Chaste

Lost on doorstep,

immorality's liaison labyrinth,

wisdom's mistress clings to soul,

draped in harbinger

of regret's funeral shroud,

conscience caresses in anguished debate,

sired sighs induce their lurid tones.

 

Fingertips singed

during past visitations

leaf through erogenous diary,

poignant passages erased.

 

Closet monster's recalled

wearing black lace,

enticement pressed

through scarlet quills

penning promises of paradise.

 

Sagacity's virgin pleads

against their tales,

truth felt through reason's

lucid touch.

 

Body flinches

from serrated struggle,

wounds bleed invisible talons

impotent to resist

seduction's door knockers.

 

Slipping into the ebony chaos,

acumen's maiden

left in mourning

over death of chaste clarity.

Mountains

They looked so stately from a distance

the tall, majesty of ageless splendor

never visited by other than my eyes,

just seen from a far location,

but they were an anchor for my hope

because if mountains could exists

then there were realities

unchangeable in the world,

foundations to inspire

assurance of how tomorrow

could be crafted and controlled.

 

Then one day I dare to travel

over the miles to reach those slopes

actually touched what I had only seen

with conviction about their truth.

 

Only went I got close enough

suddenly they vanished before my eyes,

all the time they had been

just a mirage, an optical illusion

cause by some atmospheric condition.

 

Return to my home

the walls no longer seeming so permanent,

watched the wind blow without plan

and finally accepted how anything was possible.

 

Ever Sight

Faith is a doorknob you hold with the soul’s hands

to places held a visions for where you belief

about a world that offers some salvation,

might be a prize or treasure longed for as redemption,

but that grab of desire is the energy where hands

express what is your deepest conviction.

 

It is only when you let that power flow

through your body with the passion of a grasp

that it stops being a word and becomes

the pure succor of the spirit

unto whatever is your god.

 

In the world’s chamber and mazes,

trust is the flame that burns

upon the heart as a consuming inferno,

to drive the life to not cease the climb

upwards onto the pillar of one’s dreams.

 

Within the ethereal mists of the Lord’s throne

He took this word and made it the bond

between believers and His gift of forgiveness.

 

Still, it summons by the Holy Spirit

a sight that is focus on forever,

prepared to keep accepting His word as truth

no matter what happens in life,

for it is the very willingness to embrace

with your body as the altar of your devotions,

His ways and will above your very heart,

never giving up on that reality,

regardless of what the day brings.

 

This is the path of having the lips of Job

who voiced his faith so ardently

when he said, “thou He slay me will I trust Him.”

 

What breath of immortality blows inside

if we, like the heroes of faith in Hebrews 11,

have the Lord say of us what He did of them

in the words of Hebrews 11: 39 and 40,

“These were all commended for their faith,

yet none of them received

what had been promised.

God had planned something better for us

so that only together with us would they be made perfect.”

 

Oh to built my hope on His scriptural foundation

remains the rock that survives any storm

because He becomes my strength and source of all I can be.

A Harvest Of Grateful

I pause in the valley where the darkness is like night

remember the Lord will still bring a flame unto that vale.

Stop to celebrate the miracle of His provision.

a bountiful grace which blesses in such mercy,

it leaves me to only rejoice with pure praise

for surviving cancer and still having more time,

about the jobs that endured lay offs when others ended,

the joy of financially receiving some debt relief

and a miracle of a chance to write part time.

 

Beyond the months where I didn’t know if cancer

would bring an end before Thanksgiving,

from the anxiety of uncertainty

over how summer might come with unemployment,

silently God touched in so many amazing ways,

not with thunderbolts or the dreams of abundance,

but enough to meet every crisis.

 

On this time when we halt the daily race,

look back at our past then towards the future,

my heart can find the joy from a harvest

when none might have ever grown,

how it makes the time so precious

while I hold my grandson,

so happy I am still around just to have the chance.

Salem Dreams

Shem sits upon his throne with his fierce blue eyes,

gazes out at the dirt streets of Salem,

his spirit haunted by the dreams

of the days before the flood,

when he helped his father, Noah,

built the ark with his two brothers, Japheth and Ham.

 

They were spread like the wind,

father on a island in the sea,

his brothers on distant continents,

still the vision of that other world,

giants, winged creatures and angelic beings,

cities of gold and crystal towers,

and kings with mystical powers,

wars that lasted centuries,

beauty beyond description,

mixed with the slaughter of innocence.

 

It all stalks his mind at nights,

while he lives in that legendary persona

as Melchizedek, priest, monarch and seer,

how often he has sent the future,

this city someday called Jerusalem,

home to kings and place the Messiah shall come.

