~Wisps~

Poetry by Daniel F Mitchell

I. Prodigy

Golden Morning

Oh, golden morning!
Oh, glorious day beginning!
The face of the sky is miraculous!
The sun is awakening, Eden awakening,
Rays filtering through trees and fence posts,
Twinkling in silver-wet remnants of the past night,
Waking the heavy-eyed garden, the terraced vines,
Where newborn blossoms are radiant in emerging day.

The Breath Of God

Sing away. Float away.
Lay a soft whisper in my hair.
Upon an ocean fly,
Across a sea of endless blue,
Across an azure day.
A wisp of white upon the air,
A fleecy blanket on the sky,
The breath of God are you.

I am the sky

I am the sky.
I am the stars above.
I can fly
On the wings of a dove.
I rejoice
With a windy voice.
Hear me cry.
I am the sky.

Fly

Walk on the clouds,
Among the crowds
Of cotton birds,
The marshmallow herds
Of gossamer opossums,
And fawn blossoms,
The fleecy flocks of sheep
Floating fast asleep.
Step on them one by one,
Until you reach the sun,
And claim a piece of the sky.
Fly!

Sage Minstrel

Song of a little stream
Babbling obliviously,
Transient Summer dream
Flowing mindlessly to the sea,

Over stones and moss calls,
Merrily piping and singing.
Over gay cascade falls,
Tunes of existence are ringing.

Play on, thou, fearless sage,
Though thy tones fall on deafened ears!
What words might truly gauge
The earnest wisdom of thy years?

Subjects Of The Pond

Silver is this dance at dawn,
A splash of white upon the glass,
And spark of sun on thrashing fin
That tumbles through the mirror once more -

Then as before, the gentle trance
Of murmur lapping on the shore,
And pass again to swish and crash.
So spirited, this slippery spawn!

Surprise At A Lake

A lumpy guy among the weeds
Has passed me by in hurried hops.
Towards a pool,
He leaps
And drops.
The water breaks
In silver pieces.
A flash of moss slips in between,
And kicks a wake of rippled creases
To the cress along the reeds.

Builder

I’ve found a pool
Where one did not use to be.
I’ve found a mound
Beneath a cedar tree.
I hear a sound
Like the churning of the sea.
The fronds surround
And hide the poet from me?

Angels In Green

There are angels in green
Dancing on my window sill,
For an afternoon sunbeam
Streaming in from the day.

A soiled soul they clean,
For a bit of water will
As the earth’s fair children gleam,
And in my heaven stay.

Poem From An Elm Branch

The poet laureate of an elm
Sang to me his poetry,
Trilled his sweet verse
In appreciation of a tree,
That he and I might converse
On the meter of his realm.

March

In March, the first warm raindrops fall,
In hint that spring’s front troops do call,
But marches in a winter squall
Like drumbeats on the roof and wall.

April Showers

Sprinkling of the May queen!
Iridescent showers
Attiring her in green,
Awakening flowers,

Come a day raindrops sing,
Praise a new maiden’s birth,
Raise the lady of spring,
Grace the mother of earth.

The Colors Of A Ray

It looks like rain today.
The rolling clouds are on the way.
The sky is turning fast to gray.
A rainbow comes to stay.
Fairy veils begin to fray,
In silver mists begin to spray.
Wind sprites have come to play.
They have sent the sun away,
But kept the colors of a ray.

A June Bug

A june bug came in September,
To wait out winter’s harm
In the kitchen window sill,
In the potted plant sanctuary,
Until the days grow warm,
Through October,
November, and December.
And in January,
It was there still,
Extending its stay
Until May,
Never wandering away,
Until one fine June day.

Dandelion

There’s a yellow one
Among the grass,
Too mellow for sun -
But could for gold pass.

Above the domain
Of the flower bed,
A tooth and a mane,
A dandy lion’s head!

Robins Are Singing

Robins are singing.
Robins are waking.
Robins are bringing in the day.
This glorious morning,
With spring in the making,
Robins are singing
Of sun here to stay.

Garden Jester

A little rabbit beneath the rose,
One ear up and one ear down,
Shows his silly-wiggling nose,
Lifts his ever-happy frown,

Leaps across the garden floor,
Prancing as a racing steed,
To itch his chin upon a weed,
And settle in the grass once more.

Feline

Sleek is this stealthy dragon.
From a sofa
Springs she
Upon a sunbeam.

Swats an evasive dust,
This shadowy specter,
Arches up,
Sweeps low again,

Tame once more then -
Only tranquillity;
A serpentine tail
And hymns softly hummed.

A Bird In The Hand

A bird in the hand
Must be worth any
Two in the bush -
Much more grand
To stroke a head,
And feel a beak
Give your finger
A trusting push.

Unless, instead,
You might convince
The two in the bush
Not to linger,
Since two in the hand
Would be as nice
As one, at least twice
The worth of a bush
With many.

Wish On a Starfish

Make a wish on a starfish.
Find a dream in a sky of sand.
See the universe in a dish.
Behold, a light I can hold in my hand!

arizona rope

sliding gliding
lithe and slender
escaping from sun bake
between cool stone
nest home
you
leglessly running
vacuum cord retracting
into case
with a rattling
behind

Heart Of Wood

My tree has budded anew,
Has donned her morning attire,
A delicate waking hue
That only spring can inspire.

She wears the green of waking.
She will weave a tapestry,
A dress of summer’s making.
She will bear a quince for me.

She is as my sylvan child.
I raised her to tree from seed.
I espoused her from the wild,
And care for her every need.

And she repays all my care
With a vitality fine,
With leaves and fruit, scents my air -
Has rooted her life in mine.

I greet her as my friend true.
She would answer if she could.
I’m sure that she loves me, too,
Deep down in her heart of wood.

Morning Has Broken In Idaho

Morning has broken in Idaho,
Along a fold of glacial grain –
And pine trees growing row on row -
Upon the high-rolling hills and mountain peaks rising -
Eastward, westward, the coming sun surprising
Shy host of woods wandering tranquilly along the roadside,
White-tailed, lingering for confirmation,
Dashing away into the underbrush -
Dew on leaves and grass, shimmering diamond-silver-white,
Abandoned jewels of passing night -
The twittering tongue of thrush -
A cottonwood taking in a golden ration -
A sleepy owl on a sweeping wing of cedar -
Wildflowers, paintbrush-fresh, scattered freely among the grass -
V-formation of geese in high-held pass,
Holding fast to the point of their leader,
Upon a sunbeam riding,
The highest rays of day to meet -
Clover, knee-high and sweet,
On a breeze blowing -
A song from the creekside flowing -
Brisk perfume of conifer -
In the treetops, the wind’s glorious sound -
A flash of red wings, fluttering,
Feathers in a fir,
A hawk settling from his sky, riding,
Following a current down to the end -
A grasshopper on a thistle hiding -
A ground squirrel searching out a friend -
A ruffled grouse standing his ground,
His courage fluffed and sputtering,
Ruffled and drumming the cadence of the day -
A caterpillar in the dry leaves finding its way -
A monarch butterfly upon a daisy come to play -
A crow rowing at the tail of his brother -
Awake all for the show!

Morning has broken in Idaho!
Ah, to live to see another!

Closed For The Season

These woods are closed for the season.
The trees do not care to be seen.
Fatigue is likely the reason.
They are tired of being green.

When you’re the biggest thing to grow,
Nothing else has much of a say,
If you want to put on a show,
Then sleep the whole winter away.

Those Winds

Those winds that blow down southerly,
Bring icy air from the northern sea;
A wicked, prickly, needle cold
That makes the landscape stark and bold,
That makes the children cease their play,
That makes the birds all fly away,
That turns the pines to frosted cones,
And skelps the skin right off yer bones.

Feathered Fairies Of Midnight

Spirits of the highest air
Beneath a lunar noon fair,
Beneath a cedar bower,
Have come to visit this hour,
Heaven’s earthward-blown daughters,
Stirring the still pond waters,
Breaking in silver slivers,
Delightful sightly givers
Of show and song compounding,
Magical trumpets sounding,
Dancing madly in moonlight -
Feathered fairies of midnight.

On A Magical Night

On a magical October night,
The porch is a delight
With a jeering jack o’ lantern bright.
Cornstalks in the fields murmur a fright,
When the wind is right.
A breath blown down from mountain height
Carries a leaf like a brittle kite.
And when the moon is right,
Shadows seem to shape the light,
But not quite.
One can see the trees, bone white,
As gaping jaws prepared to bite,
Or a demon free, or a witch in flight.
With luck, a spirit might come in sight,
With a little luck and magic, it might.

Winter’s Hand

Winter, fiendish hand of destruction,
Slowly steals the green from every leaf -
Ruthlessly crushes life’s production
With the touch of a murderous thief.

Winter’s blow feints high then creeps low,
To spread a most malignant disease -
Dragon’s teeth sown in the guise of snow,
That raise skeletons where there were trees.

Teeth Of Winter

Icicles gnash along the eave,
Aligned like rows of icy fangs,
A point of bitter luck to grieve.
In a balance, cold and hot hangs.

Snowflakes, hardened by their chill lot,
Put their jagged teeth on display,
Their hearts frigid, their tempers hot,
Until sun warms their hate away.

Diamonds

Diamonds glitter on the lake,
At a winter morning’s break.
The value that such wonders hold
Is more precious than any gold.

Wealth made in a single night,
Formed in an hour, and gone as fast,
Gems that but a season last,
Are indeed a treasured sight.

Lady Winter

A maiden has arrived,
Spread her ephemeral vestiges in the stealth of dawn,
Enswathed the threshold of morning with her frosty gown,
Attired the world in bridal white,
To wed the groom of first beholding,
Abiding unblighted, for the caress of flesh fingers,
For the blood-warmth to take up a portion of her veil,
To abide as one substance,
She and I,
For a moment of courtship.

Marauder

A marauder has breached the cabin floor,
Turned a crack between the planks into his pantry door,
There, ransacked a sack of roasted cashews,
And left the shells piled neatly, having taken his dues.

He wears a mask to disguise his design
To share as his own what I deem to be mine.
Though, from time to time, he appears quite bold,
On the stump of a tree, my intrusion to scold.

Goblin

Something’s out in the garbage bin,
Too loud for just the rain,
And not quite in rhythm for wind.
But it’s too hard to tell in this din,
With the moon gone and the stars turned in.
Almost impossible to catch a fiend!
By morning there will only be muddy paw prints
And fish fins left over from dinner,
Scattered around the bushes by a goblin.

Denizens

Tearful hymns from midnight gate,
These fallen spirits expiate
Their nightly deeds with doleful cries,
And wear the wit of ancient guise,
And catch the moon on moon-disk eyes.
Who? Who?
 

