An Iron Butterfly in the Valley of Dreams
Posted: March 15th, 2009, 1:40 pm
a moist evening in june
a metallic taste in the air
down in the cellar
of my linear imagination
in the bilge water
of my private goldfish bowl
my teen village of hope
down in the sanctuary
from parental intolerance
shadow puppets danced
on the ceiling
candlelit and animated
this odd sign language
spoke clearly in the darkness
spoke only to me
turned on and tuned in
Nothing is Forever
it was here on the other side
of coerced higher ground
below in the faded fortunes
of fantasies run amok
where grocery bills
and electric lights are unknown
where infatuation is the onset
of the promise in treasure maps
where the dread of a world
without love kills the blossoms
of doomed dads and morose moms
on the vine and young sailors
live alee of autocratic tempests
in the new moon of blackened sons
where education thrives
in the music of self determination
crystallized here in my self imposed
penitentiary of focus and custom
dreamscapes that forty-five years
later still speak to me, tell me
that when I paint my masterpiece
it will be my final hour
when the band of gypsies emerge
a flock of flaming seagulls will light the sky
as the northbound train rumbles
like a working class hero
all along the watchtower
and the barefoot servants will break
their chains and dance with me
in perpetual rhythm center stage
and I will break bread
in a godda-davida,
and baby, you will know that I love you.
a metallic taste in the air
down in the cellar
of my linear imagination
in the bilge water
of my private goldfish bowl
my teen village of hope
down in the sanctuary
from parental intolerance
shadow puppets danced
on the ceiling
candlelit and animated
this odd sign language
spoke clearly in the darkness
spoke only to me
turned on and tuned in
Nothing is Forever
it was here on the other side
of coerced higher ground
below in the faded fortunes
of fantasies run amok
where grocery bills
and electric lights are unknown
where infatuation is the onset
of the promise in treasure maps
where the dread of a world
without love kills the blossoms
of doomed dads and morose moms
on the vine and young sailors
live alee of autocratic tempests
in the new moon of blackened sons
where education thrives
in the music of self determination
crystallized here in my self imposed
penitentiary of focus and custom
dreamscapes that forty-five years
later still speak to me, tell me
that when I paint my masterpiece
it will be my final hour
when the band of gypsies emerge
a flock of flaming seagulls will light the sky
as the northbound train rumbles
like a working class hero
all along the watchtower
and the barefoot servants will break
their chains and dance with me
in perpetual rhythm center stage
and I will break bread
in a godda-davida,
and baby, you will know that I love you.