 

He holds the Garment of Adam

that magically robe with powers to control animals,

given to his father by Methuselah.

There was a price of blood

paid to reclaim it once it had been stolen

ended up in the hands of that rebel Nimrod,

but the Lord’s wrath had given Shem superhuman strength

entered Nimrod’s city of Babylon alone

so overwhelming in his presence

none could dare to stand against him,

once slice of his sword decapitated that vile king.

 

Soon Abraham will visit,

then will come time to teach him the old ways,

with his hands firmly clutching the garment,

for a while he can sleep

though a seer’s slumber always brings visions

time yielding tomorrow’s secrets,

which he’ll keep preserved in a scroll

passed on to Abraham in due season.

Letters

Mother Goose died

after making love to Shakespeare’s ghost,

she was buried in a coffin

shaped like a text book.

 

The cradle dreams

of embryonic catharsis

were butchered by an academic assassin,

shoved in an envelope

where the outside was labeled

with the alphabet of degrees.

 

Erudite tattoos

scar for life,

but they never stop

the resurrection of Fairy Godmothers

from the crypt of isms.

Perfection

I stared at the sun today,

soon my eyes only saw its light,

there was no gray, nor dark,

all colors blended into a single shade.

 

World was bleached and flawless

every feature washed of identity,

left my brain to paint each image

how quickly it all become exquisite,

unparalleled in elegance, serenity and refinement.

 

Castles grow out of ruins,

angels glowed among strangers in tattered rags,

it was a dream, a reality with enchantment,

what incredible joy dwelled in the constant beauty.

 

But my gaze couldn’t silence the screams

of the blurs I treated as clouds,

stop the scents of rotting garbage

from tormenting my nostrils.

 

Couldn’t keep my hands

free from touching the waste of life

or my feet from stumbling over

the corpses of dreams.

 

So I retreated to the shack I called a mansion

lit a cherry scented candle

while turning up the stereo sound,

didn’t need the television

because the rest I created as a vision

it will last until the candle is gone

or my electricity gets shut off

since I can’t see to pay any bills.

Picket Fences

 

Guarded fantasies

dwelling in obsession,

missed the parade

and never hear the circus calliope,

but have a remote control

to feel like a god

in an icebox

of preserved megalomania.

 

Upon My Heart

Upon my heart blows the Holy Spirit’s breath

with the whirlwinds from the past,

the wisps of thoughts weave through my mind

with the ghost from the valleys that I trod

so I can pauses and let my soul inhale

His healing breeze of saving light

until my lips given song I praise

over how He gave me strength

through every shadow and tear.

 

In that celebration of His deliverance

I slip into psalm of thanksgiving,

by faith I reach out with arms of trust,

cry Selah and Hallelujah,

before me flees the floundering in my heart,

inside I feel His redemption heal

and in the Lord’s radiance of love,

do I feel that cleansing of my sins,

to look upon life as a new creation,

only filled with awe and joy

because my Savior has come into my life,

made every weed and stone a gift

where my eyes and essence bath in that power,

which He touches to bring relief.

 

It is the baptism of believe

unto a revival of renewal,

a believer’s holiday of such rapturous grace

that casts away any darkness.

 

Then I hear with my spiritual ears

His word recalled as truth’s manna,

every grateful for its nourishment

with the sustenance of salvation,

ever becoming the Myrrh of indwelling

able to lift my sight beyond its cares.

Toes

Steps in the woods within the mind

among fallen trees of dreams,

where innocence first skinned its shins

and angels lost their wings.

 

Still feeling the pain

of stubbed  toes incurred

when trying to upon a mountain

built by the promises of those trusted.

 

Seasons passed and having walked so far,

yet lured again to that forest

that once help the magic of hope,

 

Now, visit clad in shoes,

which give nakedness a leathery strength

so you stand on that brook

filled with tears from violated visions,

they help to buffer from the remembered pains,

though the scars still hurt,

but returning gives them

a sense of healing.

The Wind Has No Face

I can see the rustle of the leaves,

feel the air blow its brush across my skin,

smell life’s scents linger in lofty allure,

watch the clouds live as pillow wisps

in a cerulean sky and wonder what they see.

 

But through my eyes is the gaze

from what lives as light within my soul.

And if all I’ve known is the stabbing kisses of evil,

the words of scribes that never stopped the abuse,

how can I find a face in the wind?

 

To grope and search for a divine portrait,

some semblance of certainty

that there is a heaven with real power

for ceasing the talons of cruelty

or the fangs of vile villains,

quickly evaporates for some

when life bears more pain and scars

than flowers, pleasures and dreams.

