monday, April 24, 2017

Winter Stars

Winter Stars

April is the month of trials
and executions.
The white clematis
sails her ivory suns but

it's still a winter sea;
grass greens, chittery birds
coddle imperative eggs
high in the chartreuse oak-buds,

yet the sky
has winter stars.
April twirls a fever in his
adolescent dance
too soon among the trying
high depressions;

I'm still dressed
in winter constellations
turning to disappear
around the corner of the world.

I'm big with clouds
and pushing snow,
an arctic wind winding down,
a whitened hawk with neither mouse
nor berry, a starveling pecking
raisins from a century's hard summers.   

April lullabies believing buds with
brassy heat before a sneaking frost,
before he blows the old leaf off,
used up and shattering on an iron storm, 

to fly, to fall, to rot out on the traitor earth 
another's passing July life.

~April 2017

Image: Clematis henryii, ©joyannjones 2015