Cover Up

Image by and copyright Walter Parada.

Red rivers ride

fluttering flags.

A smile and a hand, freely offered

belie the tip—

it’s not a stick you know

that I’ll stick you with,

not a dream doused with dreamers.

God or Man

the mortar drips

beneath the marble—

just a dab of purity to hide

stained hands,

strawberry walls—

Humanity

drifting.

* A piece for this week’s edition of One Shoot Sunday. This week features an interview I had with the talented Californian photographer Walter Parada. I was very grateful for the images he chose to share with us, as I find them all to be absolutely striking, from his landscapes to his portraits, and on to the image featured above.

Welcome to Rapture

Inspired by all this silly Rapture business so many are apparently getting up in arms about today. Because, yes, that’s correct, the world is apparently going to end today…never mind the man that made the prediction made the same prediction in 1994…

Into my maw impart

All sympathy, with mild ecstasy

The will to persevere

The thought—life

It ends in a note

Complacency

Was the hymn

Never mind the words

Rewritten by old hands

Every time the clock clicks past

The deadened hour.

Y2K rings no bells

I suppose

But Heaven kissing you with earthquakes—

Divine.

So what are you doing at the end of all times? Personally, I’m ushering things out with a BBQ. Seems the classy route to take.

Death of a Muse

Tender touches

twilight now

when you would walk through moon beams

silver youth, in my mind,

your long-tossed hair that fleeting glimpse

unworthy hands would never know.

A dream-wrought kiss

for all sensation’s cheer—

a note to set the pen to dance

beneath your light.

What is your name?

Reality, but a longing and a life

no bearing on the yearning—

the dreamer’s supple realm.

A thousand ships would sail for you,

in mind, while your eyes turned—

it wasn’t till the flesh took my hand,

crowned in cruel identity

cast me out to sea

that all those ships were set to burning.

* My latest contribution to One Shot Poetry Wednesday. This piece was essentially the second part to the post I made yesterday, on muses and their very real, physical departure, in the form of people. Yesterday I gave other people’s thoughts on muses, but today I put forth my own thoughts on the muse’s withdrawal. For those with a physical embodiment to their own creative drive…

Just a Man & a timely Senryu

No martyr, in death

A shadow on a cave wall—

A symbol stretching.

Photo by and copywrite Rosa Frei, as acquired from last week's "One Shoot Sunday."

Just a Man

Lights erupt on

paved hearts and bloodbound screams,

the sound, the roar

breathless lines in broken

exposition—

no words to mark

the dust in the wind,

the starlit flag

where planes and concrete fell,

bodies gathered in the mass

scarlet bloom

the flower of a shadow

planted in the towers’ ash

strains to desert sun,

painted by the people’s rage–

rots, like any other.

* My latest contribution to One Shot Poetry Wednesdays, obviously inspired by recent events. The Senryu derived directly from my send off quote on the night of the terrorist Osama Bin Laden’s death, and “Just a Man” followed early this morning. Both pertain to symbols, to mortality, with “Just a Man” adopting an almost cautionary tone…and I hope they stir some thought in my readers.

No More

“No more”

the old man cries,

spares the young men to die

forcing wrinkled face to greet life–

a lie.

* My latest contribution to the wonderful One Shot Poetry Wednesdays! If you get the chance, be sure to check out all the other talented One Stop poets posting there – and what about yourself? If you haven’t signed up yet, and you’re among the creative…what are you waiting for?

Hospital Thoughts

For my father:

Through yonder window breaks

The boy

Kneeling at the bedside table

A prayer

Somewhere in the midst

Of life,

The feet of death hang

In grayscale

Monument of the quiet man’s strength

A shroud

Over hope, the sing-song memory

It perseveres

Through white-coat salutations

Their assurance

Little comfort in the night’s long hour

Laid out

When he is naught but dreams

A longing

Night’s crystal rain

The watch

He is the only one, he tells himself

That sees

The wrinkles and the lines, in pallid sheets

The world

If he can make it through the night—

Slow breaths—

Hope will find them in the dawn.

My father and mother, seen here at my brother's wedding rehearsal.

My submission to this week’s One Shot Wednesday, and one that holds a special place with me. I wrote this a few days ago when, if you will remember, I was caught in the throes of a massive worry in my own life, revolving around my ailing father. Since then, he has undergone surgery and is apparently recovering now…and while that recovery time will be long, it is still a comfort to know that he will be better again.

This work revolves mostly around the feelings of waiting, the uncertainty, the hoping…the great pain that comes with watching and being unable to do anything in those long nights.

Absence Explained

Yesterday, you may have noticed I posted a poem for One Shot Wednesday. Nothing out of the ordinary in that, and certainly unorthodox. Those among my commenters section, however, may have noticed that I have not, as my usual goodly self would have, traveled to your blogs in turn for a comment or a quality liking. You may be thinking, what a dick, that Chris guy.

Well humbly hold back on the dickery decrees for a moment while I explain. This week, you will probably not be seeing much activity from me. Some issues have erupted in the real world that have left me scrambling for sanity, but facing worry; for time, but finding little to be had.

My mother and father, Rocky Mountains 2010.

Yesterday, my father was taken to the hospital following a week-long sickness. In the beginning, we had thought it was the flu, or something like it. When it stretches for a week – certainly not the case. He was checked into the emergency room. Doctors seem to have figured out what was wrong – infections coming on in clumps all up in the wrong areas – but they don’t know yet if what they have prescribed will be enough for the moment. They have held him at the hospital for now, and given him antibiotics. They may take. They may not. If the don’t, they will likely have to conduct surgery. A skittish Chris is left in the meanwhile.

As if that weren’t enough, the week seems content to stack numerous other obstacles and bad things in my path. For example, yesterday, not 20 minutes before I learned about my father, my dog was mauled by another dog while we were walking down the street. Put an inch long gash in his neck and took a chunk of skin out from under his eye. Would have been worse, much worse, if I hadn’t booted the assaulting animal off my thoroughly startled dog. Have to deal with animal control and all that now. Likely an angry neighbor as well.

"Fane," post-attack.

I will likely return to normality next week, and you will see posts and commentary the same as ever from regular Chris, but for the moment, if I’m a little lacking in internet presence, I hope you’ll understand. All the best to you all.

No Kiss

It is not the beard you crave

But the lips behind it,

The kiss

It shook empires

In its youth, bitter thing

Rendered golden in that

Midas way where

Men breathe

Never seeing a

Kiss is never just a kiss

It knows not the contours

Flesh bone and blood

The Sin

One weary heart

Coaxes from quivering walls.