 

It is easy to retreat behind a pulpit,

parrot the scriptures as perfect replies

unto those who are bleeding,

but it won’t dry the tears and heal the suffering

or answer the endless questions of why?

 

What burns within me

is a flame I know I didn’t created,

never sought it or expected that fire,

still it came and glowed until I saw its source,

couldn’t deny the Lord’s hand

as the one who held that candle.

 

Did it end all the memories

of times as victim drowning in a cesspool

made of what my enemies discard as toxic waste?

 

The world didn’t stop from shaking

because more hate holds its layers

than the fingers of love?

 

But somehow in that chasm of truth

there came a peace and it was strangely enough

so I could live with what didn’t make sense

while suddenly having visions of eternity.

Springs

When hearts beat only in arid barren throbs

upon a desert soil of acrid acceptance

only the wind can serenade the lifeless layers

nothing blooms in the solitude and coldness

where the sands of soul like fallow in feeling.

 

Love is the stream that runs beneath the surface

it wait the touch of another to be a drill,

which allows that living essence to create a spring,

to flow as water that heals and nourishes

until a garden thrives within one’s wilderness

and the pool bubbles to bring joy to everyone

who takes time to tastes its sweet fluids.

 

Suddenly the spreads a vitality

every where in that plot within the mind,

what teems is beauty and radiance,

the shear glow of that aliveness

where the sun dance its light like a flame

before the eyes filled with visions of splendor.

 

Fertility transcends the fruitless plain

that dwells in the cerebral fields,

because spring has come by an indwelling

of that single ingredient in its potency,

which can invigorate any inner essence,

until joy becomes the rose that blossoms

amid the cactus of thoughts.

Chemistry

I might dwell among icebergs

while others live in gardens,

only find winter in eyes

though summer burns in the heart.

 

But nothing will prevent

the alchemy of love

from mixing two lives

who melt together as one element,

incredibly homogenized in happiness,

a potion drink by both mouths

where the molecules merge

until you are seamless and serene

ever composed of the same essence.

 

It all happens in a test tube

held in the soul,

can’t analyzes its contents,

yet know it pure and refined,

potent and transforming.

suddenly and forever,

something amazing

how from separate ingredients

was made into an elixir

that never stops intoxicating

every second you share together.

 

The Thrills Of Chills

Of Frosty and Jack Frost

I dream and shiver,

there such joys in those icy thoughts,

in Southern California

the idea of winter

stirs me with images

from days I rather spend

by savoring summer’s heat.

 

So I wear my coat

on days of forty temperatures

watch the snowbound lands upon the news,

try to be grateful I just got the chills.

Sit by my fake fireplace

turn on that electric light being

a fake wooden log

and think I’m really cold.

 

But when you are used to wearing shorts

even in November

it might as well be a snowstorm outside

as to be in the gray skies and forty three.

 

Still I take comfort in my illusion of freezing

aware I’m better off

than the poor souls in below zero temps,

who I watch on the television.

 

Wish you well if you under some drift

hope you won’t hate me for not visiting,

because I like plastic snow and aluminum icicles,

sure makes the winter convenient.

Of Signs And Wonders

The world shudders and shakes

tremors rumbles through the bones,

of ageless times has it groan and changed,

minds without soul’s eyes

seldom see God’s fingers

as the origin who rocks earth’s cradle

and sprinkled the stars in the sky.

 

Through the prophets visions came

they preserved them in His word,

of signs and wonders would we know,

but the end would come by His plan.

 

So while hearts without faith

will always panic over every change

or allow the multitude of seers

not speaking with His spirit’s voice

shall predict and declare their own interpretations,

about the future,

for those us of who look towards His face

seen by trust within the sky

accept that this fragile coil

is still under His rule,

give thanks for His blessings,

celebrate each day with joy

while embracing what will come

only will be according to His promises.

 

It is not of poles or gravity

even cataclysms,

where the life should be held in fear,

instead to sing His praises

because nothing shall deter His will

from bringing mankind’s to His purposes

regardless of what we see or feel

among the ripples in the sky or soil.

Harnessed

 

Reigned only by the wind,

stallion hearts race across life,

alone, yet always on stampede

driven by pounding sound

of their hoof beats.

 

It’s not the land or the sky

that entices to chase one’s shadow

what calls is the power

so intense and burning

to seek that path of prints,

which leads to one’s own truth.

 

Compelled in mindless urge

overwhelmed by the intuitive gate

no thinking only reaction

for it is obedience to a natural instinct.

 

Harnessed by the pure reality

over who truly dwells inside,

never content or able to find peace

unless unleash the force within.

