Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

How profound
the stillness
this quiet chill
seemingly
unknown
yet known,
new life
promised

too soon
the big flakes
disappear

too soon
the noisy people
crowd the cafe

too soon
the nervous laughter
begins

too soon
the day
flies by

too soon
i say too
soon the moon
rises and disappears
in morning sky

too soon
ya gots ta watch
that finger pointing
at that moon

too soon
the hay will
wain and hieronymous
will disappear

too soon
the conjurer will
make it all
go away

too soon
it'll be time
to face another
work day

I am late,
like spring,
my branches draped
with March snow cover.
Icicles drip from downspouts
near my roots. I am an ancient oak,
independent of tardy seasons.
Saw me in two to count my rings.
I have seen spring arrive in arrears
more years than not. Seasons do not
own me yet I invest in sapling energy
since I must. Disease eats my sprigs.
Leaves will leave well enough alone,
insistent on nonappearance.
I am certain they will not show.
I am late, like spring.
I yearn for warmth.
I desire chlorophyl-
filled fields, green,
envious like a painted
sky. I yield
to the equinox,
await my blossom,
anticipate my flush,
languish my flower.

I am late,
like spring
is late, the hour,
my prime, not yet mine.

within this stretch of time it bleeds
a renaissance
a said nuance
and one that folds the mind around
the pollen seed
the fallen need
the burgeoning explicit plan
a brandishing
abandoning
that tricks the eyes imagining
a sudden sigh
a butterfly
we long await the coming of
the lengthening
the strengthening

inspired by the prophets
who came before us
bombers of street & parking lot
there ain't anything anti-rhythm
go ahead just try to make that happen
the stratum is never vacant
but latent
the noise of the nations
is meant to be a razor
but we are wakeful
a weightless neighbor
we don't waver and
we're more than just a phantom
grateful for the sacred datum
& our place in it
with unzipped skills & hearts of pure script
we don't pick or milk or pierce
but all these things
twitch within us
as we pray for
the fingerprints of the future
on the gospel of the convicted

convicted convictions
pricked by old man
winters snow
he just dont wanna
let go
yet in the tomorrow
it'll be 60+ and
all this mess will be
forgotten

first day of spring my ass!
clouds covering sky
like a rude blanket

but i ain't 'plainin
i haven't seen snow in 28 years

i can look out my window
and see the bay
glisten like a first born

spring spring ding ding
what we bring bring
we sing sing

jam on you crazy leavened genius!

It's not too early
my shits in bloom
Spring is here
I haven't a care.
Waiting to smoke
and choke
on my legal weed.

poppa poppa
u u mow mow
(repeat)
Han Shan lingo
Django plays
finger delays
hot jazz
gypsy style
in Paris
before the Tarantino
absconded with
yur name a miracle
of sound that floated
across seas vaster
than the silken roads
that rolled beneath
the Chugnan mountain
range all the way to the
setting of the firey sun
in the west beneath
mighty K2, the one
and only

every silence sounds like "no"

unfired clay left in rain
my limbs soften, misshapen
razor is pointless
it slides right through

Here's one of my original poems for the night ... Yeah, I wrote that right now. I typed it here. heh (people get "writing" and "typing" confused sometimes)... Pardon me for being so serious.

Spring has sprung.
The grass is rizz.
I wonder where
the birdies iz.

I was just kidding. I didn't write that silly little rhyme with rizz and iz. We recited that when we were kidz. But I wrote thiz:
...................

Adam could never understand
his role in the garden.
He was fooled indirectly
by asp and feminine will.
Adam was an outcast,
his companion affected shrill
language, demanded her position,
a siren, unearthed by lonely need.
Adam was a pushover, his mate,
a con, ousted, though
the garden lives on,
overgrown with
weeds and
choke vines –
no chance of survival
for the ignorant.
What did Adam know?
To taste the fruit, his
sole goal.
What did Adam know?
To taste the fruit.
To taste the fruit.
Mmmmmm.....
To taste the fruit.

I am Eve.
I am married to Adam.
He elicits warmth in my garden bed
each night when light has dimmed,
each morning when darkness breaks
into a tension of tongue and tease.
I am Eve. Adam is a fool.
Adam is a saint, the first Christ
who saved me from his very snake!
He brought me out of the garden
so we could indulge in sin.
I open my heart-legs, wait
for his Second Coming.

They have set the base to pour
concrete into Eden. They dug it out
like a grave, stretched plastic between
poles and posts, eliminated soil
with a backhoe, tomorrow the filling.
They will execute the death of perfection,
level the dirt until it's covered with asphalt,
mark the spot with a tombstone etched in stone.
Born date. Death date. Cause of death, unknown.

Where did the tree of knowledge go?
Where is the deceptive snake now?
I don't know but I know somehow that
we should participate in the digging up
of skeletons, let them run rampant through streets,
meet Eve halfway up the hill, make a plan to use
machinery, a jackhammer perhaps, to break up the
sealing in of a miracle.

Eden is being imprisoned.
Release the city! Allow her to breath!
Her inhabitants are suffocating!

Hurry! They have set the base to pour
concrete into Eden! Hurry!
Let us take to the streets
to protest and save her from
the burial!

what is spring without kim chi and cucumber?
what is spring without a little vodka?
lift and pour

i saw the sun today but i didn't want to name it
without a smile and a wisking gratitude

tis the basketball season
march madness, they say

but i'm mad every day!

preach, preach, teach
all slides away
as open hearts beg

it's all a sham
words worthless
the gut sucks

lovingkindness
first to the scene
last to be heard