NOT THE DAISY

NOT THE DAISY,

white eared and pure,

but that daffodil,

ignoring

all the others,

staring at me

unabashed

in yellow,

may be all

the challenge

left.

(Clicking on photos enlarges them.)

NO PHANTOMS TO CHOOSE

No phantoms to chose between tonight,

Nor other egos

Which yesterday’s perspiring glass

Stained forever silver, silenced, even though I move,

Grimace or shriek, with or without the pious tablets

Pulsing me to sleep, black, locomotive-like,

Parallel to one night’s drawn blind death drowning,

Chest heavy, sharp, high-clawed to dawn

Solemn waked with sun, streaked, still soft

Amber anchored in the noises of the street,

Part distant, insistently today and not that last

Night’s courageous loss of instinct

Which did not let me die again.

(Clicking on images enlarges them.)

NOT NARCISSUS NOW

NOT NARCISSUS NOW,

physical in flesh

or firmly phantasized

mental, as if the model

who has other dreams,

(no doubt, no doubt)

sweats solely for the artist

and not for the light

that glistens

across his chest

as a new

religion’s ancient

reflection, discovered

again and again.

There must be no doubt,

one has one’s

own reflection.

(Clicking on photos enlarges them.)

NOT

NOT

may

I pray,

But will.

Enough. . .

let’s

tempt

the gods

again.

(Clicking on photos enlarges them.)

NO, NO, THEY CAN’T

NO, NO, THEY CAN’T

touch me now.

I say all the words,

smile, and go home,

taking their funny

little money. . .

Jesus!  I even wear

a tie.

And, since I draw

the shades

what can they know

of Bach or me

or dancing?

(Clicking on photos enlarges them.)

NO WITHERED DAY APART

No withered day apart wastes its aimless

Rush on felling leaves too soon; the lakes speed

No surface still or soft unseasoned, freed,

Retouched by sun’s rebuffs alone.  No test

Survives the clock, nor tested held above

The greed the grains demand; no music made

Can go unheard, untoned, untouched; no glade

Can winter-gaunt remain when spring’s green glove

Slips soft above the sudden smells of life,

And twists the husks of hemp to smiles beneath

The frozen leaves’ black edge, and sees the snow-teethed-

Grin, dull, decay before the blue light’s knife.

Spring again?  What is all this waiting worth?

It comes when it will come and knows no haste. . .

But just this once, let’s face it first and taste

Its joy with all the fools of earth.

(Clicking on images enlarges them.)

NO ROSE, TOO YOUNG AWARE

No rose, too young aware, slow bursts to rust

Blood bloom; wanting wing, knowing, strives

Tight clutched, down-suppressed against the sap

Vertical thrust to a sun’s green peeled sigh.

Which doubt can claim the when of Time’s rebuff

Grown before the graft, and placed near where

And how in strangled Time’s reversed dry sands,

Deciding who shall name illicit care?

Covert moon drawn breath unbreathed beyond

My thorn bound hands repressed; white-bone-

Baked, dreamed black, in dust perfumed before,

Falls blown petaled at my feet on stone.

(Clicking on photos enlarges them.)