Thursday, August 9, 2012


I have the smallest of voice inside of me that whispers
"I want to speak" as the voice was often muffled in whimpers.
Yet it was the beginning of syllables and place
that was drowned in silence as compliance took shape.

I speak in shivering speech and know it must raise louder
for ears to hear and eyes to weep as I did for all before.
I sat in stolid like a stolen statue that was under construct,
chipping and carving to release as I teared from the loss of such
fallings underneath.  Parts of me disappearing but unknown
that much more was in clearing.

A statuesque stance of the survival lay within the block and the voice
remained silent for a mirror image to resemble the talk.
Yet there was not one that was in a silhouette of this imperfection and imbalance.
I may be the first to be heard of a child that lost nerve long before a chipper of stone took to chisel.

The layman only wants the finish product and not the toils of carving
and how it transformed the picture within.  I am a minuscule sound that's
been released from each chip and hit whispering I want to be found.
I want to scream till shattering releases all that lives inside.
I want to speak of all that I hid away as a child who remained.

Facts, sir is all you hear and want is why I never gave it up.
Why without the crumbles of my must and the gathering
of my muse should I give?  It is the universal give and take
that was a erroneous mistake of my breath and it left me without exhale.

A child of four left without a past without blood to seep when the first
strike took hold.  I was a second grade student who had to study hard
to survive, to seek the beauty that I hide.  I was the concubine of men
and I was the slut of a misappointed king.  I was still a child despite them.

I held the strength of prisoners of war and I screamed in silence to God
on carpeted floors.  I gathered the rain and made pools of tears and I drowned
my voice in them.  I shut my keeper's gate and I watched the needle
plunge into my tongue.  Sharp and oozing without riches but chemicals of
bitterness.  I gave them nothing more of my raped scenario and I cemented my
vocals from lashing out the pain.

I was four when God ignored, I was seven when fate ignored, I was twenty when I left that world, I was 21 when another beast snagged me up and chewed me out through mono dioxide derivatives, I was 22 when I ended the dream of hallucinations in screaming, I was 23 when I sought out learning and I was 25 when adulthood took hold.  I was promised to another who could not take but only give more of what was asked before.  Love by definition and love by understanding to make of heart and brain.

A life within a drain is all I could give and show and so I will tell and speak louder of my intent to share my destined lament and they will ignore like before.  I am futile that never gives up in dream of a frozen stat in state.  If you heard just a word than I am making progress and have moved an inch.  I am in transformation of tiny bubbles in air, exercising my lungs to exhale as the longest recorded case of CSA.  Today I quake in my treble and yesterday I shook in my troubles and yet progression moves march to match the other voices curtailed.

Saturday, August 4, 2012

Deaf and blind but Helen Keller was a martial artist.
A combatant in fight for light,
she clocked the barrel of night
by shot towards ignorance who flew
by and laid eggs of crisis.
An insect with compound vision
seeks death and submission
to find end in a smushing swat.


More Designed Death of Flies:

Friday, July 13, 2012

A Prayer

I spent my childhood in prayer asking for the Lord's forgiveness.
"Forgive me Lord for I have sinned," repetitiously like hail marys of Catholicism
but Father I murmured the words without understanding as your Bible never met my eyes in your markings of maturation or growth and I lay with tears beseeching the agony without the comfort of your words.  I did not hold the lessons of the passages of time but only whispered your name in cry and defeat.

Yet ye lay me down in green pastures and I studied the blade of grass and made scissors with the weeds as they mocked me in potential tear of my soul.  I never let the drop of life see the daylight and I turned to stone in refusal of fate.  I lay with ignorance for a roof over my head and food on my plate knowing it was sin.  I took and gathered my morsels for a newer day and in wait I did nothing, noted the universe for the day of a beasts release.

However, Lord I did not speak of another's sin against my angelic skin and I in turn protected the shame as if I were to own it.  In know, I knew I had sinned not of flesh but of heart and mind as I wanted to preserve the wrongdoers in my life.  If you forgive a child of holding such things as dear and worthy then punish me Lord and rid me of my sins.  I did not pick the needle in order to beat out destiny and I should have slid into oblivion as I fell through the cracks.

Although, your power of light showed me that the weeds I so admired in my youth were as resilient as the blossoming flowers of lupines and wildflowers of native lands that I plucked early from their growth but they showered me with color and the open sky was the canvas backdrop to my empty dreams.  In turn I stretch my arms to plead of your understanding and  the poppies of the West opened a new meaning to me.