Meadow At Midnight

I rose at noon nocturnal and cast a glance beyond my window,
Beyond my window pane, beyond the glass, to a sleeping day.
I bade it greeting, bade it say what it would say,
With a light touch raised the sash, stepped lightly outward,
Across the threshold into the twelfth-hour radiance,
Into the dew-wet grass,
Across the grass, treading lightly, to the garden path,
And passing to the pasture sweeping low at my knees.
And a goose called out lonely from the night far above me.
There I observed the moon for a time,
Entranced by the nimbus radiance.

The pale moon is luminous upon the treetops.
The pale moon is unrevealing beyond the treetops.
There are shadows beyond the trees,.
The night is not revealed beyond the trees.
There is deep mystery behind the trees, entrenched in the branches.
There are shadows enveloping the branches and leaves.
And there is a cat creeping or a raccoon out on expedition.
But there is no other adumbration but speculation from the woods.
The moon speaks only of the meadow directly this evening.
All else is oblique to my understanding,
All else obscured from my vision.
The moon is luminous upon the meadow, radiantly betraying.
The moon is luminous upon the grass, intimate and revealing.

The green is gone from the grass, silenced by the moon.
Silenced are all colors.
The grass is gray and divested of pretension.
The bones of the grass are revealed both lusty and circumspect.
The nature of the grass is revealed -
The present rising from the past,
The present subsiding to the past.
The grass is possessed by a presence of moonshine.
On the grass there is a stirring, rising upon a moonbeam.
Palpitating is my heart at this unseemly revelation.
My heartbeat is unsteady, failing and overpowering.
My breast is beating life and curiosity.
My curiosity is tangible, most tangible and marvelous.

There rises a form from the grass, a fluctuation of luminosity.
There rises a gossamer form or a form without substance,
Neither wrought by moon or shadows alone,
Nor brought forth a spirit born on imagination’s whim,
A flicker, a tremulous whirl rising then subsiding,
Settling down in the meadow grass,
As a veil torn away from a secret lover’s face is cast aside,
As a spotless gown might settle round a bridal procession,
As a delicate moth fluttering might light upon a blade of grass
But rise again to dance in the lunar morning,
To reckon with the stars for the moon’s affection.

I rose at noon nocturnal and cast a glance beyond my window.
I stepped straightway to the meadow in my passion.
And in the light of a midnight moon, I am entranced by curiosity.

Among The Thronging Flowers

Stand upon the highest garden stair,
Among the thronging flowers.
In the most spacious of bowers,
Sow your affinity to the air.

Gather a glittering bouquet
Of blossoms blooming in endless space.
Harvest a twinkling nosegay,
And hold it against your starlit face.

 

© Copyright 2000 by Daniel F Mitchell

Published by Gray Matter Press Athens, Georgia

~Wisps~

Poetry by Daniel F Mitchell

II. Dream

A Kite

I saw a kite caught in a tree -
A dream I thought belonged to me.
I lost one there, some years ago,
In autumn wind, before the snow.

It left me for an urge to fly,
To ride a surge into the sky.
I dreamed it sailed across the sea,
But someday would return to me.

An Apricot Tree Grew

An apricot tree grew
In the backyard of my youth,
Blossoming in spring -
Lightly floating downward flowers,
Bound earthward,
Branches reaching for truth,
Greeting young eyes with symmetry,
And the sweet sweet scent,
Succulent with season,
Bearing fruit for the eating,
There for a reason.
And what was meant
By the view,
Who’s to say?

Huckleberry Picking

Let’s go huckleberry picking, shall we?
(Like we did before up on Cedar Saddle)
We’ll hike the peak to the snow line,
With thoughts of huckleberry pies to motivate us,
And the going as much as the eating,
Until we find our prize;
A world of bountiful underbrush,
The tart red ones, the sweet black ones,
And the dark ones beneath the cedars
Alive with pine essence.
We’ll battle the yellow jackets for their claim,
The day completely forgotten until evening,
When stomachs and vessels are filled to capacity.
Then we shall concede, as Alexander,
Our hands stained from conquest,
That there was too much territory to conquer,
Too much treasure for the looting.
Bearing our berries, like Sherpas home from expedition,
Blue lips joyful and singing,
We will find our way homeward in the growing shadows,
Still thinking of huckleberry picking -
And the pie only an afterthought.

Hunting And Finding

I hunted deer in my youth,
And found one, as elusive as truth,
Come from the shadows
To drink,
As I sat near a stream

- And my Winchester there,
Forgotten, at my feet.

Walking On Holy Water

Do you remember when
We followed a stream down through a glen,
And found a wheat field growing there
Like golden waves of angel hair?

And blew a breeze of heaven sent
Across the flowing tides of grain.
Across an amber sea we went,
Across a magic plain.

Then from her bed, leapt up a fawn,
Like Neptune’s agile daughter.
And we followed after her till dawn,
Walking on holy water.

Warm, Wet, Embrace

With a voice of sirens she sings,
With broad bold lips,
Whispers from a distance,
Smiles with perfect teeth,
Beckons me, her silken face,
Skin smooth and azure,
Wraps seductive fingers around me,
Spreads her skirt fro
Voluptuous rolling hips,
Draws it back a bit to show
Her petty coat beneath,
Edged in silvery lace,
Luring and retreating
My inordinate lust to entice.

I succumb without resistance,
With unconfined wings
Sail out to meet her,
I the holy ghost, and she
The virgin entreating,
Rolling me off to paradise,
Into her warm wet embrace.

Blowing Dandelions

Some say the dandelion is a weed.
But I insist it is a golden star
That turns from sun to quasar,
And sows the earth with celestial seed.
The notion may seem farfetched at first,
Until one realizes a dandelion’s thirst
For life and proliferation, the desire
To go from seed to heavenly fire.

I smile when I spy, on some manicured yard,
A dandelion sun shining brightly on the sward,
Prying up through a lawn in glorious form,
Through the most thunderous gardener’s storm,
Defying the mower’s effort to darken skies,
Like some immortal escape artist’s surprise.

Late night, when stars twinkle remotely,
Like dandelion parachutes floating across eternity,
I think, possibly, that somewhere out there,
A boy has been blowing dandelions into the air.

Salamanders

My desire
Was to catch fire -
Salamanders in an alpine lake.
I had made the same mistake,
Numerous times before,
Of trying to wage elemental war.
And there I was, once more,
Seduced by mythical lore,
Armed with fire bucket and resolution,
Believing I had a solution
All worked out.
I had no doubt
That this time I would succeed
In capturing the fiery breed.
I stealthily stalked,
On hot coals walked,
Until I was so near
I could feel a salamander’s heat sear
My feeble attempt
With burning contempt.
At the edge of the moss it blazed.
For an instant I was dazed.
Then I made my move,
Snatched, felt fire in the groove
Of my palm, then only mud, moss-smoke,
A salamander’s joke.
Again, I had been spurned.
My fingers had been burned.

Picking Up Pebbles

She said she would look for rocks,
Pretty pebbles, and shiny stones,
To arrange as border blocks,
To order her garden in zones.

But she saved a fallen star,
Gathered up fragments of lost space
Where they had scattered afar,
And gave them a pertinent place.

The Promised Land

We pilgrimaged hand in hand,
Along the straight and narrow streets,
To the promised land,
In an exodus for sweets,

To the gates of paradise,
Where a heavenly angel waited
Behind an array of flavored ice -
The blessing we had anticipated

There in the counter glowing,
The fruits of our desire,
Like milk and honey flowing!
Manna to cool our earthly fire!

Treat Or Trick

Candy was no good for Halloween treats.
It made trick-or-treaters misbehave, gave them tooth decay.
And so she vowed to do away with sweets,
By giving away something wholesome, in the way

Of scones, cold unsweetened scones.
Scones would put the white in their smiles,
And a righteous marrow in their bones.
Folks would hear of her wisdom for miles.

My brothers, and sisters, and I went
Under duress – our mother’s threats of pain in hell
If we did not willingly assent,
And politely wish our well-meaning neighbor well.

Thus, we accepted our neighborly obligation,
Chirped Halloween wishes, gleefully assertive,
And waited out the tedious parable, considering incineration
In hell as an acceptable alternative.

With uplifted goody bags, we accepted shortening bread,
Grateful, at least, that we had costumes to mask any insincerity,
And that we could then be moving on, instead,
To certain Halloween trick-or-treating prosperity.

I even took a bite for my mother’s sake,
And for my neighbor’s delight, even insisted my brother
Give his a try, then and there. Like birthday cake!
But I kept moving for fear she’d offer me another.

In the rustle of autumn leaves, it isn’t hard
To spit without your mother hearing,
And clandestinely throw a scone across a yard.
With so many other scones thrown about, there was no fearing

That anyone would ever find out whose scone was whose,
Unless teeth marks and dental records were investigated,
And a thorough search was done of treat baskets for clues.
And then, the whole neighborhood would be implicated.

For there was always a trail of bread in every direction,
Scattered along the sidewalks and lawns in ghoulish cheer;
A map laid out by ghost and goblin insurrection,
To help them find their way back next year.

Sport

We called it nigger-knocking,
But whether niggers knocked and ran
Was nothing we could know, having no niggers in town.
But we served as diligent surrogates.
We set our sleepy town rocking,
Evenings, after church, enough to make them ban
Meetings on weekdays, afraid we’d pound the doors down.
But where opportunity knocks, effort never abates.
Old ladies were against the rules,
And gentle folks who smiled and wished us well
Even if we chided them from down the street.
And we never picked on the poor, for fear they’d take it too hard.
Employees from any churches or schools
Were prime targets, those who would damn us to hell
From their porches, those who kept their lawns too neat
Or put up signs to keep neighbor kids out of the yard,
And especially the toughies who were really determined to catch us,
Waiting up nights in ambush, ready for the chase,
Angrier each time we foiled a clever plot
By infiltrating their Maginot Lines, and tearing their egos apart.
The primary object was to raise enough fuss
To pick up the monotonous small-town pace.
The sport was to not get caught.
And the escape bordered on art.

Tree House

It wasn’t very square,
But neither was the tree,
Both formed of deviating wood.
To say it was haphazard would be fair,
Speaking purely of symmetry.

We had done the best we could
To make it practical,
From a boy’s point of view.
View and concealment were what really mattered,
The main consideration being tactical.

For materiel, we had to make do
With slivery planks that we found scattered
Here and about, along garden fences and back doors,
Nicked from behind neighbor’s garages and sheds,
And rusted nails accrued from boards, pulled, and pounded straight.

We scraped up enough scraps for multiple walls and floors,
A semi-watertight roof over our heads,
And a rope ladder, with a trap door for a gate.

