READING AT THE GREEN ROOM

Hippolyte aka Milo Brokenshire and Caroline Szpak will be reading their works @ The Green Room on Saturday, November 26 at 7:00pm

Come early if you'd like.


http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=288542634500025

Unbreakable Kite

The hawk has its dance
with endless ease,
unbreakable kite.

State, Ohio

At last I see the moon

slicing through the trees

wherein fireflies

paint its air spilling
fluorescent gasoline,

beneath the canopy

setting flames

above the dew

of grass
that everlasting
wholly mast just
for me to grasp,

where I sleep

is here in Ohio
wholesome in the heart
for an endless tomorrow,

that west I've sought for
is to be mine at last
steering from the stern
into the unending vast.

Images from July

all shot with my Holga CFN

Wherever You Are, Afar.

i had seen you in a dream-

on hills

swelled

soft breast,

who's hair ran wild

with wind & curl

& hand near sewn to chest,

who's heart of mine measured

no matter which height

grows like wild flowers

these eyes at your sight

& warm at dawn

the crisp of light

which glows my heart

in wholesome might,

our blushing gold fields

that fade when I wake-

will never once be washed

when the tide pulls its wave,

know that I love you

no matter where you are,

my heart is there for you

in the wind

wherever you are, afar.

2 Haikus

Evil Hell-Beast haiku

her lips are the wound
stay away or you will die
she is venomous.

Ant haiku

O shoe, please spare me
You killed my whole family,
Don't be an asshole.

The Night Is Calling Out

Written on December 5, 2010

In Night, saints sweep through the houses,

to those who near the shade of whispering shrouds-

in tied up blouses;

slipping words through to rooftops

for ghosts to catch in nets,

to prance upon the topsail winds,

below the eyes of Van Gogh skies

for rest.

A sincere extinguish of the candle’s final flame,

that everlasting wish, wholly

from the lover’s name,

to dance as the ghost

to know the newborn heart,

to love the night at most,

to soar as if a lark.

The games one has lost

are the games one has won,

the sting of Winter’s chill

turns to Springful Sun,

that love one has longed for

will be warm as Summer rain

to drop against your skin

to ease the weary vein.

To those who’ve kissed their loves

left ‘lone

on the tomb of one’s gravestone,

where all but faint whispers

echo the voice you once knew,

so fondly felt,

someday it’ll shake like dew;

one’s love is strong, no doubt,

and in turn, your heart,

the strongest flame that’s never put out.

They will lay a hand to breast

close their eyes, to bless

with rest,

to harpoon the cape

with a lasting brooch;

paint the last kiss

on the ancient lip,

draws out the final breath, swallow,

sinks deep through the chest.

Ghosts will prance

from rooftop to rooftop,

sailing through the milky white

with warm content in every flight-

under Van Gogh skies

where we’ve questioned the road

of its maplight glimmer,

it will grow dim

and fade,

just as is the candle,

that will put itself out.

When there lay imprints

in the snow,

one may want to retrace exactly

to that ancient, youthful glow;

but youth is always with us,

buried in our hearts,

like the candle that never fades

it will always remain the same,

what we leave behind us

makes us immortal all the same.