"Forgive me Father for I have sinned as I held our Mother close to my heart and bypassed your wealth of effervescence in folks of fashion and fortitude.  I did not see them in your light and did not value their strength as if it was magnetic to mine.  May you allow my silent tongue to speak of the evils of this world as so much time has passed, may I not be forgone or forgotten like your enlightenment and praise that was compressed by time."

Perhaps the pages held press of forgiven wildflowers in preservation of times to come.  If so may the coloring of their brittle and delicate beauty be seen once more before they fade away.  May the Lord hear my whispering prayer in the raindrops of storms so that the light can return to remember the Father's sky as the fire bow touches the Earth's arc as I never claimed the sin of incest and the definition of my sin was never mentioned in the Bible, so forgive me Lord for clarification and asking of identification in this 21st century land.  

No Old or New Testimonies exist in your words of adults who lay down with children so Father forgive of my sins as I want to shout to you that it has happened.  For I long your message,  "For you were made from dust, and to dust you will return."  So Lord, you said, "So let it be written, so let it be done" as I am Rapunzel stuck in the Tower of Babel with with rare limestone woundworts in my hair holding Franciscan wallflowers, purple Chinese houses and common star lilies by hand in Farewell to Spring.

Scarlet Begonias - Grateful Dead

As I was walkin round grosvenor square
Not a chill to the winter but a nip to the air,
From the other direction, she was calling my eye,
It could be an illusion, but I might as well try, might as well try.

She had rings on her fingers and bells on her shoes.
And I knew without askin she was into the blues.
She wore scarlet begonias tucked into her curls,
I knew right away she was not like other girls, other girls.

In the thick of the evening when the dealing got rough,
She was too pat to open and too cool to bluff.
As I picked up my matches and was closing the door,
I had one of those flashes I'd been there before, been there before.

Well, I aint always right but Ive never been wrong.
Seldom turns out the way it does in a song.
Once in a while you get shown the light
In the strangest of places if you look at it right.

Well there aint nothing wrong with the way she moves,
Scarlet begonias or a touch of the blues.
And there's nothing wrong with the look that's in her eyes,

Wind in the willows playin tea for two;
The sky was yellow and the sun was blue,
Strangers stoppin strangers just to shake their hand,
Everybodys playing in the heart of gold band, heart of gold band.

Saturday, June 30, 2012

Le Petit Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Up above the celestial sphere lived a child without fear.
His name was becoming of a prince, he raised a rose in glass and pics.
Asteroid B-612 was where he swelled and on leave he left his only smell.
Sweet ephemeral roots fighting boababs back home, goodbye he said as he roamed. 
On his way he met a scientist that left him dismayed, a snake uncharmed, a fox's alarm and buy a merchant sold was just too much for this miniature soul.  
Tea in the Sahara between a pilot and a tiny Saint of circumstance.
Home was the universe in a small boy's hand. 


Art courtesy of - Suvetar (Deviant artist)

“All grown-ups were once children... but only few of them remember it.” 
― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

“What makes the desert beautiful,' said the little prince, 'is that somewhere it hides a well...” 
― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

“People where you live," the little prince said, "grow five thousand roses in one garden... yet they don't find what they're looking for...

They don't find it," I answered.

And yet what they're looking for could be found in a single rose, or a little water..."

Of course," I answered.

And the little prince added, "But eyes are blind. You have to look with the heart.” 
― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

“You - you alone will have the stars as no one else has them...In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing, when you look at the sky at night...You - only you - will have stars that can laugh.” 
― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

“It is such a mysterious place, the land of tears.” 
― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Innocence Lost

O Lord in thy honor, doth ye regard complacency?
For the youth of a new dawn and spirits ancient
fall privy to smugness of our sour stealth indecencies. 
Foretelling of rape and plunder of innocent humanity.

From the stars, render knowledge to mortal entities.
The trinity of Heaven's gate holds I in suspension 
as time trickles along the lines of three dimensions, 
who calls upon Thee in a dilated pursual of deliverance.

Free reign, like how the sun hung highly in the sky.
Moving across a blue divide upon the ceiling of Earth.
A bud of a babe plucked in dirty soil from barren,
found a baron, blushing in embarrassment.

Such the crass of civility formed a wreath,
thorns prominent in the bath of life, as a child
bleeds upon the fertility of progeny for time
shook foundations and in shaking revealed Revelations.