And when we had it made, we had it made!
We had a castle in the shade of a Norwegian pine,
High in a pine, where no adult meddling could reach,
A sanctuary from injun siege and pirate raid.

We stayed always vigilant, on watch for the first sign
Of invasion, with imaginary cannons at each
Corner, pine-cone hand grenades, and fence-picket swords.

Though we were attacked by more than a score
Of prowling cats, and robins singing out our position,
No external force ever conquered our tree or boards.

In the end, it was the enemy within that brought us to the floor,
The passing of age that took the blast from our ammunition.

Toy Soldiers

They thrashed the cotton-headed weeds,
Withdrawing strategically, again and again,
As the enemy dispatched new armies of parachuting seeds
To reinforce the battlefield for some latter campaign.

They were beaten, they knew, their numbers too few
To take on an entire ditch bank.
For among the legions arrayed against them so rank,
All manner of hideous imagination grew.

There were hydra-headed grass monsters whose powers surpassed
The efficacy of any common warrior’s blade,
Poisonous spores, man-eating vines, dragons massed -
Multitudes of the most malevolent grade.

But the heroes stood their ground for honor’s sake.
With lattice-strip swords tempered by childhood consecration,
They made the weeping-willow swamp creature’s tentacles break,
And saved the world from utter annihilation.

Puddle Jumping

Days of rain,
Our mothers forbade, in vain,
Our getting wet.
If there was water on the ground,
It was a sure bet
That we would soon be found
Jumping mud puddles.

Mud puddles are not mud at all.
Mud only muddles
The water a bit – the rest is pure rainfall.

And what’s the use of heaven pumping and dumping
All that rain, if nobody’s jumping?
Not to jump seemed a sin,
Not over, but in,
Right smack in the center!

Position of the feet was the key,
Knowing how to enter
With complete authority,
So that most of the water splashed sideways
Instead of filling our shoes.

Sure, our mothers made us pay our dues,
But we still got the best of rainy days.

Motorcycle Ride

Grab your brain bucket. Put your brains inside.
Because you won’t need them much anymore.
Replace all thoughts with a maddening roar.
You’re going on a motorcycle ride.

Now squeeze that crotch rocket between your knees.
Your murder sickle is all set to kill.
You discard better judgment for the thrill.
Lack of discretion is your mad disease.

Hear the frenzied humming of angry bees.
Smell the gasoline nectar. Taste the dust.
Boldly kick the stinger, and feel the thrust.
Take off, aimlessly flying through the trees.

From all your worries, you merrily glide.
With a twist of your wrist, your world is grand.
The whole world is in the palm of your hand.
You’re going on a motorcycle ride.

The Camp

There’s a meadow in Idaho,
Where the pines circle round and meet,
And the grass is trod low
By little city-learned feet.

There, young eyes were wide
In discovery of paradise -
To be outside,
In freedom’s device -

For a few weeks, then done -
As all good things, gone too fast -
But the dream graven clear as sun
Into the lessons of their past,

As wisdom’s consecration,
So that when they are old,
They shall see their final destination
Without being told.

We Had Fishing

We cast our lines in a summer lake,
Not really knowing what was at stake,
Unsure of what we might take,
Our bait as unproven as truth,
Dreaming and aimlessly wishing.
But we had our hooks firmly in youth.
And for a summer, we had fishing.

The Swimming Hole

I will recall your thoughts as you looked behind you,
Beyond farm and fences to the wandering sun,
Wondering what would be, years after you were through,
And if time would still remember what you had done.
 

© Copyright 2000 by Daniel F Mitchell

Published by Gray Matter Press Athens, Georgia

~Wisps~

Poetry by Daniel F Mitchell

III. Illusion

Master Of The Day

I am master of the day.
I am lord of all I survey.
The world is my subjugation.
I am a god in my own way.

My designs I cannot Suppress.
My yearnings I cannot redress
With anything but creation.
My passion is akin to madness.

The Moment

Seize this splendid moment.
No monument can stand as may
The seconds of this day
Against eternity.

Seasons, history will say,
Were written on daisy scrolls,
Sent as sun upon sand,
As golden pieces of eternity.

The Nature of Things

Straight and twisted is
This Emersonian wind -
Supercilious in the head,
And language to the heart.

 
What I Came For

I’ve seen it, Henry,
Beneath the numbers,
Beyond the cumbersome lies,
Put delusion aside,
Sucked marrow a while,
Gave deliberation a try.

And there it was – a poem,
In a flowing stream
Pebbled with stars.

 
For A Day

They say a butterfly
Lives only a day,
That to live and die
In a day is rough.
But who’s to say
To play for a day
Is not enough?

 
Distraction

I have been chastised
For chasing butterflies
When I should not,
Should be watching a phone,
Or figuring figures,
Or configuring configurations.
But there’s a bright moth
Fluttering past the fence.
And I can fathom nothing more intense
Than floating after it for an afternoon.

 
World of Glass

In the center of a field,
There is an old pump.
And the handle won’t yield
For the years and the rust.
So it no longer fills
The water trough
Cut from an old stump -
Yggdrasil, it may well be,
Where algae grow,
Sustained by snow and rain,
And water striders skate listlessly
Across the surface of their domain,
And suppose themselves to be alone,
On a world of glass,
In the center of a field.

 
Snail

All other domiciles pale
By comparison to one;
The shell of the lowly snail,
A shelter second to none.

A snail is always at home,
Even when he is away.
No matter where he might roam,
At home he can always stay.

If his neighborhood is bad,
He can soon find another.
He can never be made mad
By an overstayed brother.

His nook is fluid and quaint,
His house always on the go,
Though, his pace is somewhat slow.
But when was speed his complaint?

 
Opulence

There are honey ants called repletes,
Who fill up their bellies with sweets,
Like bottles on a cellar rack,
So their bon vivant queen can snack
Whenever she feels so inclined,
Or be thoroughly wined and dined.

 
Once Burned

They appear curiously benign;
Slender pagoda stalks,
Delicate leaves with whiskers silky fine,
And a righteous posture that mocks
The wise, and welcomes fools
To touch, to test the mettle,
To discover the rules
Of stinging nettle.

The nettle demands liberation,
Teaches mental self-purification.
Once burned, lesson learned.
Twice burned, lesson spurned.

 
Praying Mantis

She kneels before the judgment chair,
Arms folded in reverent prayer,
In the heart of her saintly lair.

A pilgrim passes by in quest,
Is fast transfigured in her nest,
As lay against her loving breast.

He had a vision of happiness,
On a timeless, sunny, day.
He dreamed of lush cypress
Draping lazily over a sway
Of moss, soft at the river’s edge.
Joyously, he danced with swans,
Along a high July hedge.
Upon far-fabled lawns,
He had an afternoon and a life,
A religious ecstasy
With a daughter and a wife -
An apparition and a fantasy.
His thoughts were filled with daffodils,
His gambol to his knees
In dandelion-imposture windmills
Gone to seed, sailing with the breeze -
Figment ships, floating on the bosom of nirvana,
And he with them, eternally bade
United in the house of manna,
In the shelter of universal shade.

© Copyright 2000 by Daniel F Mitchell

Published by Gray Matter Press Athens, Georgia

~Wisps~

Poetry by Daniel F Mitchell

IV. Song

Mozart had his music.
To Socrates wisdom went,
Greatness to Caesar,
And Christ eternal life. 

I ask none of these,
To my words immortality only -
In three hundred years hence,
Regarded on some student’s desk.

 
Stirrings

What are these things
That need freeing -
Dreams, or feelings,
Or demons that no
Words know or speak,
Like bird song caged in bars -
Seeing diamond shards through infinity
But having no arms to reach for them,
Only seeing and searching
For words they might wear.

 
Facets

Poet youth,
You are a jewel
Fresh from the mine
Of truth,
A diamond in the rough.
Under the proper tool
And polish, you would shine.
You are made of the right stuff.

 
My Task Master’s Beckoning 

With a whisper, I could be free.
I could float mindlessly across my time.
But my resistance is gone.
I stroke to his cadence,
Flailing an impassable sea,
As he commands me, wherever he withers.
He stands over me, merciless master he,
Driving, beating the drumhead,
Motivating the living until dead.
I am his servant.
When his whip snaps,
I jump to the task,
To my task master’s beckoning.
And all that I can ask,
Is to affix my name to the effort.

  
No Market 

Shall I give up verse, Ezra,
Nothing to it but words it seems,
(Like Mussolini’s empty promises)
Dream of an unfinished Mexican cruise
Lowering gloomy as a bell jar round me,
And die, if there’s nothing in it?
– A minor poet from Idaho, like you.

Should I claim total insanity,
Cast pen to fire, and will to oblivion,
Set Shakespeare aside, and turn a dial?
Yet media is an enemy to me.
Treason is not in my blood.
Complacency is a devil,
Mine a cause against a mundane tongue.
I am no ally to the majority roar.

With this defiant banner tied to my
forehead -
Self evisceration before surrender.
The sword is drawn, mighty or not, for war. 

 
Dangling Phrase

Before exploring the desert waste,
Before replenishing the water jar,
Before getting a good taste,
Before journeying very far,
Before thought was denuded,
Our poem was concluded. 

Pencil Marks Only 

to put pencil to paper
why not an ax or fire
chisel to stone more so
tablets of stone could last
with a holy finger to burn
a thought or ten into them
but
god
in this finger burns no divinity
again pen to parchment
all meaning obscured
in the morning fog of consciousness
no morrow for the sentence
an arrow
gone awry
no apple to split
or village to save from tyranny
only the weak pelvic thrusts
of mind searching
for immaculate conception
driving a point home
in a moment of madness only
only a madman’s itch
a monkey scratching charcoal on bark
a moment passing only
a lunatic’s laughter
appreciated by cockroaches
hours after lock down
a dog vomiting
a drunken rage shouted
staggering home at midnight
marks as fleeting as years
regarded as parakeet shit
down the back of my chair
no more than a painted buffalo
on a cave wall
more a cave than a wall
a gaping chasm
abysmal hole of soul
and mind
defined
by pencil marks on paper

 
Shy One

For the sake of your sanity,
Say what it is you have to say -
No need to preserve vanity.
Don’t save words for another day.

Just say what you believe is true.
Tell the world how it is you feel.
Don’t fear the crowd will disarm you.
Shout right out what you think is real.

Ventriloquist 

Why should I speak with one voice?
It seems an impossible choice.
Is there some indispensable need,
Something irrevocably decreed
In the book of poet’s laws?
I have never found a voice because
I have never lost my voice.
Though, I have lost my mind.
And I tore my heart out long ago.
Yet, my tongue I never had to find.
You ask me for a voice even so.
I speak as I feel.
I voice what I deem real.
I’ve never thought of putting up a fence,
Or taking lessons on how to make sense,
Or voicing catechisms deep in a sacred grotto,
Paying the gods of verse some tithing. 

