Ode to the Loris

The loris lies along the limb, each leaf
A light and limber living love of brief
And fleeting things, for each will fall and float
From limb to litter, acting as a coat
Of green to brown so death does not bring grief.

Can one adorabled by wide eyes, round
In round head, have a reputation found
Among the sloths and serpents? You know "slow"
Is in his name. Some say a venom flow
Ought to be feared from every bite inbound.

Our cousin doesn't deserve such cold shade
Beyond that given by his trees that braid
A home, protection, food, and place to sleep.
He only wants to live and slowly creep
To food and love and where his bed is laid.

These loris lies do not deserve the least
Attention -- just believe your eyes, the feast
Of traits that make a mother of us all --
And in the evenings you can hear them call --
Their whistles fill the woods in the far East.

Mature Love

Hispanic lass
Upon my bed
This silver glass
Shows youth has fled

And in its place
This beauty lies
Within your face
And to your thighs

In middle age
Your bud has bloomed
My hormones rage
They're not entombed

Each year that goes
My love just grows

Love's Chakras

Beloved, you're a spirit of renown
That sprouts my wings and makes me dare to fly --
You tempt me with your spirit's filmy gown
And blind me with the diamonds of your crown.

You're always on my mind -- I can't deny
Electric flows and all that they denote,
Cliche or otherwise. You bring me high,
And I just have to look you in the eye.

The words I speak, the loving words I wrote
Since you embraced me have made up my art,
Are for your ears, are meant to gently float
From mind to mind and heart to heart from throat.

But if you were to make a map or chart
Of who I am through every when and what,
Then you would find there in the central part
A home for you in my warm, woken heart.

My instincts are to touch and love you, shut
You off from all and keep you in my noose
Of warmth, my very navel. I would cut
Off all for you -- I feel it in my gut.

The depth of creativity's let loose
When I am gazing on you. I'm no brute --
You turn on my love, art, poetic juice --
Because you make me want to reproduce.

My love transcends and dives below my boot --
I love your gold and red and gray and brown --
I want to be your sacred magic flute,
And each of us can be the other's root.

To Frederick Turner

To Frederick Turner, Homer of our time,
The man who taught me rhythm, form, and rhyme
Belong to poetry at any stage
And age, there's few whom I would love engage
On any topic, every topic -- wise
Man that you are, to read you is a prize --
Philosopher and poet, you transcend
Them both, and both you therefore do defend.
My praise for you, I ask, do not dismiss --
You helped to bring me up from the abyss,
My mentor, mage and sage, my wedding guest
And Muse -- because of you my life is blessed
With wisdom and with poetry, with plays
In verse. Though nothing that you taught me pays
In one economy, you've helped me see
The profit other orders make. I'm free
Because you grounded me in time and verse --
There's no way I could ever reimburse
You for your leading me up from the cave
And seeing that all life should not be grave,
Or just a place where we should, sadly, cope,
But rather is a place of joy and hope.

Oedipus Tyrannus

With care I limp along in blindness sight --
Oh, too much sight! -- developed in my soul.
This limp was given to me by my father,
These children given to me by my mother,
These empty sockets given to myself.
I leave behind the pestilence I brought
Because I sought to seek a pathway home
Away from my mistaken home, to flee
Into my mother's arms, away from mom
And dad, protecting them, I thought. I ought
To wander in a circle -- circles sought
Me out to bring me home from home, womb
To womb, and now near Athens is my tomb.
This cane, my curse -- it gave me sight to step
Before the Sphinx, her wings outstretched, her tail
Twitching, her lion legs low, crouched, her breasts
Wet-streaked in blood from victims she had killed
That very day, her face as beautiful
As it was awful, and answer her words,
Her riddle I in doubleness could answer.
I saw her fury press her wings down tight
Onto her body right before she threw
Herself onto the craggy stones to die.
I saw her simply lie. In triumph I
Marched into my new torture I mistook
For pleasure gardens and my just rewards.
I knew I knew and, knowing, knew I knew
How to be king -- appointed if not born --
How to be ruler over man. A wise
And sober king -- with brightness I would blind
Myself -- in too much light I could not see
The plague in front of me, that I had made
Because my virtue was a shade to hide
The outcomes of my choices. I had bound
All those I loved, who perished by my fate.
The weakest of my line is all who'd live,
My brother-in-law uncle left alone
To rule an empty city, empty home.