Weep and wipe the tears of a youthling
for once an Earthling, approached request
for entrance unto the immortality of innocence.
The Lord's transference became a convergence.

The soul in flight, must stay in fight for the deeds
of our spirit's sweat and undertakings in contrition.
Moons pass across an Atlantic voyage as a jejune 
seeks to lite fire and become an apprentice of prudence.

The arts of sculpted minds brushed the color of winds.
In an epicurean European remembrance, such eyes 
need not deceive as the blood of a Son touched
a young one to move direction from rupture and division.

A sullen child finds substance in the bosom of self.
Silence, the bell rings and strength echos against fatality.
A witness emerges in an interchange of varied personages 
and lands upon the terrestrial sphere of a planet.

A new language in the macroscopic tongue 
of an empyrean child foremost matured in-between
space and time, in breath and in breadth of a squanderer.
A voice commences, "Our Father, which art in heaven."

The Divine Comedy’s Empyrean illustrated by Gustave Dore.

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

Ode to Thou Provost Lord

In light of the anniversary birthday of my best childhood friend, I was moved by her intellect and her passion for the written works of yesteryear. If she had lived, perhaps we could have been surprised together as I was looking for a Dore print on Ebay. I ran across the discovery of an old book found by the seller at an estate sale. Upon looking closely, I deduced that it was most likely a signed book by Alfred Lord Tennyson. The book was Elaine and in poor condition. It was up for bid and I just barely lost but the sale ended in less than 100.00 dollars. The pictures from the bid are here.

A legitimate sample of Tennyson's signature from online.
In this discovery and loss, I reached out to a local documents person who has a place known as the Karpeles Manuscript Library and he neither confirmed or denied it was indeed Tennyson plus he said it was in poor condition that he wasn't interested, even if I could track it down. Yet he guided me to Tennyson's work, Charge of the Light Brigade. In turn I found In Memoriam, which was an ode to a friend who he missed and lost. So I have attempted to revive that feeling with a poem. Tennyson's piece is most known for the lines at the end where he states, "Tis better to have loved and lost/Than never to have loved at all."

With the breadth of Tennyson, he would have enticed my friend to re familiarize herself with his work and she would have found a level of appreciation as I also have appreciated the genuine friendship and her fervor for literature. She is and always will be greatly missed. Friend in heaven, for you I write.

Ode to Thou Provost Lord

O’ ye, the heavens that hath holdest the strongest sun
Rest in thy sweetness of wine and reign just,
Isle rays in thy giant palms scoops, swoops down
Upon my brittle soliloquy, echoing down subconscious corridors.

And I, a feeble moot, surrounded by ‘ye just strength in jest
Conscious entities rise, like a halo enamored
By a sonorous note chiming high and light,
A sludge snail soiled upon Earth, smacks down dirt and dust.

Her watery planet undulated in waves of elemental motes
Salted tears, descendant upon man’s tots,
Whilst humans form days with nods in ayes,
Watch thou Lord’s colloquium, a mind’s eyes speck humanity.

Thy flecks of molecular tête-à-tête doth sound around,
Those familiar to find focus in focal inheritances
For  aye, rang thine battle cries of precedent and precepts,
Wane to wax thy vitality of animus and ardor while in psyches.  

Formulas festering in fostered foundations, foremen forget
Upon I doorstep, the hand of fate fix I, infinite
Creaks in wooded footsteps marched in solid,
Durst guidance of broken silence, astride to the tide in totality.

O’ ye, vernacular wraiths expose thy truth in visceral cues by beautification,
Reminiscent and reticent in some form of a poet’s hand
Although scripted in motion, memoirs spoke devotion,
For in voice, a maiden’s name, O’ Lord thou’st revealed thyself once more.

O’ I messages shatters against thy silent remaining domain
As possibility became evidential and eventually,
In I, minor clichés of cranial ruptures and exposure,
Risking the rains of yesteryear, in showering shouts of a proverbial name.


Thy Baron of In Memoriam, hath toiled years of a stained heart,
Fluttered in a moment of amusement and astuteness
Shivering in excitement, I destined homeward for
O’ Lord send thy sonnet of metric intentions into premier ecstasy.

Thy past, persevereth ye and perverted back the dampened pestilence
As thy cast outh stones of sin, wandering in derision
Regression revert thy unto the stolid, in stance and stanzas
Former formal initiations, slipped slowly from aye swollen appendages.