As my soul trembles in violent vibrato,
So my voice changes with the writhing.

 
Clear Confusion

Oxymoron,
You ingenious fool!
Your truth lies
In yin yang
Solidarity.

Euphemism

Cast your vote for mirrors and smoke,
Artful themes a canary spoke.
Where are the thorns on this rose?
I can’t see the face behind the nose.
Call this spade shady,
Eye shadow on an old lady,
Brahma pirouetting in a china shop.
This fleecy wolf will never stop.

 
Grammar

Grammar brushes back her gray hair,
And wags her crooked cane,
Directing down a straight and narrow lane
All the ideas that pass,
Herds them into her Sunday school class,
To box their ears, and teach them such fears
As needed to keep them square in their pews.
Shame on that color, you tramp!
Bite down on those words, you scamp!
Straighten that tie, and shine those shoes!
Then she stiffens into her rocking chair,
To give her arthritic knees a rest,
And conjugate some verbs for a while,
Showing her toothless smile,
Knowing that Grammar always knows best.

 
Doggerel 

Doggerel has been chewing at my rhyme,
Dragged my craft to the dog house one more time.
Bad, doggerel, bad! Sit, doggerel, sit!
Will that dog in the manger never quit!
If I kick it, it might just go away.
Believing that every dog has his day,
I shall give my verse one more doggish try.
And doggerel might let sleeping dogs lie.

What Was That Word? 

A flower in my window,
A rose, though I’m not sure,
Blown by a soft wind,
Modulating in iambic pentameter,
By any other name is as sweet.

But a name is not so easy
Without any anapest to keep it in,
Like a fine vase or a suitcase,
Or lyric, or a pyrrhic – a bit ironic
That there’s no ionic for it. 

Tribrach, amphibrach, bacchius,
Iambus is not what I am.
I have no suggestion beyond
Alcaics, sapphics, and asclepiads.
And avant-garde is out of the question. 

A spondee it is not, nor trochee.
And I can’t see it as cretic,
Perhaps a dactyl or minore.
A choriamb might agree.
But I can’t get it in. (I tried before) 

There is no meter available,
And not a caesura in sight.
Oh, Mephistopheles,
Offer me a contract,
Ah, stay, thou art so fair - 

Far more simple
To appease a demon,
Or simply plant a daisy.

Moon

Make a statement to the moon.
Observe for a while,
With a cheesy smile,
Beneath this lunatic’s noon.

For Whom it Shines 

The moon is for the poet,
To know it,
To bestow it,
To crow it. 

Compulsive Wisdom 

A picture in rhyme
Brings on nine in good time. 

Poetic intention,
Is the muse of invention. 

A song in the head,
And a meter to hone,
Wear a bard’s fingers
Down to the bone. 

A poem a day
The poet must pay,
To keep the demons
On the bay.

  
On The Tip Of My Tongue 

On the tip of my tongue,
I held a delicate phrase.
And now on my ear hung,
The articulation stays.

A Word Of Advice 

A word of advice:
Speech is not free.
Thought is the price,
If meaning is to be.

Ah, Shut Your Damn Poetry! 

If every bird twitter,
Every cheeping jitter,
Every raucous squawking
Of embittered starling
Were considered good poetry,
We’d have a noisy tree. 

Only eagles reach height
As they screech in flight. 

We also esteem nightingale song,
And the whooping crane, sad and long,
And the swallow’s trill,
And song of whippoorwill, 

But no one wants to hear a common
sparrow.
Please, at least a poison arrow
To end my mundane misery!
Ah, shut your damn poetry!

Originality 

I am damned to limitation
By forerunners of thought and speech.
They’ve forced me to imitation,
My claims of invention impeach.
My attempts at precedence fail.
Originality is through.
My words are a thousand years stale.
My quest for substance wholly new
Is just a foolish obsession.
Inception ceased long, long, ago.
There has been no new expression
Since the first caveman stubbed his toe.

Peering Into Ginsberg’s Toilet 

2 day I looked in your toilet
bowl at 2 A.M.
gazing methodically at clogged garbage pail
hallucination below

& mind blow
ASS blow 

what
if
I
ate
your
feces
and
shat
it
out
all
over 

pass gas
out the ass
you go

phosphor alley stink
turned raw side out
and porcelain canned 

I can do that now! No cops! No cops! 

No one gives a crap 

stink…rises…rises…

shrinks to nothing 

plop  

plop

plop

then I step on your forgotten
(movement)
for the handle to flush
one eye blink to obscurity
swirling~ swirling~

nebulae

no matter

but over 800 pages to wipe with

 
Perhaps 

I’m starting to sound the same,
Whether I laugh or cry -
No will to live or die.
My tongue has gone blind,
My imagination lame,
All numb with pain.
How dumb my mind!
Perhaps I’ve gone insane.

3000 AD 

In the year 3000 AD,
Will there still be a tree?
Will there sing a bird or bee?
Will there play a symphony?
Will there be harmony?
Will they remember me?

 
Student

Student sitting there in the sunshine,
Press these pages beneath your fingertips,
And feel the sensation.

Perfect being, are you achieving
All of this moment upon the grass,
Absorbing freely?

Oh, fair and beautiful mind,
Delightful how you feel the day on your face,
Concentrated so!

Delicate heart, open and hearing,
Measure and weigh, articulate gracefully,
These phrases for you.

 
A Poet’s Prayer 

O my muse, where are you?
I am confused as to what I must do.
Divine the measure of my worth.
Define the purpose of my birth.
Give me the words that I might write
The message of your second sight.

  
I Am Your Muse

What is your worry, transient fear?
Dear lover of truth,
I am here with you,
With a word of support,
Near, at your ear.
I was an aching heart, too,
A ghost of grass-banked tarns,
And forlorn haunts,
And memories beneath rose arbors,
Come to clear your visions
Otherwise occupied with anxiety.
I am arrived at your supplication,
For a calm noon until twilight.
I am the resolve in your bosom
Fancied above the heart pounding,
A trilling of voice too refined for earthly ears.
I am your muse,
Guardian angel transiently exposed on a sunbeam.

 
Bard Erratic

He was consistently inconsistent,
Never certain in his song,
Right on rhyme and meter, for an instant,
Then he’d get it all wrong. 

He poured forth from his earnest throat,
A verse much out of key.
But when he hit the proper note,
It was as good as song can be.

Lingering

More than the thought
In initial inspiration,
There is wrought
Constant marvel,
Hope of fame
Enduring, an eternal
Love of life, in the abbreviation
Lingering in a name.

 
As Ye Elizabethans

That hand wherein the deepest thought allays,
Pining of creed and kind therein expends,
Tradition in all forms never betrays.
In this the movement formulates all ends,
And speaks a common tongue all free souls must,
Preserves the sacred flame of will’s desire,
Else molder now beneath a shroud of dust,
And birthright in posterity expire.
Death’s mute and barren edict cannot seal
The depths and heights humanity has known,
While minds still yearn and burning hearts yet feel,
As ye Elizabethan’s have us shown.
This we perceive to make our effort worth,
And derive noble purpose of our birth.

The Words Of My Heart

I write in an empty book.
I paint on an empty page.
I sit in an empty room.
I live in an empty age.
I search for words and colors and ways
To lend meaning, to lavish my days.
I will fulfill, before I depart,
To stand up, and see beyond the wall,
To color the bleakest hues of all,
To record all the words of my heart.

verse in an old man’s notebook

he wrote there on yellowing note
musty and moldering
fresh as a crisp heart
could bite into a subjective fruit
a line of verse I found
meant not surely for a shelf
blanketed dusty what he
poured
from his soul
trembling fingers for the passion
walking among buttercups
and seeing her in yellow reflection
leaving the blossom unblemished
better left thinking to
spare the touch of fingers
for a firm unwithering stem
being overmuch into spring
and she blooming there on the pillow
beside against him
there finalized
the beginning middle of his poem
and surely not meant
to go unspoken  

In My Words

When I am tired and feeling cold,
I hide in my words to forget the day.
I dream of the words I want to say.
I repose in the meaning, and there I lay.

When I am torn and have lost my hold,
I hide in my words to forget the day.
I dream of the words I want to say.
I search for meaning, and find my way. 

When I am worn, when I am old,
I’ll hide in my words to forget the day.
I’ll dream of the words I want to say.
I’ll close my eyes, and drift away.

Poets 

Poet, there is more to my speculation
than I can measure.
More than my whole is this torch taken up involuntarily.
There is more to my meditations than you,
And more to me than yours, but the chorus is ours for eternity,
And the spark ours, and the warmth ours,
And the knowledge ours partially,
And the wisdom what we make of it. 

The spark is mine for the moment -
I bear the light, feel the warmth, mine
For a time only then passed on
To another, one of us, another perception,
Perceiving the same with different senses,
Framing it with a different mind, but the spark
Always a constant flame, always, mine, yours, ours.
Poet can you see me?
Find my reflection in a pool of clear water -
I am in you. I possess you.
But no more is my control or less your domination over me. 

Poet, we sing as one. We sing together, a song like none.
Eloquent elocutions offered for show are set aside;
Exhibitionism, vain repetition for vanity’s sake.
Our tongues cannot bear manipulation.
Purity we speak, pure even in our vulgarity,
Lifting the lowly to greatness, reining in greatness to a sentence.
We view all things objectively and subjectively -
Our creed detests limitation, demands impunity.
We cannot bear regulation.
Diverse is our singularity, irregular, and diverging,
But always mutual our cause.
Mutually we lift, we seek, we sing.
Search for a rift in our solidarity and there is none.
Our unity is solid. 

We can share a salad, and remark simultaneously,
Good gray poet, you are a man of fine taste,
Or make no remark, and know without saying,
Speaking nothing of the significance,
Being one in the same we,
Knowing who we are, but wondering what we mean,
Ever searching for, but ever missing,
The song beneath our boot soles,
Our evocations, souls, and syllables rising superbly
To occasion a moment of our burning, to frame a mind,
Or a fraction anyway.
This we need for survival,
As our blood feeds our limbs and brains.
The price of omission is our very souls.

We are poets,
Sharing verse with a drawer, or an hour, or a universe,
And gaining only our sanity for the effort.
We are poets, living, and dying, and dead.
We are poets – reading or writing.
(I praise all who read or write with us)
What we appreciate, what we esteem above all else,
Of this we sing. Of this we are, this element, this radiation. 

