The Wayward Drifter

Light purged the sorrowed highway, longing;

High-back indecent, crescent-shape waning,

Sweet nectar poured-fresh, tarnished elixir,

To Men and Gods bow not, Wayward Drifter.

Remorse has set the tempo’s guiding note,

Reprise for the Castles’ drying mote;

Burn slow on the windy Candle’s ember:

All hail the leaving o’ the Wayward Drifter.

Scraggly, reckless, longing, ever-stained;

Retrospectively to Now depraved,

There’s nothing more for nothing gained,

Like the coyote; scavenger of Day.

It is ever night in the Garden of Stone,

Irrefutable accounts chill the Bone,

And on them disgraced by Weather,

He walks undaunted, paths of no others’.

There’s a Ghost ship upon dark water waiting,

With a lone crew ghastly and fading,

Riggins, rudders; flags mangled thither:

Beware the tidings of The Wayward Drifter…

And when afloat on the ocean’s current,

No trustworthiness share’s him in torment;

Awhile in a daze and lurid stupor,

Driftwood transient from upstream wayward.

A Day At The Circus

Oh! What a glorious day at the circus!

Stupendous, Grand, Enchanting, Brilliant!

Oh, the Acts and the Elephants near us,

Trapeze, in the Topaz, and Militant;

I say, and the fire-eaters and the freaks,

In this carnival, so stripped for tickets,

And tips, what ornate displays of Neat;

The jugglers, and the dragon-mouthed midgets,

I saw the Acrobats and the trained monkeys;

Oh! What an illusion so devoid o’ certainty,

And the candle-whip, and tight-rope walkers;

The Clown, in the end, was the Ring-Master!

T’was awesome and incredibly intrinsic,

The appeased sight of this catty linguistic;

From behind this cage, the whip and the Stool,

“Get the lion’s chain ready, you Fool!”

I still have my performance left to do,

I still have my performance left to do…

A Tell From The Floor

There is no more the day myself has felt
Any less trodden, than by but one foot,
Or the other, that upon visage, treads myself—
Having ne’er footed; just stepping afoot.

In discourse with many a speechless sole
(And on this plank they do so surely know),
As the Jester, King and Serf share a soul;
Myself mottled by weighted rugs and Sew’.

However, not uncommon, but undesirable;
Me, the shelf, henceforth that life should sit,
And growing infinitely measurable,
But in the courtship which I may never fit;

A chipper note does clip, trip, and stomp,
And made gaudy by orchestras of brooms,
Spiff-swiff-sweep, occasional drops-and-tromps,
Wherein, a fresh mop sops the wear o’ doom.

Aging Too Well

Age’s ocean has come t’elude our youth

And wash what divots beget in wrinkle;

As so many forgotten shores uncouth,

And unjust waves raise the surface crinkle.

Old the way we grow in the space-full time,

Ravaged by the Earth’s eternal spectrum,

Opossum’s worst idea, naming cats in rhyme,

Rolled, riveted and rivaled in lustrum;

Impotent on the shady hill waiting,

Petrified, these sundried fruits, tangy-rancid,

Insolent to tinge, change fearing, fading

Peppered in hindrances vulgar and timid;

In come the tides of time with eager lances;

Rip-chord overtures with youthful dances.

If I Could Know No Bounds

If I could know no bounds; beyond myself,

What beyond limitation would there stand;

Would I, still not know all that’s known,

Or, could be known and not understood;

Or all that ever could be understood,

But know very little of nothing else?

Because I’m the layer in the tongue,

And I am the tripper in the Cheek,

Silvery-laced, gilded-faced, and owned—

By what right knows one in binding;

Or bound, knows thee in finding,

And found, what knows thee that couldn’t?

If I could know no bounds like the lightening;

I’d still be hindered by condition,

For what boundaries can’t be pushed,

In light of those that can not exist,

And in existence creates a limit all its own;

I’ve had said too much of this uncertainty.

I am the unhinged closet door swinging;

The uneven ledge, unbalanced, devote,

With nothing, we’ve divided by zero,

Digging in the inks and color changing;

What dangerous this is boundaries smote

And by living we’ve come to fear the cold…

It is the not knowing that freezes;

Blowing cold like the olden wind wheezing

We’re the adolescent degenerate,

Beyond the fathom, but pretending,

The hail storms come and they go,

The damage ping, pongs, and pangs

And We write pages on observations;

Blowing older, dissipates—degenerates.

The ghoul in the fields for the ‘stutter’ rat,

Flies at night on the wing when I slumber.

The brazen symbol, the insight, irate,

And bloody, bloody, bloody blunders;

Corrupt by the thought to know it well—

The bounds besets the yearn to them dispel!

Bizarre, this is of mixed-up factions

Dissidents through suffrage-contractions,

Inclusively formidable for intellect,

Has lost the bounds and came closer to Null…

If I could know no bounds; beyond myself

I would know all bounds except myself,

Beyond my understandings I could know

Boundaries instead of what lies on spacious sides,

If I could know no bounds beyond myself,

I’d know others that set upon disclosures

Of that which I’ve set myself to know beyond.

I was there THAT day

I was there THAT day,
And many a penny spent I;
I was there that day,
And too little a care gave I:

Oh, what fool be paid,
And Me that has paid it,
They raved, "Oh! What feast be laid,"
Not me, but my penny which had Ate it—

Or of it that came—
And with the Wine that had washed it,
A Table of Fame,
A Beast, my Penny, did squash it;

I, the fool did play—
A lone receipt paid it—
Anon, with those eats the Feast did lay,
Not Me, but t'was my Quarter that saved it!

I was there that day,
When the world Crumbled;
That day I was there,
When the world Stumbled;

I was there that day,
(That day I was there),
I was there THAT day—
The day I wasnt there at all...

YouTube addresses:

http://www.youtube.com/user/dashpoet

http://www.youtube.com/user/13bloodfist13

The Wind Chime Song

I've never been but on a wind chime song,

In the early dew and morn's delight,

The droppings of the mountain scents along,

The earthly mews of a nightingale's flight;

Dip light and soft and gently swooping there,

On balances in hearts weight and golden,

By none fanged, foamed, or raggedly fair,

Jingle-jangle-jingle, sweet and olden;

Cut off from stormy winter's breathing;

Cancerous's the Night snowy slumber hat'd;

Cored from out such wretched hoary seething

Cat-nip on the carpet, gone now and faded;

I've never been but on a wind chime song,

And never heard it's likeness beat this wrong.