Thou hast the holiest men, in fight and flight to pass by tests in time
Imagine the commoners’ common man rise above
Like a ghost, in folly of mind and effervescence
Revealing losses, yet not gone to clocked eras of eternal love.

Love of thy brethren and sisterhoods of the general populous
Remain in remnants, fervor for majestic portions, by and by
Ancestral lineages gather to gain momentum in ebb
For antiqued ages of books, thy rest reverent to names of God’s children.

O’ thy plates overflowth, in universality of knowledgeable scrolls
Consensuses slowly grows while consistently changing
Aye, cornerstone, no longer rests in inclinations or delineation
Stones, thine builders refused, gathers moss on Northern shores.

Creativity crafted of crescent moons, shimmer upon her Ocean’s throne,
Precipitous rain replenishes, in hearts destined by rolling stones
Thy Bible hath not shown, shame deep in deeds of deception
Thy archaic scores of historic detention gathered nomad pupils’ jaunt and remote.


A richer sun, a former label of a great Baron, sides against a young one.
Reaction of actions, foremost, by tenants in thy House of Lords.
The moon sits in sheer suspension, I’s Sun’s flame oxidates forever,
Amongst luminescent spirits, angelic approach glides galactic spans of seasonal cycles.

For summer set in 1892, as laid to rest in the West near the Abbey of Ministers.
Unbeknownst to wise wasted youth following
Foolish sight, stones thrown upon harpsichords
Thee yell, ”Ring in the alarm,” to them who dance with death unto dying suns.

Wilted wreaths of sorrow shed tears, bringing allowance for thy blind to see
A heart scarce of desire, dedicated in feres with friars
Form a formidable cohort, death rests in hugs of her wholeness.
Fleeting by, in memory, as her genetic seeds gains steadily in sweetness.

She liveth within her powers of love, amidst self-indulgent stenography
A homage to a cherished effigy, my dearly departed perfection
She never mired her generosity, so hath show no eulogy
Late, wait I, for special sincerity, perhaps friend, ye shineth intensity after all.

Heard notes of Earthly passions, perchance, a message teleports home for heart
Of a friend lost in leased love from innocent ages
The clamor of cherub friendships, she left behind an emerging sun.
Go faithfully unto thy raging night to follow the long fellows and ten in sons, I must follow her.

So might we meet by the lake in the sky, she shoaled I to find her mortal life,
Worlds of grandeur, creations of cognitions and cites,
As lucid Earthly dreams elate and evade erroneous twilight,
Shameful prelude miscued a master’s missed road frozen by frost, ye not lost.

For thaw settled by the ellipse of the richer sun, she daunts to run into sunshine
Slowed by the virtue of thy Son of Man, in a future fellowship,
In friendship, the infringement of fools fall to fashion love,
Hail ye vicar, first teacher of thy Golden Rule, latter substitutes remitted clerics of lyrics.

Genteel literate quintessential souls move stars, quiet wishes in flight of night.
Dissension of rebellious plight fodders darkness, whom
Wake the light of sun and moon, secluded in scheduled rules.
Verse and savant signs, all breathe in enticement to forgo in erstwhile.

I, planet, a little precept within a rose, fought to watch a struggle of bay trees,
Seeking to up root a hardened asteroid, lied in literal absconding
From a world of children’s sake, we float to Heaven’s Milky Way
Caught in the residue of planetary particles that gravitate to thy galaxy.

Monday, March 12, 2012

Conversion Of Coffers

A lone beacon sounds against sin.
They revolted while in church,
as shame slathered on their swallowed gasp.
The lost congregated behind concrete gates
as the landscape scraped the slumbering
from remembering the antecedent
of deafening decadence, lies the lied.
An unplugged mind unwinds in solace. 

Shuddering against sitting shoulders,
the stalls and slip of sorrow swing softly
like a noose in wait of the wind.
They yelled the name of the Lord
with the helping yelp of a flabbergasted
God as he rested and wore precedent.
Had extinction run concurrent to forgoe
the words of Holy verse, superseding sounds?

The converts converse in allegories by thought.
They sit upon books, with commiseration in
wholesome dignity, rendering underneath
beauty, hid hidden in suffering.  Revelations
bequeath them to sing song in psalms
of nonexistent churches, as pews of dew
reached them, early morning, with sunrays
emulating written works of the Creator. 

Image courtesy of The Atlantic 

Image courtesy of JDC Teahouse @