Running in the Park

Stroller and mom rollerblading
Behind the wide as pie eyed child
Never having gone so fast
Cool air through his hair tuft
Matted plaited ratted on his head
A child's mess
Mom's best success
Now having gone awry
He watches pass green leafed sky
And never wonders why
It's not textured green
Now flatted blue and white
When feathered movement catches his eye
For but a moment before
His mom and speed
Send it out of sight
To sudden forgetfulness
Mother turns a sudden curve
Sharper than she has in past
He feels it lean
Then straighten out
And continue his rush
Down the broken regular sidewalk
The rhythmic ticking
Sending him to sleep
Despite the joy of speed

The Attack on Paris

The great Enlightenment began in France --
It's there that liberalism took its stance
Against the darkness, let the spirit dance.

There ignorance gave way to seek the true
And every man would one day get his due --
The mind of man would rise up to the blue.

Our path to liberty was given light --
We'd know the way and know that it was right
And virtue would turn every soul to white.

These ideals far too many learned to dread --
Nazis, communists, haters came instead --
They lost, as will those who turned Paris red!

Demon Worship

Descending from their paper tower
The coldest monsters hug their power
They love it when it's feeding hour
It's their own souls that they devour
They hate you but it's they'll decide your fate
And you will beg them, Don't deny
My every want, my every sigh
I'll swallow up your every lie
Declare your truth is not up for debate
And you will worship everything
They say, demand they be your king
Then cut your throat so they'll enjoy their hate

A Tale of Two Prophets

I.

The tribe surrounds him, listens to his words.

I hear the voices, voices of the birds --
The gods have sent their messengers to me --
They spread their wings and sat upon my knee.
     The spirits up above
     They send their love
     And say that you must live
     Your life to give.
The gods are angry at our wives
Whose thighs are cold and tongues are knives.
At husbands god is angry, too --
The do not love, give what is due.
You leaders, power's not for you to take --
     Don't be a fake,
     Live for our sake --
All this commands the spirit of the lake.
The fruits will  rot before they're ripe
And worms will wriggle from your tripe.
     If you do not obey
     Beginning now, today.

The tribe beheld this holy man and trembled --
His words commanded all who had assembled.

II.

 The crowd walks past him, each ignores his words.

The voice of God is speaking to the herds
That He is coming soon to punish all
Who built around their hearts a concrete wall.
     The angels up above
     Say God is love
     And therefore you should give
     Your life to live.
Our God is angry at you wives
Whose thighs are not for men at dives.
At husbands God is furious --
They cheat and lie, are cruel and cuss.
You leaders seek in power evil deeds,
     Like noxious weeds
     You spread your seeds
Of wicked envy for your needs.
The institutions that you made
Will crush you all before you fade
     If you do not confess
     Your sins so God can bless.

The crowd ignored him -- all but one, whose call
Brought men to silence him behind a wall.

Daydreaming

The sun fades into the forest top, trapped
Among the leaves that entangle the rays
And keep the sun around just that little
Bit longer when they really shorten days.

My legs strengthen walking through the open
Fields and woods, as I climb the mountain, rocks
Scuffing my skin thicker. My brain is clear
As this air from busyness, stress, and clocks.

The meadow lark is giving way to owls
And whip-poor-wills -- the bullfrogs lose to crickets --
I lose nothing in this transition -- night
Brings the milky way -- no city light thicket

Blocks out the vast majority of stars
Out here so only Orion stands out
As he hunts. No, he is joined by others --
Out here the gods exist -- there is no doubt.

Of course, the land I walk here in this dream
Must be paid for over and over -- tax
Is always due -- I'd have to keep the money
Flowing in -- they'd never let me relax.

I might as well stay here in this office
And continue living in the suburbs
And chase my tail here in my others life
And make sure that my life never disturbs.