 

Though the dust swirls from the trail

where others can see the point

none of it matters

when you are in sync

with the steed who is yourself.

Fillers

She saw the flaccid canyon

in my eyes,

the infertile valley

where ghosts of my heartbeats

echoed through the emptiness.

 

One kiss from her lips

melted like butter

slowly oozing below

that chasm of death.

 

A pool formed

within the darkness

from the oil of her love

and for once

I felt whole.

 

Impenetrable

Mounds manifest within the mind,

the stalwart steeples set in stone,

arisen textures of man wanting to be divine,

who creates barriers as gods,

to replace faith by brick and mortar,

heart left so cold and no longer feels

what moves beyond that limitation.

 

Security lusted as a prize

flees from fear of lurking enemies,

never able to find any true peace

behind that edifice created

in hopes of making one impenetrable

unto every nemeses and villain.

 

Without a gate light never enters,

days pass without knowing,

each miracle and wonder

sealed away from the eyes.

 

No matter the architecture imbued

regardless the brilliancy of construction plans,

there is always a rear entrance

created within the head

where night shrouds its location

so there is no tranquility is gained

because of the war the never ends,

which rages constantly.

 

Spirit forever entombed

from seeing heaven’s pastures

lost is the joy of the Lord’s love

known as the only durable covering,

trust ends up placed only in what can be touched,

but always haunted by the dreams

that speak so softly by eternal voice

over how the true form of protection

can only come by God’s hands.

 

Irony flows by the everlasting nature

of revelatory scriptural paradoxical truths,

how one can’t find that sense of safety

until crumbling the false facades of the will

and letting the Lord be the shield

never requiring our repair

as in His care we find the real

essence of shelter.

When Stones Die

Like ruins after an earthquake

is how her mind and heart felt,

her foundations crumbling into a maze of rubble,

which became a puzzle impossible to decipher.

 

Inside she falls into a bottomless well

filled with a cesspool of emotions,

there was no justice or rainbow after the storm.

 

Stones had always been the shelter of her life

a place where she had felt safe from harm,

secure against every danger

 

This was a moment

no thoughts were deep enough to heal,

yet on that journey she strolled

farther and farther inside

so desperate for it all to make sense.

 

Even now she could see his face,

the father she had shut out of he life

following that argument over choice of husband.

 

But when her daughter

kept asking about grandfathers

after her husband died in an accident,

something tugged within.

By tearful reunion

they had slowly torn down the walls,

how she thought they would have years

since he had has always been a pillar.

 

Sickness didn’t care

just as they started to create

this new house of love,

cancer took his life.

 

Now she sits and struggles

over the lost years

it make take forever to accept

when stones die.

 

 

Fly My Naked Heart

Fly my naked heart

unto the fluttering crest of her kisses,

so utterly spellbound and left breathless,

aloft by her puckered wings

on a gently soft glide,

over a tangential sea

in enchanted dreams.

 

Oh what charmed caresses

that stirs within my cocoon

until that precious press of lips

lifts me to feel so featherweight

and slowly ride along  her embrace

where the feel of that exquisite  touch,

mesmerized and entranced,

while her love flows through me,

becomes a fairy dust magical sway

before being carried beyond any cares.

 

Blissfully on an endless soar into a land

of fantasy visions,

which she makes come true.

Effervescence

Champagne eyes

behold the crystalline aura globules

among the fizz and fermented foundations,

visible like bubbles within every lair and layer

where light filters its prism perspicacity

through epiphany’s cerebral visors.

 

Like a wine it intoxicates

with the potent power of profoundness,

suddenly seeing the tethers of creation

string their infusions of energy

between all things living

and the ageless airy sheet

wrapped around the earth.

 

Beyond its lofty diaphanous lace

the solar fingers reach out to touch its fibers,

it summons the sparklers of starry sagacity

until the cosmic kiss of serenity

writes its lightning upon one’s view,

then in gasp and awe of eclipsing epiphany

the world turns into sea

of constantly swirling revelations.

 

Ever after sipping upon that nectar

insides drunk on the metaphysical elixir

imbibed as insight’s cocktail,

which makes every second

a visionary happy hour for the mind.

A Harvest of Memories

October’s song breathes

through the boughs as the soul’s clarion call,

it’s when the mind recalls the leaves of past seasons,

slowly sifting out the silvery hues of truth’s blossoms

from the lilac lurid arrays of time’s glow for past harvests.

 

While the wind blows

its sway in soft serene seductions,

within the echoes from the furrows in thoughts

summoned a thrashing in reflections,

carefully examining the fruit of the heart

as the eyes are entranced by the earthen majesty.

