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Showing posts from January, 2013

Poem to be Published in "Best of" Anthology

" Out of the Ad Space" has been voted by readers as the best poem of the September 2012 issue of Aoife's Kiss . It will be reprinted in the "best of" anthology Wondrous Web Worlds Vol. 11 in 2013.

Time to Grow Up Where There's No Time at All

You simply do not exist, they assert with buttoned-up stares, Though I’ve detected salty scents on the curled tongues of butterflies, And feet-shapes where the grass and clover straighten their necks. Get your head out of the mist, they keep telling me, There are no such beasts in the world. But I think I saw you once, at the corner of my eye. Yes, I truly believe I did! For you were tall and fleshy and sad, Just like the drawings in our books of lore: those spider-silk pages Guiding my dreams beyond the moonlight. (From the book  The Hunchback's Captive and Others )

The Politician's New Heart

His donor had danced the bogs of Ireland. Had swum the starlit waves of rocky shores. She was optimistic, despite sea rise and the quieting of birds. Despite parched orchids and disenchanted trees. To the end her mind stayed sharp, and her heart beat strong—a true denizen of the hills, hawthorns, and sea. Today that heart beats in the politician’s chest, threading an elder light through modern veins. New thoughts arise in him daily: of the coexistence of enchanted trees and paved roads, of laws cast against the rising seas, of the integration of elemental wisdom. And a new campaign speech forms in his mind—its words free of pollution, and boldly green. (From the book  The Hunchback's Captive and Others )

The American and the Armenian

The American and the Armenian for Tati She sits in a café reading the poems of an American. Her eyes steal the surrounding sunlight, illuminate his rising words. He sits at his desk reading an email from the Armenian. He is touched. Flattered. A bit sad he cannot visit the café. And although an ocean stands between them, they do not feel so apart when using words. They do not feel so alone: For their hearts know the same achings of love. Their tears flood the same fields of war. Their pens write of better days to come. In a world of several billion people, on a planet spinning in & out of control, the man and woman have come together peacefully, through distance and words. It was Sagan who wrote: Earth, from a distant point, is a pale blue dot. A mote of dust in a sunbeam . This, the man and woman have seen in their dreams. And although they will never walk Rome together, or share a view from the Sm

Out of the Ad Space

“Those who linger long in false reflections run the risk of soul abandonment.” – Future proverb   Out of the ad space—today’s woman: Flawless skin. Hair a curtain shot to heaven in waves of synthetic color. Angled, porcelain white cheeks, carmine blush, gilded lashes, breasts robust and firm. Thin-thighed Aphrodite . The pixels of her eyes stream elite parties. A glamorous you .   Out of the ad space—today’s man: Perfect 5 o’clock. Metrosexual stud hair in waves of combat colors. Chiseled, masculine face, tan skin, winning smile, chest wide and strong. Designer-jeaned Adonis. The pixels of his eyes stream quixotic adventures. A gallant you .   Out of the ad space—today’s marketing: Target everyone. Categorize customers in waves of insecurity, vanity, fallow lives. Scan pupils. Upload to optic nerves: pricing, privacy, promise of PERFECTION. Narcissus-headed Cerberus. The pixels of its eyes stream fallen empires. An ersatz society.

New Pattern

I walk the quiet suburban streets. Hands in pockets. Black hood tight In the autumn drizzle.           A mind no longer my own.           The voice, the venom—           The awful mother tone. Chains hold back barking dogs. Instincts sharp. Teeth protect Their tiny green islands.           They stand their ground.           I grunt, I growl—           They yelp and back down. Who senses intrusion, murder, The way birds sense storms In the bloody summers? Who knew it was I that came and went Through the left open windows and doors Of complacency? The police don’t know a goddamn thing. Searching for me in the big city, In the summer, a man stalking housewives.           Knives fresh off the stone.           The blade, the butcher—           “He always cuts through bone.” Now I walk your suburban streets. Rope in pocket. Demons afloat In the crisp autumn air.           Yards full of bikes and toys.           New play, new pattern—           Hello girls and boys . . . And the pol

Illusion for the Web of Roads

I. We all begin: sunrise boat ride through the teardrop channel; exit to the entrance. Horrible, unknowable heads pecking the air around our nakedness. We hold them with our wet mouths, vertigo in a vortex of piercing voices, an influx flood of diseased light too unlike the heart’s electric signal, the pulse in paper thin eyelids. And pain. And the odor of nightmares. And the edgy, sharp, strange things non-flesh. We merely want back the wet primordial dark, seeing and knowing all we’ve come to know. II. Silver glass orbs break over the heads of aged orphans. Beards of long dead kings appear in mirrors of sanctuaries. I lie in bed, an endless stream of weapons pulled from pockets, their chambers empty, tips broken, aim bent by leaping rats. I move through the Labyrinth. The Minotaur breathes down my spine. Theseus swipes at my feet. I run for the river. It lifts and turns away, fills the white clouds black, the black clouds red. Concrete-fed fish plunge to the junkyard riverbed, crum