Four Displays

The sweat trickles down his neck nearly lost
In muscles he is building with each rep --
He builds them with each drunk man he has tossed --
He crafts his body, careful with each step.

His suit and Lamborghini  both were made
By hand in Italy -- he made his wealth
Himself, and every debt is always paid --
He's generous and in financial health.

His words are worshiped, musical and light,
Complex and deep, reflects his spirit, mind --
He'll take a bird, reflect his own delight --
The web he weaves are words you will unwind.

The peacock lifts his eyes and spreads them wide --
His demonstrations are the peahen's guide.

Zorba the Zebra

Zorba the zebra of Zanadu
Looked out on the plains
Then ran right on through
Then tiptoeing tantalizingly
With nothing to do
He lay on the beach
And slept on a shoe

And as he was sleeping
Lorenda the lion he sat
And wondered while looking
At where he was at
Then he looked at his belly
No longer was fat
So he stood on his head
And cried like a brat

Lorenda the Lion lay lazy around
Then out on  the beach
Was Zorba he found
Then licking his chops
He knew he was bound
To soon have his dinner
If he made not a sound

But Zorba awoke
He was never asleep
He never did dream
He was never that deep
So he ran from Lorinda
Without even a peep
And Lorenda thought Zorba
Was really a creep

Vision

Electromagnetism flies through space --
The sun releases it and it reflects
Off objects when it's certain waves, which grace
Our eyes -- though some of it each eye deflects.

The light provides electrons energy
And reconfigures retinol whose change
Creates cascades of electricity
Down neural pathways sight will rearrange.

And yet we see what we anticipate --
We mostly just confirm -- our brains construct
The world from fragments that they can relate
To instincts, concepts, what they can deduct.

Blue morpho butterflies, electric blue
And black, glisten in the sunlight and dew.

Important Things

I've left behind the crimes and Congress, stock
Exchange, the daily news -- they're all the same,
They do not change from year to year, yet lock
Our minds to them as to a tiny flame.

I've left behind the petty things -- the crimes
Of governments remain the same, the words
We speak repeat, and history still rhymes.
I'd rather hear the call of speckled birds --

I'd rather hear the ocean sing and see
The painted bunting flit between the leaves --
I'd rather feel the granite scrape my knee --
I'd rather taste the air as my chest heaves.

I'd rather smell your hair and tink our rings --
For these are all the most important things.

Time's Writing

There written on the leaves is all the pain
The Summer brings, the drought, the death-dry heat,
The tears and bruises, where the worms remain
To bite around the vein, keep fresh the meat.

The flower rises, it's the plant's last stand
Against the dying. Its potential seeds
The soil, its future toil, demand,
And hope fulfilling all its desperate needs.

The Autumn, Winter comes and plants deep death
Across the earth -- we lose all worth and wail
That we won't last -- and so we cast our breath
To tell our seeming senseless untongued tale.

The Spring deluge expands the seed to sprout,
And thus the future dissipates our doubt.

Ends and Means

The time of flames has come to make us burn --
The poet speaks, we understand. We turn
Our words to ends, we must philosophize
We know their meanings when they're means -- we're wise
Until we seek to know beyond the time
The wood is used, reduced to beat or rhyme
From which arise the means to mean, a song
Upon the score to satisfy the throng.
And thus we speak the truth and safely shock --
We reap rewards and rarely taste hemlock.

Homo Narrans

We spend a lifetime listening to others' dreams
And fears and joys and sorrows, sweet defeats
And wearying desires -- all are treats
For fallow ears -- we wish for all that speaks and seems.

We're storytellers every day -- we spend our nights
Telling our stories to ourselves -- each day
We tell each other stories and we play
With narrative and language to our ears' delight.

We gossip and we tell our tales -- each fairy tale
And novel, poem, epic, film, and verse
Contributes to our humanness and nurse
Us as it covers and withdraws its silky veil.

I am afraid that that is all we are, we men
And women, cultures and societies --
Afraid? No! Joy is what you ought to seize
When you agree that life comes off of tongue and pen.