 

Among the trees and thickets wandered in other years

where hands groped for messages and meaning,

there arises the flashes of bygone splendor,

the stunning sights that once captivated

and reminds of the steps taken in awe,

those gazes alive in clarity and appreciation

for the true beauty of life.

 

Footprints left stir with questions

whether the journey sewed the seeds

of what yields a crop

so truly blessed and bountiful.

 

Once the soil sleeps in fallow surrender

inside the farmer seeks to find

that harmony between what was planted

and what was reaped from the sweat of spirit.

yesterday brought roses, champagne and you, today brings...

us  

 

      spellbound hearts

 

while love’s magician

 

turns two souls

 

into one.

A Chorus Of Chortle

Irony stings,

but the jester makes it a feather,

physicians of the heart

who sewn stitches of smiles,

weave golden sunlight

into the dark crevices inside.

 

It is the clown who thrives

when life turns ashen

and ones pallor is stained by a hollowness,

that can dredge up a whoopie cushion

if face with sitting in a torturer’s chair.

 

What bears a better breeze unto the soul

than a chorus of chortle,

summoned by the giddiness,

which awakens the practical joker

and rewrites some sadness

as a stress relief parody.

 

So if grins and snickers

were not truly our intended legacy

wouldn’t God have avoided

the many times of revealing

how we are truly ripe

for becoming the source of satire

when pride hoists us onto some place

we love to see as a throne?

 

To find the therapeutic joy of silliness

in the midst of somber shadows

is to hear the voices of angels

who giggle at our plans.

I really wish I would…

 

find more light

than darkness

 

more love than hate,

 

live on a rainbow

and share its gold

 

Shimmering Foundations

Gaze with soul eyes

upon the illumined tapestry

and see the face of the Lord shining His origin

across each ray and glow of life.

 

No wind or shadow

can blind the sight of faith,

which senses the eternal candle

that first gave birth

unto every splendor of creation.

 

The sings the heart in joyous psalm

to gleam the beauty given iridescent flame

by the divine hands as a lamp unto the world.

 

Each sky holds His majestic beams

they rain down upon the world

as the sparks of inspiration

felt from the scenic radiance

ever blazing to the spirit.

 

It burns a psalm inside

of praise and awe for the gift of light,

then resound the joyful thanksgiving

over the blessing of His loving fire.

 

On a stroll amid the watery wonders

or the vivid and vibrant earthen terraces

within is the gaze from a vision

able to always know

what burns so bright and brilliant

comes from Heaven’s fireplace.

Clouds Of Apocalypse

Leaded skies spread their canopy

across the mental canvas,

their perennial billows

ever burgeoning within weathered eyes.

 

But the sun still rides the air,

its light isn’t extinguished

by the binoculars of doomsday

whose owners can only see

clouds of apocalypse.

 

In a moment between

the clamor of prophesies

sung in notes from a droning dirge

of hope’s death knell,

there are those with viewfinders of truth,

who discern the real nakedness

each hue that hints

life is not a cataclysm rehearsal.

 

Duels of presumption

wag their tongues

with a dark lick of dialogue,

beguiled by demise obsessions

seduced by a holocaust succubus,

morning always arrives

unto these inclement addicts

devoid of the wind

and always left in a fog.

Asylum

Before us, my angel, the earth is a mad platter

a maniacal monarchs, slain hearts and mere wisps of souls.

But in each other’s arms, my darling,

we can build a sanctuary from the roaming berserk banshees.

 

Though around rages the thunderous roar of hate,

even when the vile, villains form their forces,

shall our love be an asylum against the evil

so hold me now and let us listen to our two heartbeats

preserve the beauty of our union

for in it we will find the peace amid the insanity.

 

Catharsis

 

Celestial snippets sparkle

through the night veil,

starry supplications plead

their silvery quintessence

in soothing silent streams

of iridescence song.

Within the scenic sentinels of earthen array

cosmic illuminations set ablaze

the cerebral canvas,

awakening the ageless

zephyr wind of inner light

to bond an arousal of the mind, body and spirit

and the connections

between life and the universe.

 

Suddenly, the air ignites

by a touch of calming lucidity

as by one blink of thought

surges a shockwave

through  shudders to the senses and the intuition

until the curtain parts

unto shroud over truth

when eyes gaze

at the whirlwinds of epiphany.

 

Waves of transcending tranquility

sweep a new life over one’s being,

where the barriers to discovery dissolve

then flow as a refreshing reverie rivulet.

Immersed in the intense joy of harmony,

at last swayed in serene balance

of self and creation,

one exhale emits the darkness

ever after unable to breathe

without knowing scents of reality,

which makes each moment magical.