Lucy and Ferdinand 4-5



4

A long time coming
falls finally in night's direction
with viridian pine needles
and a big cat sleeping
on a Turkish rug.

Caiperinhas fuel intent
with hidden layers and meaning,
the radio makes no sense,
the Ferdinand finger soars.

Dream on you noose maker,
you perpetrators of fake democracy,
the time will come
when human decree
will be the perimeter.

"I am the dinosaur of the future,
awaiting global greed to die.
I understand the plain decency
that shapes fickle sand
that have to pass.

I take the I,
the dog that looks at me.

The radio is doing better now,
a Brazilian woman sings
of love and longing.

Saddam is dead. Civil war,
cloaked in daggers
hang over women and children:
ordinary anti-sharia,
glimmers like polished skulls.

Why, I say, why must brothers
kill their own?
Brother kills brother,
their brothers children and their kin?
Who can truly be a judge?

The cat is asleep now,
no fire crackers upset the dog.
The radio plays cheap Arabic music,
too commercial for classic taste,
no real drums... but oldish.

So, Saddam is just as stiff
as Bush and whoever
colonial madmen in Bethlehem
that belongs.

What would Krishna say,
or Mohamed or Buddha or Jesus
or Gandhi or Truman or I,
at the face of global collapse
where money speaks?

He turns off the light
in the Christmas tree,
turns of the radio
playing music from
Cape Town,
he turns off the escape.







5

I am the he that holds the word
holier than a cat with no tail,
than the flight of a bluebird,
than flesh caught beneath the nail.

I am the he who sleeps in ashes,
that cries in blood and passion.
I am the he that finally crashes
in sentiments, long out of fashion.

Dead trees echoes in gardens.
Winter is here, lurking in shadows.
Stray sparrows huddle.
The bushes are alive!

The night is wrought
with wings and weather.
I am still waiting.

Peripheral power inherit in words
comes from tongues rolling in tides
in times of wings and blue jellyfish.
The sea is a dark winter longing.

Seashell singers line the beach
when the first planet sparkles
and the eye that cries for night
settles in sand that shifts no more.

Lion roared morning brakes
into soft amber afternoon
with trumpets and lost fighters,
luciferous gestures, all gone.

Scampering city pigeons
etch trails to the coming of the he
that once walked
with eyes on all ends.

Why must he who wears a crown
be thorned and bled to shreds?
Why must he who defies dying days
walk alone into their coming?

Bird brave perpendicular days,
beaks bent on praying
for rainy days to stop,
pleads with the state of winter.

Groveling days flee the light,
cringe at wind's end.
Old man spatters words and fight
silent storms emotion may send.
Old trees and withered grass
waits for radiance to pass.

His moon is no merry mistress,
nor is it time to feed brooks
or solitary moments
in days of longing, in distress.
Why can't he look
at the sky's windy reflection
with void in a grey rejection?

Dance you fool on all end's day,
cherish all folly in terms of more,
all echoes in skulls that pray
for random signs and a shore.

The dragon smiles and the dead.
He claims no more than day can be,
declining evening's never said
in hope, with nothing more to see.

Vicarious wants of doom's dominion
roll naked dice with calls for more
in nights of Neolithic echoes
(where one man's bid for a hold unto rock
is another's man's saline stare at sweet taut skin)
over fields of future pleasures rippling
in a wolf pointed winter wind,
sharpened by a dark will to possess.

I will swallow the dark pill,
I will fill empty nights with rain,
with the lost innocence a child
– the cross en-route
of comfort and trust –
with the one eye hanging from the sky,
the other flayed on a beach
with dead oyster at hand, no pearls.

These brittle bone bare necessities
he harbors at the turning of deep blue
reverberates in snow lit chambers
where you, in a frail fractal orphic stand
waits with hopes of easy play.

Seascapes tempts his derelict eyes,
cliffs of untold torment ties his tongue.
Staring into an icy void
he sees white birds fly into lost night
and sailors that sink anew.

Lost in a vast white space
between total disregard
and pure iniquity
he closes his eyes and
holds his breath.

Silence is overall
and the echo of call
falls like thin ice
never to be broken.

Wearily he holds on to
old, worn out straps
that cannot harness
lost world contusion.

What secret word
can end this insanity,
can wreck confusion's edges,
grin from the ledges,
arrest all afterthought
in a single afternoon?

I fold untold suns
into neat bundles of sorrow,
never whishing for more
than a painless, blue tomorrow.

A smile from a carnivorous beast
is all I can expect.
A last dance with the rejects
on the battle field graves
where the wind breaks the door.

There is a paddle steamer
approaching in the mist,
a naked child that cries
for tissues and carnal goodbyes,
someone that wants to stay.

A long purple finger points
to the slimy marshland.
An old guitar
breaks the morning.

Stern voices roll in watery ways
longing for vivid eyes.
Infant ice breaks in waves
where winds no longer hear
what winter has to say,
it will not pray.

Cold echo remnants of the rock
- old world news and rumors
of war talks -
cast desolate ways across the beach
where all hope is not lost,
nor in a broken shell hidden.

Sleepily he stretches his bones
on a bed made for you my love,
never thinking of toxic waste,
nor of the bells ringing.

His furry soul is dragged and clean
for tonight's fall and rescue.

He stretches his limbs
in his own fashion,
still sleepy on a bed
so full of stories.

His tail does not crave,
do not bark
litigations in a dog's court.

He rolls his eyes and looks
with only one intention,
never looking back,
never asking for the impossible.

Damn you soothsayers
that pry on dignity
and leave without a trail,
that hawk all words
in markets and courts
where gossip and dead birds
refuse to fall.

Damn you do-gooders and all you
that prances through moonless nights,
who believe that angels can't fall
from the face of smugness and heights,
never daring to charge old fathers
with history's body pile
and mislead, murky molestations.

Do not read this, you might bleed
and feed a felonious fire of no creed.
Death is a dark hole in the ground,
God is a dream that can't be found.
All you can claim is what you are,
the life you live and perhaps a car
with lights that drive by.
You look for a true reason why
life is so short and full of pain,
why storms are dark and heavy with rain.




Poetry by Bob
Read 508 times
Written on 2011-10-26 at 00:57

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