Poets living, let me adore you.
Let me love you as I breathe.
Let me see through your eyes if I have become blind.
Lend me your thoughts if mine have gone dry.
Share your life with me if mine is concluded.
Living, I shall not wait for you to meet me,
I will, but shall not.
If we meet, we meet. It is irrelevant.
Maybe I am gone already as you hear my entreaty.
Yet it is done, this gospel I speak.
It will live on through my living colleagues, my brothers in arms,
My saviors and redeemers.
But as I write, I live. As I speak, I breathe. For now, I have life.
There is marrow yet to suck.
Now is my breath, and I will breathe a little
For the living and for the dead. 

Pioneers who put flint to steel,
I am here, abiding my time.
While I may, I will bear the spark.
I will rekindle the flame of your yearning,
Until it eclipses the sun with its radiance.
Oh, dead poets, I sense you within me,
Feel the chilling frost in my bones, yet warmth, nay, heat.
I need a word for it. I cannot find it. My idiom is irate,
Like profound exclamations of a crane too meticulous,
Dickering with my tongue for a remark,
Walking a silver path, witless man I am to say how so,
Hand shaking on a pencil shaft to spear a name for the feeling,
A raven gloomy for a right turn of phrase,
By a run of poor craft, oft stinking foully of mediocrity,
More rank than a kippered herring drawn dank from a barrel,
Brought low as ash for my ineptitude.
But, Oh, how the spark burns within, scorching me, scorching me,
Consuming and clarifying, so much more than my sum. 

If I were to bend a knee, bow low to another human being,
Living or passed to history, years gone or centuries,
It would not be as a disciple to a god,
To pray for favor, or revere with a blessing in design.
(Not that reverence is beneath me, or humility)
But to bend a knee or two, put stature away for a time,
Set ego aside, ego away, and share the same mind,
As an equal or unequal, inferior or superior,
In comparison and contrast with a shared perception,
One in our purpose,
One body this continuity of spirit, past, and present, and future,
A single vehicle,
This is equal to any prayer or bearer of gifts, surpassing any. 

But I need not say what I feel. I have no words for this.
What I feel you feel, my dead and living connections.
You know as well as I, as well as any.
Your soul wears my emotion. We are one.
We need not meet to enjoy intercourse -
We are interconnected, compagnon de voyage.
Inseparable are we, our creed.
Poets living, should you see me in the street, embrace me.
If we pass too late, if fate rules my death before your birth,
Then I am a dead poet and still one of you, immortal through you. 

Poets living, when I am dead, I will sing high praise of you.
I will sing always in your song.
Know my ghost will overtake you.
I will stand at your shoulder as you create,
Whisper a word in your ear, if you cannot find a word.
If I have no word for you, I will find it.
Others will answer if it is above me.
The word will be ours, no shame in it.
We all see spirit to spirit.
Ours is yours, and yours ours.
All I have I bequeath to you – all do.
Both a borrower and lender be.
Keep the edge of our husbandry keen.
Husband our possession, our progressing purpose. 

To be is the answer.
Not to be is out of the question!
No greater profit to be found!
This table is spread liberally before us.
Will you not feast? Let me feed you just one morsel,
Or more if there is appetite enough.
Poet are you hungry? You must be hungry.
Poet you are angry, enraged, passionate, raving mad,
Or maybe only craving something.
But you are not lonely, not unknown or forgotten.
I am with you. We are with you.
I write your song now and your praise.
My brother, let me succor the pith of your weary heart!
Oh, my sister, my sibling, bear not this burden alone!
I am acquainted with your affliction.
If I could impart a single thought to your inspiration,
My soul would rest untroubled, least for a while.
The lines in your spare notes are more precious to me than fine gold.
I read them with a relish of ambrosia,
From my kingdom above, my cloud, or tomb.
You are not unknown to me, to my reckoning -
I expect you feel the same as we all did in our time.

Cast the lead weight of your doubt aside -
Your words are not lost to posterity.
Trust your instincts. Follow your inclinations.
I appreciate them now as they spring from your hand,
Flowing pure from your soul, undiluted.
I read them from your shoulder.
Can you feel me at your ear,
Feel my lustful breath on your dear neck?
I am near to you my companion.
I will linger here while you hesitate,
Until the word finds you, while you fumble,
While you hold a match to the lamp.
I will abide in darkness with you,
Raise your gaze from mud to stars,
Never forsake you,
Witness the awakening awareness of what burns in you.

Poet, how will you sculpture your words,
and temper them in the heat?
Poet, what body will you give the spark,
A bird, or a planet, or a nova, or a song?
Simply a phrase is fine, or a thought without words -
A perception of a sunrise or sunset.
Even a spark alone is something of divinity.
All are the same in a way.

Singer 

Praise him who bides the day
With song on his deeds,
Not sure what to say,
But knowing his tone exceeds
All measure of mortal boundaries -
That his notes shall linger on the morrow,
When forever takes time’s foundries,
And dust has done away with sorrow.

© Copyright 2000 by Daniel F Mitchell

Published by Gray Matter Press Athens, Georgia

~Wisps~

Poetry by Daniel F Mitchell

V. Trance

She made for me a clover ring,
With a sweet blossom for a gem,
Sealed my matrimony with spring,
For a day, with a loop of stem.

She wed me to a sunny day,
Tied happiness to me with string.
For a time I was joined with May,
United by a clover ring.

Roma  

Let me tell you about an evening
In Rome – wandering aimlessly, finding
Row upon row of old shops, veni, vedi,
Caesar, steepled streets, Benedictus,
A trace of Medici and Raphael,
Michelangelo in every cobblestone,
Music from the Spanish steps,
Figaro, Figaro, Figaro,
An olive-skinned girl at a fountain,
And Mediterranean sunset
Opaque on my face.

Mona Lisa

MOna lisa,
moNA lisa,
mona LIsa,
mona liSA, 

Speak all
Manner of intrigue.
Enthrall
My mind to fatigue.

Show
You know,
In style.
Smile.

I Have Found You

In the vast areas of desolation,
The endless expanse of universe,
Against the pride of race and nation,
Thwarted by the religious and perverse,
Across the tides of time and space,
I have found, at last, what is true.
I have gazed upon your face.
My dear friend, I have found you.

On The Pinnacle Of The Afternoon

He awaits her at the subway station,
His legs shaking with anticipation.
He knows it will be soon.
Then her face takes his breath away,
On the pinnacle of the afternoon.
And he could not ascend higher in a day.

Time Limit 

Higher than a mountain high,
Deeper than the deepest sea,
Wider than a summer sky,
Endless as infinity, 

Surpassing all is my love,
Broad as the heavens above.
And time, knowing all of this,
Limits my love to one kiss.

Thy Spirit’s Effervescence 

Tiny bubbles in this fine wine,
Speak to me of fire in my blood -
Thoughts of thee bubbling truthfully
Through my heart’s vessel. 

As I hold this glass to my lips,
As I take a sacramental sip,
I taste the sweet essence
Of thy spirit’s effervescence.

Reluctance

While I watched your shy gaiety,
Rain swept gently my face -
On my uplifted admiration,
On my heart burning like fire. 

I consider the passing of lithe hand across your smile -
The moon dipping behind an alder branch,
Little brook rushing for the sanctuary of the willows,
Until the sun slips away into a curtain of mist.

 
Nocturnal Butterfly

Ah! Light on the corner of crimson and yearning,
Sweet flower in bloom at the deepest of night,
The moon shines down full on the crest of your bosom,
And captures the grace of a poem in flight.

The trees in the sway of the wind rise to meet you,
That glisten of dew on your pink satin wings,
To ride on a whispering silk magic flutter,
Unbound ’til the sunburst a new dawning brings.

  
In The Heart Of A Wild Night 

A jungle beast
Came forth to feast
In a show of savage might,
In search of meat,
In steaming heat,
In the heart of a wild night. 

A savage queen,
Supple and lean,
In search of a feral rite,
Brought odor sweet,
Something to eat,
In the heart of a wild night. 

A storm ensued -
Lust unsubdued
Rose to a salacious height,
Put out the fire
Of brute desire,
In the heart of a wild night.

The Roll Of Rhythmic Rhyme

Unfold,
scintillating pastel dream!
Glow golden magical device!
Flow, subtle senses in a silken stream!
We made it through to paradise. 

Riding forever on a poignant mist,
On the ebb and tide of endless bliss,
Beyond our bounds, we bend and twist.
We know no more than pleasure’s kiss.

We lie in a trance that disposes
All passing of tears and time,
Upon a bed of satin roses,
Within the roll of a rhythmic rhyme.

A Tart 

A tasty tart
Is good for one’s heart.
A succulent strawberry pie
Can certainly please,
Can soothe the sore of any disease,
And ease one’s troubles by.

I really think
To pay with a wink
The price of fine cuisine
Is…a considerable art.
And to taste a juicy tart
Is to win the heart of any queen.

 
Queen Of The Night 

Queen of the night,
I bow to your might,
The way you toot
That magic flute,
And that steed you ride on.
You touch with a lightning jolt,
Astride a thunderbolt
Until dawn.

The Magic Cave

The magic cave is plain to see,
Once the veil is torn away,
Once you unveil the mystery,
Once you reveal it, you may.
In the cave, lambs and lions lay.
As one delight, all abide.
There, dragons on warm kittens ride.
Fiery serpents and mice play.
Together trees and grass sway.
But in or out, none can decide.

Helen’s Valley 

Schliemann, peel silken lace
From this nectar-wet oasis,
Plant a rigid palm in
Flowing milk and honey.

  
Cease Not This Exalting Fire

Love-afflicted, I am filled to bursting with ether,
Transubstantiated by her sweet inebriate;
Her boundless embrace – my dream incarnate.
I taste her! I breathe her!
In all forms I see her magical gaze.
She has strewn her smile upon me
Until I am sheathed in sparks of ecstasy.
I am wrapped full in a passion-induced daze,
Resigned to complete capture.
Up then! Away wherever you desire!
Cease not this exalting fire -
Least linger a while that I might die in rapture.

Wild Flower 

Wild flower, public bower,
Fragrance of late hour,
Blossom of the field,
Generous thy yield!
You set the bees quaking!
Honey for the taking!

Nymph

Form on my pillow, O dream,
O picture of lustful desire!
Within a burning moonlight stream,
Set my waking night on fire! 

Press softly to my wanton embrace,
O corporeal embodiment of aching want!
With churning modulations trace
The contours of my deep-hour haunt! 

Let itinerant winds caress your hair,
Blow gently the waves wherein you lie.
In a licentious flow of summer air,
Cool the fever of my longing sigh.

Can You Take Me Higher?

Can you take me higher,
To a castle in the sky,
Fulfill my desire
To sprout silken wings and fly?

