''Folly''
Ten Thousand Colors Wide
Ten Thousand Colors Wide
1).
The river became a master Orator,
then a slow tyrant,
then turned to molten flame.
Warm is the wickedness,
the wanton and weary lustfulness-
of the desire to come of age
and to pass away,
Like an hour slept through,
never noticing it's passing.
2).
The maps were drawn,
crude lines and transient names,
rivers that will change course
or dry up.
Mountains that will rise-
a dream yet to come.
Then through the narrow confines
of a thousand broken hearts...
Maps are strown about the tables and desks,
a thousand lines leading nowhere.
3).
Counting lovers and moons,
counting stars-
Each day gaining ground.
Each day losing ground.
The heart is won by right of conquest-
Oh, honorable and esteemed will
grant me the courage to to walk boldly into the frey.
4).
Stones all wrapped in February,
in subtle splendor.
The night was never young,
It is as old as the world.
Writes poems and poems are rejected,
by keepers of fashion,
who have great wealth,
wearing scowls instead of faces,
middlemen at best.
What should I care?
5).
Porches made for writing,
I am a princely scoundrel.
The night is ripe for sleep,
or any other venture
Goodnight,
I must retire,
to less Television
and more skin.
To come of age again and again,
and yet again.
6).
You and your stone heart,
once vibrant, once glowed in the dark-
Once it threw magnificent sparks-
waiting for that which refuses to come-
to early
or too late.
7).
The waking of virtue,
Of iron will,
and mistaken acts of faith.
Skin becomes leather
in the friction and complex weather.
Changes falling like leaves,
or the sky itself.
No one pays attention.
8).
No bell or whistle
will summon you back from your meal.
No command will be given.
No general order will be issued-
You are on your own.
The thousand rude awakenings,
robust glasses filled with rum
casting light all about like some eager prism.
The shifting colors,
the raising of an alarm..
We ignore such pleas,
the world may not remember me,
in this cauldron of themes.
9).
The sinking of ships,
voices hushes beneath waves
made of Hydrogen and Oxygen.
We animate these wishes,
these whims and these desires,
we wish each wish a thousand fold.
No beginning
No end,
10).
The forest breached,
stormed by arrows of Sun,
the steady diligence of February,
the sturdy stubbornness of warmth..
Winters mouth was inviting,
like summer wrapped in white sheets,
like day passing for night
or poppies passing for writers,
of books and glorious confusion,
a delirious swaying of the seasons,
all resting on the collar of my white button up shirt.
11).
Papers, poems
and old books consume the table,
as quick as the flames consumed Persepolis,
or Rome.
Each well meaning gesture or star,
content to shine awhile,
to smoke awhile,
to drink awhile,
with the ferociousness of a harsh lover,
or overbearing mother.
These places in time,
all mingled like vines,
the slow progress of limbs
stretching out in ink.
The colorful night
sprawling
like long winded and contrived writers.
12).
The sun it rains
down onto the plains
where once noble creatures bled,
and free gazing horses fed
where Pagan voices said,
their lament to the dead.
The grace was given,
but never returned.
Half stolen by pride-
Half witted with wine-
Wine Ten Thousand Colors Wide.
13).
To come of age again and again,
amid ceaseless wanderings,
countless odysseys...
Realms and lands undiscovered,
in pale skins we made our mud huts
atop things once made of gold,
The world seems so old,
spinning in the void.
The conclusions of an age.
1).
The river became a master Orator,
then a slow tyrant,
then turned to molten flame.
Warm is the wickedness,
the wanton and weary lustfulness-
of the desire to come of age
and to pass away,
Like an hour slept through,
never noticing it's passing.
2).
The maps were drawn,
crude lines and transient names,
rivers that will change course
or dry up.
Mountains that will rise-
a dream yet to come.
Then through the narrow confines
of a thousand broken hearts...
Maps are strown about the tables and desks,
a thousand lines leading nowhere.
3).
Counting lovers and moons,
counting stars-
Each day gaining ground.
Each day losing ground.
The heart is won by right of conquest-
Oh, honorable and esteemed will
grant me the courage to to walk boldly into the frey.
4).
Stones all wrapped in February,
in subtle splendor.
The night was never young,
It is as old as the world.
Writes poems and poems are rejected,
by keepers of fashion,
who have great wealth,
wearing scowls instead of faces,
middlemen at best.
What should I care?
5).
Porches made for writing,
I am a princely scoundrel.
The night is ripe for sleep,
or any other venture
Goodnight,
I must retire,
to less Television
and more skin.
To come of age again and again,
and yet again.
6).
You and your stone heart,
once vibrant, once glowed in the dark-
Once it threw magnificent sparks-
waiting for that which refuses to come-
to early
or too late.
7).
The waking of virtue,
Of iron will,
and mistaken acts of faith.
Skin becomes leather
in the friction and complex weather.
Changes falling like leaves,
or the sky itself.
No one pays attention.
8).
No bell or whistle
will summon you back from your meal.
No command will be given.
No general order will be issued-
You are on your own.
The thousand rude awakenings,
robust glasses filled with rum
casting light all about like some eager prism.
The shifting colors,
the raising of an alarm..
We ignore such pleas,
the world may not remember me,
in this cauldron of themes.
9).
The sinking of ships,
voices hushes beneath waves
made of Hydrogen and Oxygen.
We animate these wishes,
these whims and these desires,
we wish each wish a thousand fold.
No beginning
No end,
10).
The forest breached,
stormed by arrows of Sun,
the steady diligence of February,
the sturdy stubbornness of warmth..
Winters mouth was inviting,
like summer wrapped in white sheets,
like day passing for night
or poppies passing for writers,
of books and glorious confusion,
a delirious swaying of the seasons,
all resting on the collar of my white button up shirt.
11).
Papers, poems
and old books consume the table,
as quick as the flames consumed Persepolis,
or Rome.
Each well meaning gesture or star,
content to shine awhile,
to smoke awhile,
to drink awhile,
with the ferociousness of a harsh lover,
or overbearing mother.
These places in time,
all mingled like vines,
the slow progress of limbs
stretching out in ink.
The colorful night
sprawling
like long winded and contrived writers.
12).
The sun it rains
down onto the plains
where once noble creatures bled,
and free gazing horses fed
where Pagan voices said,
their lament to the dead.
The grace was given,
but never returned.
Half stolen by pride-
Half witted with wine-
Wine Ten Thousand Colors Wide.
13).
To come of age again and again,
amid ceaseless wanderings,
countless odysseys...
Realms and lands undiscovered,
in pale skins we made our mud huts
atop things once made of gold,
The world seems so old,
spinning in the void.
The conclusions of an age.
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Ten Thousand Colors Wide
Ten Thousand Colors Wide