A Bit of the Mystery Come

A fall wind blew over the home, And to and fro went birds on the wing, And leaves all tumbled down singing summer . . . A single leaf brushed the windowpane—a mirthful, Spiral dance to the wilted grass, content in having Known seasons and skies, having done its part. I shut my eyes, breathed my way into the moment, Let drop the binding chains of control and choice. They popped on the grass like child-blown bubbles, Released a primeval song buried deep in silence. So I went out to hear it, to gather it in my arms And toss it high above my head to fill the valley. Now, a winter wind blows over the home, And to and fro go birds on the wing, And snowflakes all twirl down singing summer . . . A bit of the mystery come and gone; A little kept (From the book Wilderness & Love )

Charon Falls into the Styx

A skinny old man stands on the shore of the river Styx. He removes his tie and suit jacket. Next his dress shoes, slacks, and pressed shirt. He always hated being dressed like that, even as a funeral director. Why didn’t his wife bury him in his Hawaiian shirt like he’d asked? She never did listen, that woman. Charon emerges from the fog in his creaky wooden boat. Seeing the old man in nothing but black socks and tighty-whities causes him to snicker. This leads to heavy laughter, which in turn leads to a hoarse guffaw. In fact, he laughs so hard he loses his balance and tumbles forward off the boat and into the river. Seeing this, the old man scowls. That is not very professional, he thinks. I could do a much better job than that fool! Charon clambers back into the boat and reaches for his pole, still laughing. He squeezes the water from his shroud and pulls the hood up over his pale dome. As the boat nears the shore he motions for the nearly-naked man to step aboard. The old-time

What We Are

What We Are It's more than "I need you." Merely that doesn't send enough love to our hearts. It's more than "I love you." Our souls know the journey goes far beyond words. It's this (yet more than; a poet can only go so far) — We are the shining light in the palm of a god.

Though Unseen, Her Soul Is Lucid

And soft, like thoughts on snowy evenings. The amber fire inside her warms me. She is filled with sympathy; cries out when injustice sets fire to the world. She's a subtle understanding, like Braille across the enigma of wounds in the heart. And though unseen, her soul is lucid. A poetic ideal I've always wished to become. And bright, like clouds on snowy evenings. The amber light inside her calms me. She is filled with symphony; sings out when justice takes hold in the world. She's my one true understanding. A quiet hand reaching for mine when my head is low, when I need love… On a snowy evening. In the amber glow. (From the book Wilderness & Love )

"A toad trilling..."

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A toad trilling after a spring storm calms the soul, breaks the heart American Toad by Stephen Lyn Bales (From the book Wilderness & Love )

The Empty Thrush

The wind carries thrush notes from forest to field, circling flowers, bouncing off bees, shifting spiders on their webs. It serenades memories from the mind’s lethargy, calls me to a world a woman’s love has built. So I step forth from solitude and pursue that musical wind. At my feet, a path in bloom; in my heart an old song. Days pass before I find her, a supine statue in a garden of stone. There, sunset covers her eyes; she pivots inside time. Upon her chest, a weary thrush; two sad shapes in a quiet storm. The rain has filled their sleeping hearts, has flooded all the music out. I approach in aching disbelief, each step sinking deeper in mud. Her form cracks, crumbles, turns to mist. I collapse among the cherubim. And so it is an old song can wither away and spin down the drain of time— no longer allowing us to love in the way we once loved.

Ted

A man alone one candle burning in a cabin with bombs

Outside, the Silent Garden

Wind and rain. Silent flowers under thunder. She tends the garden by staring through the window. A downpour of thoughts mix daydreams and doubt, splash in her mind and channel off. The green in her eyes runs down her cheeks like unripe berries falling and bouncing from sight. She’s waiting for new scenery with laughter in her pockets. The hair across her shoulders sleeps. And the heartbeat beneath her skin waits patiently for his kiss. First published in Daily Love on December 3, 2011.