Can you take me higher,
Nigh unto the morning star,
With your look inspire
Me to glide where fairies are? 

Take me to eternal rest,
Where I may always sigh,
Lie my head upon your breast
Forever – never die. 

With my soul I inquire!
Can you take me higher?

One Last Taste Of Fire 

Give me one last kiss.
Give me one more taste of fire.
Share a bit of bliss.
Fulfill my final desire.
Before you leave,
Please let me believe
My love goes warm to the pyre.
Give me one more kiss.
Give me one last taste of fire.

Specter 

From my window, I listened for your sigh,
Thought I sensed your breath in a night breeze,
In the trees, your tremulous breast -
The rising and falling palpitations of your soul’s beating.
Illumination, upon the tip of my mind’s touch,
As a curtain, lifted for an instant, radiating.
And from a distance, I heard my name distinctly whispered. 

Planets shall pass,
Stars rise and die,
Yet shall I remain steadfast,
Determined to embrace what eludes my grasp,
Determined to reveal what I sense from my window.

Am Main

Along a riverside we walked,
She and I, beneath an azure day,
Sun shining golden on the morning,
Glorious on the grain fields.
(Barley still painted with spring)
And Church bells rang clear and clean
From across the way,
Beyond the emerald-ribbon Main –
Bells not for us,
But as much ours as Bischofsheim,
And the water ours,
And the day ours, seized,
Time uncounted,
Eternity the hours
Passed as currents
Into the Rhine, with no Lorelei to sing,
And no one to hear the history,
Dawn become yesteryear.
But in my dreams,
The Main still flows languidly.

The Light Of Your Presence Shall Always Be With Me

I dreamed I saw you walking upon a bright blue ocean.
It seemed that you were floating on azure emotion.
Near or far,
Wherever you are,
You’ll always have the power to still my heart’s commotion. 

Once, I thought I heard you singing in a soft breeze,
Out across the grass, and up beyond the tallest trees.
High or low,
Wherever you go,
The notes of your kindness shall always set my heart at ease.

When I thought I’d lost you until the end of all days,
When my hope had melted into a cold and glassy gaze,
I saw light.
Wherever my sight,
The song of your spirit unto my aching soul plays. 

Now, I know you’re out there, floating as a cloud, free,
And truest devotion abides the tides of eternity.
Now, I see,
Wherever I may be,
The light of your presence shall always be with me.

I Will Remember You

I will remember you,
When time has turned to dust,
Never to say adieu.

Though death erodes all trust,
My will, I must believe,
A memory shall conceive
Beyond this mortal lust.

When the stars are but few,
When the sky has no blue,
When the heavens are through,
I will remember you.

 
She Was Young

She was young, and looked at me with bright eyes,
Companioned my lonely heart with laughter,
Seeing the world as innocent and full of surprise.
She led me through a graveyard, to a mountain height,
The wind there fresh, coming up from the valley.
And she surmised a future as bright as the day,
Playing, giggling softly, so joyful in being.
She told me that a wish is only a wish,
That what we pray for falls on deaf ears,
But we can dream.
A dream is free to wander where it will. 

She maintained a resolute smile at our parting,
Holding to false hope, forcing cheer, refusing sorrow,
Braving the pain, persevering in the face of fear. 

Sometimes after a rain, late in summer,
When night brings cool air into my room,
I reflect silently, staring at the ceiling,
Hearing distant cars out on the highway,
My dreams reaching out across time
To innocent days passed away,
And her eyes sadly searching, refusing sorrow.
Her smile undaunted is all I recall of her face.

 
Just Like You

She was young inside
Till the day she died.
She had a heart as wide
As a mountainside.
She was clear, and crisp, and clean,
As the sky is blue. 

She took life in stride,
Though her flower dried
And washed on the tide
To the other side.
The stem lingered fresh and green,
And the fragrance true.

She gave the sun pride.
She made rain clouds hide,
She made humming bees glide.
With the stars she vied.
She was an immortal scene.
She was just like you.

 
My Goddess

In your eyes lies a light of hope,
A warmth that helps me cope
With this world I despise.
I see stars in your sparkling eyes,
A thousand points of grace.
I find quietude in your face.
My goddess, you are my belief,
My only source of relief.
If I ever lost my faith in you,
My empty soul would soon be through.

 
Portrait

(One morning in Bischofsheim, 1983)

I walked on a crystal morning.
I browsed a color-strewn path -
The clear dawn of
A certain dream,
The vapor of reality evaporated,
To her palace, her cathedral, her cottage,
Amber in the morning’s subtle rumor.
And rabbits pranced,
Joyful at my flanks,
Within a low fog,
In a mist of innocence,
On a lawn of twinkling emerald,
In paradisiacal frolic.
And pranced my heart with them,
In clover perfume.
And saw her my fervent eyes, at the window,
As the first effulgent ray of gold adorned her cheek -
A fairy,
The face of love,
Child of joy,
Above the primrose arbor,
A radiant smile. 

O peace, I have witnessed your most refined gesture!

While evil
slumbered, and misery slept,
I trod in mirth,
Shod in rapture, in the sunbeam of her adoration -
My jubilee, my joyful serenade.
My spirit is free -
My scarlet heart,
My spotless soul.

Despair,
Your night is futile!
In my most infirm moments, I am immune.
I have seen a portrait of joy.

© Copyright 2000 by Daniel F Mitchell

Published by Gray Matter Press Athens, Georgia

~Wisps~

Poetry by Daniel F Mitchell

VI. Awakening 

Do-good boy, always doing what you’re told,
Always keeping to the road,
Do you feel used? 

Do-good boy, always keeping to the fold,
Always carrying your load,
Do you feel abused? 

Do-good boy, if you’ve done what they told you to do,
Tell me, through and through,
Why do you feel so confused? 

In the School Yard 

Did you sit
On the grass,
While others played,
Notice the sky’s color,
The hue of a day? 

While children’s laughter
Arose around you,
Did you see
What the horizon
Had to say? 

Comprehension 

On a speck of universal momentum,
I raised my hand to my gaze,
In hope of discovering some index
To my maker’s intention. 

And I beheld the patterns at my fingertips.
But exceeding this, I could not fathom. 

Sweet Child, Innocence 

Sweet child, innocence,
Lost in the jungle of experience,
Has been blinded by knowledge,
Impaled on a thorn that was once her flower. 

Haiku 

Along the Ginza
A girl smiled -
Crooked teeth. 

Roses 

Roses have thorns
That poison the blood.
Roses deceive,
Bloom stained from the bud. 

Do not believe
The promises spoken,
As vanity’s token
A tender touch scorns. 

A Point of Cacti 

Alive where most things die,
Thrive the fearless cacti.
In a sharp tongue, they say,
We are here! Keep away!
Sing on, coyote howl!
Blow, arid desert sands!
The cactus lifts his hands,
His cantankerous scowl! 

Mutation 

I witnessed you bathing in napalm rain,
Baptized into being,
Outgrowing immortality,
Sprouting serpent scales
Where there was skin as smooth
As innocence,
Shedding your egg tooth altogether. 

Flower Wilted 

I saw a flower wilted,
Her fairness browned away.
She had her nature quilted
In full obscene display. 

No longer would the bees abide,
Her nectar to obey.
No longer could her petals hide
The meanness of her way. 

Overindulged 

Pampered palms stand high,
Pressing pompous heads to the sky,
To show everyone
They deserve to be served more sun. 

Snowflake 

A silver-white star
Cried, "How great we are,
Me, myself, and I,
Up here in the sky,
The quintessence of divinity,
Masters of infinity.
We are here to stay,
While all else melts away." 

Narcissus, Who Loves You? 

Fragrant cherry blossoms are the rave
Of spring, vestments of branches and leaves,
Cast off and floating like snow from above. 

The pumpkin blossom is a plain variety.
Yet, what she ultimately achieves
Is a fruit immeasurably handsome. 

Rosemary has no flowers to speak of,
Offers only her essence as a greeting,
Departs humbly, bequeaths a healing piety. 

Narcissus, your pride is fleeting,
Soon withering to a shallow grave.
Narcissus, you are empty. You are loathsome. 

In The Eye of the Illusion 

Dulcinea afforded charm beyond measure,
At least enough to dazzle quixotic aesthetic pleasure.
Don Quixote must have seen something in the slattern belle,
Qualities that pleasure senses, that only the senseless can tell -
That he should believe her lovelier than Cleopatra in her day.
Who’s to say she was not as pretty as any superficial delusion?
In fair objectivity, a judge of the subjective is compelled to say
That beauty is in the eye of the illusion. 

Toadstool 

Toadstool,
Treacherous thy rule
Of feeding and deeding
Thy poisonous function,
Void of compunction!
Take breath from breath!
Make death from death!
Yet, in your creed,
Stand alone!
No toad king
Will ever sing
Praise of thy breed,
Or use thee for a throne. 

Mosquito 

Demon of stagnant water,
Pandora’s foulest daughter,
What twisted architect’s plot
Contrived thy devious lot? 

From what rank cesspool of hell
Did such evil bud and swell?
What foul fiend’s forge formed thy sting
To bring pestilence on wing? 

Mosquito, thy name is death,
The sole purpose of thy breath
To bleed and taint on thy stave
Souls to agony and grave. 

When thy creator formed thee,
Did he mindfully agree
To loose a scourge of thy kind,
Or act in a fevered mind? 

Sovereignty 

A lone tumble bug
Met a dung ball thug,
While twiddling dung.
To the prize both clung,
Claiming possession.
For this transgression,
The bug killed the thug,
And banned fiddling
With bugs twiddling. 

Power and Glory 

Meat-eating orchids speak freely of supreme being,
Eloquent tongues licking at fleas,
Declaring power and glory. 

One would fare better to heed the humble wisdom
Of morning glories, plain and simple,
Truth-bearing fellows. 

Simple Menu 

Cats like meat,
Consider it a treat
To feel heat
And small feet
And the flutter and beat
Of meals in fast retreat.
Cats are never discreet
About the food they meet.
They care not if they cheat,
Or if their lunch can tweet.
They just eat. 

Let Us Prey 

This fine hour,
Let us devour.
Let us eat,
As we are eaten.
Let us beat,
As we are beaten.
Let us thank
The living food bank.
This wholly new day,
Let us prey. 

Garden in Disarray 

There were tomatoes to be washed.
The roses all needed spray.
There were slugs to be squashed.
There were squash on the way.
There were posts to be staked.
There were piles of mulch to lay.
There were trimmings to be raked,
Laying there since May.
There is gardening to wage.
Who will fill the birdseed tray?
Who will put rocks around the sage?
Who will keep the squirrels away?
Who will set up the blueberry cage?
The weeds are here to stay.
The gardener didn’t wake today. 

