adjustment into darkness

from memphis to eleusis

found his place in harbor lighthouse,

after challenges underground

proved his worth more than stoic penis

wrapped in demeter’s poppies,

his light house

the only light he knew

had no lover to share,

so wished to discover others,

red mullet of extraordinary size

spoke to him of those that make love

on the beaches at night,

he was being called on to do

serapis whispered over pillows

into sleeping ears

keeping the light bright with oil

sent out that red mullet

scaled fish of land and sea

and it would return,

raising from the sea

with line and hook

secured the writhing eel

of couple snatched from sand

they became his lovers for the night

venting lust and sadism on both,

be it man man or woman love to be

extracted,

when done said his prayers to

the face of apis

tormented by pain,

then with surgical practice

cut them and fed them to the

mullet that sang,

the time would come

when fish and man would

indulge in passion,

his sperm food for the vitellogenesis

and his spawn

would find other oceans

to claim their own

art, media, fish

The Big Catch by Catrin Welz Stein

Have a look at Catrin’s wonderful blog and also there are many sites with her work for sale so have a look http://catrinwelzstein.blogspot.de/

as ever letters

a carpet salesman late

after being lost on the interstate,

was not the best person

to be looking over my still body

as if he could flay the skin

from my meat and wear it

for a ritual of life,

the only corn was creamed

in a can somewhere in a cupboard

high up,

funny as i lay there

i would think of this

instead of some higher philosophical

thought,

book of swatches at my side

fumbling over cell phone

dialing nine one one,

why was i so aware

then again why i was so dead

and when did the moon appear,

six thirty the meeting was to be

damn carpet salesman,

i had died waiting

how stupid,

come on i would wake up

and realize i had dozed in the chair

the one my cat rebel would steal,

now i thought of the letters

in the draw,

but these thoughts

where slipping my body was vacant

was the brain going now

switching off to a dim point

as tv sets used to,

shit i hated being this aware

and i love the carpet salesman

for trying,

but my ex wife would know

those letters

of feelings i had

and would mourn me more than i deserve

the tunnel exists as does the echoes

this is it i am on the express train

so hot it was getting hotter

is hell getting ready to greet me,

closing internal lids of thought

pain wracked limbs,

cracking sound

last human thought as i left my egg

as a four legged ancient

with long snout and tail

slipping into the swamp

a new persona

a life begun anew

 

poetry , poem

 

 

 

no more clapboard storehouse

seasons merchant brings the harvest

flesh ripened berries and firm apples

john deere’s wander fields

barns fill with crop,

barricades still out against winter

last flush of heat clinging on

birds on the cusp of migration

still hold a note in song,

and i face my execution

she had wanted me for years

now i was disposable,

unable to plow fields

and seed a decent crop

inverted hearts adorn the page,

and i find the porch

for sleeping some more,

i wish the merchant did not

expect so much,

being a simple man

i was now to be abandoned

she could make her heart autonomous

it had to turn inside

beneath her maiden outlines

no flesh expanded as she expected,

evicted to the car

its vinyl bench with no pillow

woke one morning and drove

leaving her and her field

to be sown by another

in spring

poetry, poem , fall

did the sky close

trees doused in solar gasoline

flaring cinematic glow

radiant crawling into eyes

and eventually the heart,

it is beyond the four day rain

so no use writing a haiku,

what will you say to moments

missed out by heaven

and only mortal seen,

air as with light has cooled

leaves and pine needles

penetrate the body,

someone will hunt a deer

stripping carcass on the ground

flies on blood crust,

crows clack and dance on branches

high,

in summer your sea washed hair

fell in curls,

now damp hung onto shoulders

as you move off the porch,

eyes with a carnivore hollering

look at those trees

axe slips in hand

thudding only in the mind

blood trail on boards

not yet dry,

those beings who creak at night

have cheated you into thinking

that cutting laughter out of a

throat was better seen than smelled

footfalls soft blue dress swish

night will crawl back into the moon

and phase out its glow,

taking with it memories

no longer imprinted

fragile in the innocence of

aftermath began to feel

that summer had gone

like an abrupt lover

and everything would be felt

with a frost

of reality

 

 

 

purpose of the song

red syrup lips and melodramatic coffee

with one too many sugars in,

cinnamon toast with a slather of butter

melting slowly into a last tango,

short neck ached and rolled his head

in no hurry to retire as master of the stool,

radio perched on corner shelf

gave a soundtrack that a morning

this dull needed

rain that sometimes threw itself

against glass so vision streaked,

another diner who had rig outside

looked vacuous as if part of his brain

had disengaged permanently ,

sumptuous toast bite  butter ran

from the corner of his mouth

damn he needed a bib,

a single paper napkin dabbed it away

as he looked at her again

violet on the name badge

next time passing caught her arm

fingers harmlessly easing pressure

and made his smile as vibrant as

possible,

when do you get off

with a sassy shimmy and smirk

eat your toast and drink your coffee

then you will know,

he loved the manipulative tone

of his falling into a trap

that passion had sprung

gulping with an eager tremor

knowing he was ready

poetry , poem , poet

Sunday Whirl

Sunday Whirl, poems

 

United Nations Poetry for Peace Competition 2011

Until

Time paused
a moment imploded,
the shuddering tremor,
rippled in dramatic light
silence came with pain,
fallen boughs
new sown seeds,
growth blemished in bark
reaching skyward
with gentle  leaves,
the tree had not forgotten
yet learned from it's birth
never to touch
that light
or feel that moment
again.

Kyochikuto/Oleander

from chugoku to the ota
nothing remained
upon the debris strewn
red earth,
in the silence
that  came with time,
shoots with elliptic leaves
to five bright petals,
vivid signal that,
survival is the future
that through resilience
we find a peace
and learn that for
no other reason
it should never
happen again.


With these two poems i came third out of 741 poets worldwide and was presented with a gift from the Japanese government and they where read out at a ceremony at UN headquarters in New York by the Japanese Ambassador which you can watch here http://www.un.org/disarmament/special/meetings/dis_week/ the poems revolve around the Hibakusha survivors of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the poems are also going into a book in New York

ballad of a stripper and a bookkeeper

he shot a hobo

alas a hobo

my lover shot a hobo

it was love , so love

i was the most insane stripper

lost on a winters eve

he was a bookkeeper with a gun

we wanted to run together

passion and breast in flames

he tried so much to please

with bunched up bloody nose

another fight over me

he started to kill

for pleasure that winters eve

police would call

and i would deny

through a packards windshield

his face a policeman saw

once run down

no going back

mexico and jazz

we where on the run

but my passion waned

with his bloodstained hands

and made a call

to a deputy

our villa surrounded

he felt betrayed

as to the chair

he fried

my lover alas my lover

who shot a hobo

and broke my heart

ballad, poetry , poem

dVersePoets

sublime oranges

he measured the room

by volume of the dark

with light subtracted,

moving as ulysses did in hades

he would find breakfast on the sand,

ocean not so far away

as high tides where relevant,

rituals began

ideas stencilled on embryonic dna

created this path and outlook,

sometimes he felt it was only he

he revolving and the earth had stopped,

it was not a crisis of meaning

only an imbalance on his poetics,

even in the dark

he could place a pen nib and write

about placing kisses on her

naked arcitecture,

a finding in deep silence

what she had really meant

under that cloak of shuddering mysticism

pen scratched paper

it would be ten pages,

before images faltered and pen halted,

ignoring wine that had already spilled on

table top,

peeled an orange

segmented aspects from which to

derive a special calm,

her bewitching had been an interference

but now choking fumes cleared

and he was at last

truly free

poem, poet , jazz

@dVersePoets