One Sand Grain of 6.5 Billion

I wonder too much in the morning, alone at breakfast with the sun coming in. I wonder as I drive. I am never in the fast lane. I wonder at work, taunting deadlines every time I turn my chair to the window. I wonder mostly at night, and most wondrously there: Often I walk beyond the city lights, crack some beers, throw down a blanket. And with my back to the earth I stare, straight up, to as far as I can reach… Thoughts morph into moths, land around puddles of questions: Potent, energized questions that the moths roll their tongues over. Each one drinks, each one fills with a question. Then off they go, quick as lightning, zipping back and forth across my head , bouncing off my skull with mind-aching determination. The questions know no answers exist here, so they break through my eyes like bats from a cave. Up they go, zigzagging their way to the great mystery, the thing that holds this cloudy blue marble in its black grip.

Man at the Window

Dog-faced man at the window Holding cigarettes & whiskey Holed up in a spilt-rebuilt city Where angels with burnt wings Weep chained to roofless churches And ghosts of sinners roam free For the passed out & pissed on Seeking fleshy sins, the cocks of boars One more smoke, one more stroke And the dog-faced man Just can’t drink anymore Just can’t think anymore He feels sick He feels sick to his stom— And out comes his heart

"It isn't her fault…"

It isn’t her fault that our hearts fell from the stage or that some impish god pulled broken the strings. Now it’s tar and tears, a new pavement over the old road we drove: intersections, car crashes; dead love merging with the moonlight. Those memories we made? A bitter lick of blood falling from the tongue of yesterday. And they drip drip drip... into a widening pool. I hope it will end soon— I prefer silence when forgetting you. (From the book Wilderness & Love )

Heart-shaped Cocoon (uncollected poem)

A folding of your wings; home from gliding across the clouds. You’re weeping— you’ve discovered that eternity exists. Now you understand why we hurt so badly: You saw love without its veil, and the gossamer threads which lift you, which pull you straight down; which brought us together, which tossed us apart. But we’re still in love. We always have been. We’re only transforming our love into something new, into something better. Hence our lonely days, our poetic hearts; in separate beds, in perpetual dark. I once had wings and that same urge to fly. And I did, and I stood at the edge, and I wept your same tears. Yes, I once had wings too— who do you think gave them to you?

Winterbloom

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for Kelly K. Moran A cold front arrived in Chicago yesterday, and life was lulled into a wintry nap. I wear the brown scarf you made for me, stand in front of yellow witch-hazel in the snow. Here I pace the line between reverence and concern, thinking how hard it must be to survive in the cold. I turn and gather these thoughts while rubbing my hands together. The wind shakes the trees and I must go to you— There, I will keep you warm . . . Each day, until the leaves return. Snow-covered Witch Hazel by Jay Sturner (From the book  Wilderness & Love )

Waking

Cardinal song   starting cars   ticking clock;   breathing   heart beating   closed eyes.   —Dark windows;   the new moon.     Snowflakes, warm chimneys, quiet earth . . .                 Cardinal flight   moving cars               tick, tick, tick;   sighing               arms wide   open eyes.   —Dim windows;   the slow sun.

Seasonally Home

I pack away summer clothes to a soundscape of Vivaldi. The songs of summer birds have settled like dust. I stand at the window, watch leaves fall across the yard, overcome by a sensation I cannot deny: My heart is in a dance with autumn's return. (From the book  Selected Poems 2004-2007 )

Morning Rain

Morning Rain for Kelly K. Moran This morning there was much rain, forcing the birds into trees, the butterflies beneath leaves. I stand at the open window, listening for the cool silence between raindrops. I begin to wonder about time machines, about being fully absorbed into the future: The full view of a sunset from our porch chairs, a cat resting at our feet. Faces aged, a hand holding a hand.   And the wind comes down from flowered hills, filling the home with fragrances. Everything is golden orange like a softly glowing jewel.            I blink and turn from the window. Another routine day begins. The echoes of my heartbeat will mingle with the rain. (From the books Selected Poems 2004-2007   and  10 Love Poems )

Psalm of My Own

God makes no promise but that of love. He says, Reside in the V of my arms like a bird's nest        in branches.   Firmly, I will hold you; strong storms and wind through. Love makes no promise but that of itself. She says, Trust your heart and let me shine like a wave of light through dark forests: Make peace with yourself and make peace with others, for you’ll need acceptance in your eyes when you meet us. (From the book  Selected Poems 2004-2007 )

Could You Stay the Night, Forever?

Wrapped in the fireplace of your arms. Warmed by the trust in your smile. The night and our love Are acquainted. You cuddle close and feel my heart. I brush your hair away from your face. The window and the rain Are old friends. Soft candle- light washes over our skin, soft music over our repose. The ambiance and timing Couldn't be better. I look down at you, you're falling asleep. I kiss your forehead and whisper, Sleep well . With eyes closed, you sigh and reply, Then don't go . (From the books Selected Poems 2004-2007  and  10 Love Poems )