Vegetable 

A vegetable should be planted,
Or thrown on the compost pile.
A rotting form is vile.
There is no gain in waiting for rain.
And it should not be taken for granted,
That where there is wilt, there is not pain.
A vegetable suffers without sound,
But longs to be again underground.
Cut the loss, nail the cross,
Into the incinerator toss.
Mow! Bring out the hoe! Throw!
You cannot sow what cannot grow.
Cull it and lay it in a row.
Hell to be a carrot! I could not bear it. 

Rosemary 

Rosemary is an incredible lady.
But in question is her virginity.
She likes it where it’s always shady,
Out of view of the Trinity. 

Simply smell her racy perfume.
Her sharp fingers get right to the point.
From her rigid posture you may assume
That your wildest desires she will anoint. 

By Way of Confession 

It should be mentioned by way of confession,
Without apprehension, the splendid remuneration
For a measure of cash,
The intimate contract
For a bit of contact,
A feeling of sealing a bargain,
Penetrating a market share,
Stocks, bonds, mutuals,
Economical ups and downs.
It’s only fair
To pay the debt due,
Credit the service industry
For an historic deal. 

Michelangelo’s Child 

David turns his head aside
At the mention of his name,
For the loss of pride,
In legendary shame 

At his maker’s oversight,
That formed his manhood so small,
And exposed him to fame’s light
With no clothes at all. 

Finias Cuckold 

Finias Cuckold went out to see,
Where the Dickens, his wife might be -
Perhaps the barn or beyond the shed,
Planting red peppers with young Jimmy Ned. 

The One That Got Away 

Come with me, and we will see
What this jungle has,
Together, I schemed. 

But you said never,
Like a rhino tromping.
Bigger game you had in mind;
A king or nothing. 

Yet, now my roar is loud.
And you’ve locked yourself
In a zoo
No safari will ever come for. 

Snake 

A poisonous snake is gliding
Along a tortuous track.
A poisonous snake is hiding
And sliding behind your back. 

Her tapered head is drawing slack.
Her gaze is glazed with guile.
She slithers with a knowing knack.
Beware her crafty smile. 

Smart Pills 

Whatcha eatin’?
You ain’t gettin’ any.
What is it?
Stupid kid!
Didn’t you ever have a smart pill?
A what?
A smart pill.
I can see you ain’t.
What are they?
They grow wild,
usually
in the spaces between cornstalks…
like berries,
but not exactly.
What do they taste like?
Huckleberries,
almost,
with sort of a chocolate aftertaste.
Can I taste one?
Find your own.
What do they look like?
ALL RIGHT…
you can have some of mine.
But next time,
you gotta pick your own!
They taste good?
They don’t look that great,
but they’re sweet.
If you don’t want ‘em,
just give ‘em back…
Come on,
stop being an idiot.
That’s why they call ‘em smart pills.
They don’t look very good…
but once you find out how good they taste,
you’re smart not to tell anybody,
so you can eat ‘em all yourself.
That’s it!
Pop the whole handful in your mouth,
all at once!
That’s the way they taste best!
Gahhh!!!
How come you spat ‘em out?
Don’t you wanna be smart?
Those aren’t smart pills!
They’re rabbit poo!
See…
you’re smarter already! 

The Shallow End of the Pool 

Survival of the fittest
Is not a guarantee
That a species’ very best
Will climb the family tree. 

The will to proliferate
Is the genetic rule
Of breeds degenerate
In the shallow end of the pool. 

In the Genes 

A man who frequently stuttered,
Bred a dame who only muttered.
They produced a child,
With a tongue most wild,
Who constantly hissed and sputtered. 

Bomb 

A spreading brand of greed
Produced the Asian fantasia.
The way the Chinese breed,
There’ll be more euthanasia. 

Good Neighbors 

Good fences make good neighbors,
Divide up interests in suits.
But nothing better dilutes disputes
Like the rattling of really sharp sabers. 

Utility 

When man wielded his first stone
To crush a bone,
Little could he know
Where this utility would go -
From stone, to iron, to fission,
From clan, to national, to nuclear division.
Now what should he do with his stone?
He could crush bone,
Or build a future for his fellow man -
Move on, or go back where he began. 

In a Cozy Hornet’s Nest 

Hornets have no room for anything
That doesn’t buzz and doesn’t sting.
They carry this message on the wing,
With scintillating fury sing 

The praises of their glorious breed.
With colors blazing bright, they fly,
Death to all, their mutual creed.
Against all foreign foes they fly. 

Who can reason with such a nation?
Who can reason with such a lot?
Nothing can still a furied congregation,
When regional fervor is burning hot. 

All swarming hornets feel
That home, sweet, home is best,
And thus their animosity seal
In a cozy hornet’s nest. 

Cute Little Scorpion 

A cute little scorpion climbs from his nest,
Steps into the desert heat,
Licking his lips, ready to eat. 

Mother always knows best,
Puts her nipper back in the shopping cart.
Hungry little tike! Bless his heart! 

leaping 

two of them
at least a grade more 

i
scared to rage
sure
as they were twice my age
they would tear
the other frog in half
like the other four there
for a laugh 

one second-grader and a frog
against two bullies tried and true
and not even a bullfrog from a tough bog
a scrawny little leopard frog nearly through already from the
fright 

but the frog mustered his might
and made a desperate leap
i
too
leapt
fell over him in a fearful heap 

they beat me black and blue
kicked my mouth red
spat on my head
made me piss my pants 

but the frog got his chance
slipped under my chin
and disappeared into the hedge
smiling a big green grin 

Clair 

The telephone was a tool of fun,
In a rude and riotous way.
We would dial up folks, one by one,
With a wit of cruel things to say.
But the night we dialed
A mother’s lost child,
Took the heart right from our cheer,
When Clair’s mother said,
Through the distant wire, "Clair’s not here.
He’s dead." 

The Vicious Beast 

A bull mauled the matador,
One afternoon in the sun,
Stomped him into the bloody floor,
Declaring he had won. 

Deviation from the norm
Impressed mercy not the least,
Dispatched picadors, in good form,
To kill the vicious beast. 

Disfigured 

A man, in Bangladeshi tradition,
Threw acid on a little girl’s face,
And burned beyond recognition
My faith in the human race. 

Production 

Pigs put in pens of mud,
Fed to be dead,
To shed red blood,
Dread
The prodding rod -
The power of god
Moving them along. 

Pigs smell wrong
Through the slaughterhouse door,
On the kill floor.
They try to understand
The feeding hand,
But their minds are dry,
Muddled by insanity. 

And with their souls they cry,
In the name of humanity! 

The Other Cheek 

Judea,
Remember how the chosen
Purged gentile cities,
Loins girt with entrails,
Praising Abraham,
Exclaiming,
Hosanna, hosanna,
Swords raised
To circumcise
The dead? 

A pound of flesh
Is a high price
For zeal.
Did you cry,
An eye for an eye,
When they goose-stepped
You to Dachau,
Appeal to idolaters
For mercy? 

Were there any
Uncovenanted to save
The Jews from drowning?
Where was Moses
When the gas flowed
At Buchenwald? 

A tooth for a tooth
Seems extreme,
When so many
Are piled as high
As mount Sinai.
(Thou shalt not
lust for blood) 

Lieutenant Governor Morgan 

Jamaican winds blow hard astern.
And he takes by land what he can’t by sea,
With a yo-ho-ho and an eye to the blade, 

Drinking rum while the Spaniards burn,
Storming their walls with bloody glee.
Then it’s yo-ho-ho with a will for the trade. 

Shielded by nuns like Saint Elmo’s fires,
He wins for a bounty what pure greed inspires.
Then its yo-ho-ho and the legend’s made. 

With a yo-ho-ho and an eye to the blade. 

Pecking Order 

"On your feet!
Formation on the street! 

Trainee Anderson, you better move your sorry ass.
You got another inspection to pass
Today, son, or your ass is mine. 

Gregory, looking mighty fine!
Got your stuff squared away. 

Puhl, what did I say
About that sorry-ass shirt?
You better get your shit together.
You’re gonna hurt so bad it’s gonna hurt
You’re mamma. I don’t know whether
To use you to mop the floor,
Or throw your goat-smelling ass out the door. 

Pines, what the hell you doing?
You better get your ass off that bed,
Unless you’re dead.
Just keep screwing
Around on my time, trainee!
And you’re gonna see
A whole world of pain. 

Bates, you’re here to train,
Not bebop like some disco clown.
Give me twenty! Get down! 

Move it up girls. Make your buddy smile.
We’ve got a mile
To run before chow. 

Gibbs, you want to tell me how
The hell you’re gonna run
With my foot up your ass?
Take your hand off your gun,
And shoulder that weapon, you knucklehead! 

Girls, keep in mind what I said
About weekend pass. 

All right, dress it! Space!
Attention! Left face! 

Oh, here we go. We’re at it again.
We’re moving out. We’re moving in. 

Oh, here we go. We’re at it again.
We’re moving out. We’re moving in. 

Your left. Your left. Your other left, Rouse!
Get in step, you sorry-ass louse.
What the hell you think this is, a cancan show?" 

"I don’t know, drill sergeant, I don’t know." 

In Oklahoma 

They taught me how to kill in Oklahoma,
Made me blend in with the green and the polish,
And sound off, one, two, three, four,
Made me mean, a fighting machine,
With no regard as to why I must be inclined so,
To go low, and go high, and snatch, and mask,
Without missing a beat or smelling the gas,
Perform all tasks in a military manner,
Stand at attention, stand at ease, hurry and wait,
To the rear march, company halt, forward again. 

They taught me how to kill in Oklahoma,
To string a lanyard so as not to blow off my hand,
The mathematical precision of tangents and trajectories,
How to place a projectile for optimum radius,
This is my rifle, this is my gun,
To sling and unsling fast as a blink,
Field strip any weapon with closed eyes,
To crawl low like a snake and strike swiftly,
To run through a mine field in my sleep,
To jump from a helicopter without breaking,
To take the blow with the shoulder,
To go for the throat with a standard choke hold,
To pierce the kidney so it bleeds sufficiently,
To catch a bullet without crying out,
To die without denying I did it like a pro. 

They taught me how to kill in Oklahoma.
But all I wish to remember,
Was sitting on a howitzer one evening,
Watching the sky turn from peach to lavender. 

Night Fire 

Pigeons are burning,
Lighting up the night.
The flames are churning,
Turning the blackness bright. 

The sky is falling,
Ringing with fright.
Hell is calling,
Bringing on the fight. 

