Dark laid and down, with drum-thrummed head
steep-steers the black nocturnal nest
perversely born fantazury
fresh hatch this night’s menagerie
scream-bringing hoard of twisted truth
zoom-zooming in this blue-black world
called forth to gorge in ghastly feast
first stir, they roust then gore the beast
distressing visions overflow
stabbing with a brain-jolt pierce
disgusting curiosities
brute-flung to hideousity
jerk and lunge these soul-cleaved demons
death scratch-scratching through doomsday’s door
perverted serendipity
they swarm in horrorifity
flaying bone-toed my synapses
hell’s fleshless hounds devour my peace
mind-ghouls shake and shiver me
oh gentle morne — deliver me
“Wonder is the beginning of imagination, which begets wisdom.”— Socrates “The true sign of intelligence is not knowledge, but imagination!”— Albert Einstein
W hen I consider giving thanks, so much of what I feel seems laced with a tinge of expectation. I have so much in my life that falls invisible to me in the day to day. I feel, even in my 77th year, that I have much to learn about true thankfulness.
Perhaps growing up in this American land of plenty-plus-more, has dulled my sense of what it means to be mindfully thankful. Yes, I feel happiness at times, but is that thankfulness? I seem always in search of an understanding of that authentic feeling.
There’ve been times, like this past pandemic, that’ve drawn me closer to catching a glimpse of genuine gratitude. I have immense gratitude that my wife’s throat cancer was caught in time to give her hope for a longer life. I am grateful that my doctors caught my brain disease of the white matter in time to help me significantly slow its progression towards dementia.
Life delivers challenges, but I am grateful that my family has the great fortune of being able to seek and receive help and support to face these stumbling blocks. So perhaps what I am most grateful for is the realization that, while I am beginning to understand and feel gratitude, I still have much to learn in this matter — and that I am fortunate to still have the chance to do so.
do I know thankful
too much I take for granted
so much I should not
A golden sky-city
floats above the sea
may not be for you
it’s heaven to me
so come with me
and you will see
a most surreal
reality
every desire is satisfied
every night’s a fantasy
but you must do your part
here — ain’t nothin’ free
there’s a secret access
locked tight to most
but for the very special
there are private keys
those invited
have been given one
those not invited
they have none
take your forgotten self
elsewher please
to the inner sanctum
a golden stair rises
come barefaced and honest
no false guises
a palace of the carnal
a palace of rare ardor
a palace of hard truth
a palace of tough logic
a palace of rough love
a place of lush pleasure
a phantasmagoric treasure
Here in moonlit forest, midnight’s snowfall shimmers deep and still, through the boughs of old growth, like a dance of stars. It blankets our high-mountain meadow in crystal down.
This night fell quiet and crisp. A great white owl echoes through frosted cedars. We breathe deep this winter nocturne wrapped in sweet reverie. You by firelight, in my arms, your face aglow.
We entwine, deep in passion’s arms, by winter’s window. With dreams and one another, we sleep — a mid-winter midnight sleep, beneath frosted moonlight, crystalline stars a’dance above. Then you awaken saying, we’ve got to go down the mountain, I’ve work in the morning!
I tell myself I don’t want to go. Looking out the window, it’s snowing heavy. I’ll tell her sorry, too much snow! Yes, that’s it! Using the snow would be the easy way out of having to leave. Perfect!
