Saturday, August 22, 2009

Dearly Departed Daughter

up the main stair and 'cross the room,
all faded wallpaper still a-bloom.
find the catch to pull or press
to the backstairs of her current address.

the steps all rotted but walls intact
climb the walls into the back,
betwixt the attic and uppermost floor:
there's her long unopened bedroom door.

"you were my mother, too long ago,
and since rebirth, I've felt your glow;
to be so in life while I live in death,
cherish the feeling of you warm pleasant breath."

This is based on someone else's dreams, not my own.

Saturday, August 8, 2009


don't look at that poor man
   dressed to go out and sitting alone
      past the point of looking around
         and he'll just fade away.
don't look at that poor lad
   pounding the pavement and out of work
      past the point of just going home
         where "lazy" he hears all day.
don't look at that poor boy
   dribbling his ball no more
      past practicing and trying
         and no team to let him play.

don't stare, don't look, don't gaze,
   just slide past like there's no one there
      they're not working and just no fair
         getting paid just sitting there.

hey! who's that man with tie flappin'
   stridin' like he's what's happ'nin'
      past seein' us, past hearin' us,
         for him always on holiday
hey! who's that lad in the fancy car
   built to go fast though he doesn't drive far
      past drivin' worryin' 'bout gas
         struck it rich, got his lucky day
hey! who's that boy and a star
   who ran so fast and got so far
      past hopin' and dreamin': it all came true
         and never wants to go on holiday.

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Manido-Tewin: Spirit Home

wandering through the mountains,
hunting down my dreams,
dancing through the maze,
of blues and browns and greens,

caught between the veils,
of my human self and this,
reliving all the memories,
making new ones in the midst,

retiring to my furrself,
to refuel my spirit's health.
give the human time to repair,
repolishing my immaterial weath

Monday, August 3, 2009



prance across the treetops
until rooftops come into view,
detouring o'er the roadways
that burn fresh-made dew.

prance through the dreamlands
until the moon is heavenly high,
or blocked by stormclouds
that mask the starry sky.

prance in short white stockings
until your coat grows red as rust,
balanced by a tail as stocky
and wards off the rising dust.

prance like it's your nature,
as if you're born to fly,
barely holding in the dance
that lifts you in to the sky.