Kwang Ju 

The sandbags are gone from the post office steps -
Now clusters of school girls in navy skirts,
Waiting for friends on a sunny summer day,
All oblivious of horror, free and chattering,
And a boy with a runny nose and a ball cap,
At the door, testing his top on the granite entry,
And an old woman selling snacks for refreshment
From a yellow and green handcart. 

Two decades of rain has washed the blood away,
But not the stains of the memory, of the wrong.
My soul reels before an assault of memory.
I still see democracy retreating,
Fearful faces from a bookstore window,
A soldier in a black beret distinctly
Sneering at me from his machine gun nest.
And my heartbeat feels cold in Kwang Ju. 

Tinian 

Tinian, this jewel of tranquillity,
Mother of glorious evisceration,
Innocent bearer of justice,
Deliverer of divinity’s message,
Silenced the iniquitous winds,
Made ash the cherry blossoms.
Sacrosanct are these shores
Washed by the turning tide. 

Two Boys 

A boy from South Carolina,
Hoped to be a U.S. Marine,
Keep peace, and win wars,
Make his folks proud,
And get off the farm. 

A boy from Palestine,
With delicate brown eyes,
Heard too many cries of jihad,
Prayed five times to Allah,
And strapped himself with C-4. 

Lebanon 1983 

Just before dusk,
A mortar hit a mosque. 

When concrete falls,
And floors become walls,
It smashes and squeezes
Life from bodies,
Like whey from cheeses.
Jesus! 

The Hundred-Year War 

For a hundred years they killed each other,
Turned their plowshares into spears and swords
And all manner of implements for the harvesting of a brother,
All out of confusion as to which gods and lords
Gave whom the divine authority to turn the other cheek.
In the name of love they amassed a hundred-years worth of dead.
One would think it should take no longer than a week
To sort it out, or a simple discussion over bread.
But to come to some term of forgiveness was too hard after all.
For a hundred years they slugged it out.
They must have had extraordinary recall -
To remember what the hell they were fighting about. 

Sophistication 

Now we fight a bloodless brand of war.
More sophisticated than before,
We battle at thirty thousand feet.
And our foes we never have to meet,
Nor agony on a dying face.
Ah, the progress of the human race! 

Taking Up Cudgels 

When you claimed a portion of the sky,
Jupiter and Mars to impeach,
Jumped, and pissed your territorial markings high
And wide as undulating ambition can reach, 

Wholesale slaughter of lives wantonly wasted
In futile investment, when ego tasted
Victory, grew drunken with lust,
Was but a subtle shifting of cosmic dust. 

The Notion 

"In God’s holy image all men are cast,"
Said the king to the leper at the end of his fast. 

William Shakespeare and Attila The Hun
Had an identical inclination to share a good pun. 

"We both do our duty with feisty spunk,"
Said the callused old farmer to the sodden young drunk. 

"Listen to this verse, how the melodies come,"
Sang the opera singer to the moron, deaf and dumb. 

"A cripple is a champion, an eagle a hen,"
Thought Adolf Hitler and all his kind men. 

"God’s sheep should be cleansed in water and fire,"
Claimed the priest to the heretic as he burned on a pyre. 

All men are gods, each son a sequel.
Without a doubt, all men are created equal. 

Final Battle 

The Korean man next door
Fought for the North in the Korean war,
And for the Japanese before,
And unwilling to risk any more,
Not daring to even the score,
For thirty years, swept the floor
In the neighborhood grocery store. 

Tired Tiger 

On a stone beneath a tree,
Near the grass beside a street,
In the eyes of an old man,
I thought I spied hope
Searching sadly for its soul. 

In Storage 

Things are useless in the rest home, you see?
Burke has no use for them there.
He’s going to be there indefinitely.
‘Cause he’s too tired to go anywhere. 

All of his things are too old to use
But too good to throw on the trash pile.
So, I thought we’d choose
To put them in storage for a while. 

Longevity 

An ancient Chinese king
Gave his servant a sealed ring,
And bid him swiftly bring
The secret of youth.
For this great truth
A reward he might take -
For failure, death at the stake. 

The servant searched far and wide
For a place he might hide.
For he knew in truth
The impermanence of youth.
He sold the sealed ring,
Found a Korean wife,
Led a quiet life,
And indeed outlived his king. 

Yea Sayer 

Overindulgent words of praise,
Shine the pride of small men’s heels.
Shameless licks the forked tongues raise,
Fall as nought ‘neath vanity’s wheels. 

Tongue Unleashing 

Slash, saber, slash!
Cut clean and quick
As a lightning flash!
Heart, turn to brick. 

Sizing Up the Tooth Fairy 

If I pulled all my teeth,
We could be rich, Daddy. 

But how would I chew my meat? 

Rhinoceri  

Rhinoceri
Never learned how to fly,
Never gained a long neck
To reach up high,
No camouflaging speck,
No mane to flap,
No claws to trap,
No special joint,
No ferocious cry.
They developed an eye
That sees only the point. 

Worm’s-eye View 

Any young worm will soon find
That a worm’s-eye view is blind.
The scene from down in the ground
Pictures little more than sound.
‘Tis a rocky life to dwell!
The early worm catches hell! 

Bad Samaritans 

The ditch bank looked higher by a yard
Than reality would prove to be,
There in a torrent of rain so hard
I had to test with my boot to see. 

The rank weeds seemed a soft enough weave
To cushion any slip in my pace.
But, oh, how nature loves to deceive,
And remind mortal fools of their place! 

It was too late when I saw the cheat.
I grasped at straws, willows, but found briars,
Slid a yard down the hill on my seat,
Offered a hand by a band of liars. 

Sincerity 

There are few lies as coy
As a show of open joy.
A smile can be vile,
A brand of wanton guile,
A broad cover for many kinds of greed. 

And a show of anger or disgust,
One should never heed.
Never ever trust
Any ill or well-seeming deed - 

Human singularity
Is usually duplicity in need. 

Truth is a rarity.
What is meant is rarely spoken
By all but those in agony, or the heartbroken.
And even pity is often taxed by vulgarity.
(Pain is feigned as easily as breath) 

But there is no mistaking sincerity
In the glassed eyes of death.
Sincerity is something everyone can eventually achieve.
I’ve never met a corpse I didn’t believe. 

The Pretenders 

They sat peacefully at their meal,
Ate heartily their bread,
And said
Anything to appeal
To the spirit of the occasion. 

Through gentle persuasion,
I hoped to discuss
Desert,
Without raising any fuss
Or any hurt
To the host. 

But they drowned out the question,
With a unanimous suggestion
To raise a toast,
And drank deeply draughts of breath. 

Of the rancid dish of death
They did not partake,
For merriment’s sake.
As a matter of formality,
They considered it a bit too hot. 

They left it to simmer
On a back burner, under a lid - 

They, the madmen who did not
Concern themselves with mortality,
And I, the madman who did. 

Mani, I Name You 

Mani is still with us,
Divested of titles,
Lenity his vestment,
Salvation in simplicity,
Martyred by Zoroaster. 

His spirit is freed from
The bodily catechumen,
Transubstantiated,
Now growing tomatoes
On a lake in Burma. 

Mother Shipton’s Prophecy 

Children, have you heard the news?
Better mind your P’s and Q’s.
In eighteen hundred eighty one,
The world to an end will surely come.
Time has all ran out, you see?
Since Mother Shipton’s prophecy. 

Blinded by the Light 

Blinded by the light,
Afraid of finding bogies in the night,
He holds his tattered blanket tight,
Says, "I’m no ape.
There must be some mistake.
Just look at the way my banners drape.
I’ve had all the truth I’m going to take.
Of mud I’m made.
I’m a higher grade
Than other animals are.
Why, if I had an ark,
I’d take all the believers and embark,
And find a twinkling star." 

A Mystery for the Sphinx 

She takes a self-righteous stand,
Upbraids Cheops for his pile of sand.
The futile waste of energy,
The gross abuse of liberty,
A pyramid of lies,
Within her raging head, she decries.
And with her moral sensitivity writhing,
She walks in a church, and pays her tithing. 

Having Believed 

Somnifacient den of thieves,
Pernicious lies are poison,
False hope a dying contagion.
The garden’s trees have many leaves. 

A serpent’s bite is quite fatal,
Plain bread the only anodyne,
Veracity the finest wine,
And dulled conscience merely lethal. 

Where’s the Resurrection? 

Where’s the resurrection?
It’s time for insurrection!
Listen, all you seers!
I don’t want to blow your optimism.
I have no use for moral schism.
But, God, it’s been two thousand years! 

Thy Only Kingdom 

Solace thy thirst in wisdom.
Succor thy mind in learning,
For riches of knowledge yearning.
Let truth be thy only kingdom. 

Straight Dose 

I’ll take mine undiluted;
No water, no ice,
No sweetener, no spice.
Give it to me straight.
It’s more easily computed,
Bitter and pure
As a prepaid whore.
A straight dose is better to follow;
Harder to stomach, but easier to swallow. 

Gathering Perspective 

I live in a realm of thunder,
Where the elements rage,
And deities plunder. 

Here, all certainty is blunder.
Molecules reach an age,
and crack wide asunder. 

It seems to me no great wonder
That in the final stage
All shall be swept under. 

La Brea 

Bubbling, troubled, multitudes wash
Restlessly from ancient depths of slime.
Lives lost in the steaming mists of time
Swell up on a gurgling burbling swash,
Yearning to be free as air, from scum
Churning, loosened from their sludgy slum. 

Arise, antediluvian hosts!
Avaunt forever, primordial ghosts! 

A Sage Shall Find 

"Son," said the sage,
"Some age with age.
Some find a wage.
Some find rage.
Some find themselves in a cage. 

But a sage is sage,
Sees just another page,
Sees time binds all things
With strands of sticky strings,
And freedom no longer rings,
Except the kind that death brings. 

In the end, my friend,
A sage shall find
That when we attest to see things best,
We are blind." 

Goal 

How empty is fame!
What did Alexander gain?
A few deeds in books remain.
Naught is the worth of a name -
A footnote, a blotch, a stain! 

Then for what should I aim?
For tranquillity I shall take pain,
Peace of mind never wavering, never wane -
The universe and I, one and the same. 

Attrition 

Poised against eternal night,
The sun burns forth volcanic light,
Dauntless in his titanic fight. 

Darkness, wise with senescence,
Bides the raging luminescence,
Knowing the limit of essence. 

Play Time 

Puppy, prancing on the lawn,
Nestling, sniffing at the air,
Wobbly-legged suckling fawn,
Curious warm kitten there, 

Beware the danger! You should
Not stare wide-eyed at the sky.
Do not play with bad and good.
Stay where you are. Don’t ask why.

© Copyright 2000 by Daniel F Mitchell  

Published by Gray Matter Press Athens, Georgia