The Romb - Carry on Tuesday #37 (A room hung with pictures is a room hung with thoughts.)

The room - stretched across time
adorned with the pictures of unstable mind

The thoughts - darkness of a folly,
full of horror and crime

The scent - of nature's defeat
and true beauty's ultimate rise

The worm - consumes with a kiss
plunging at last into the abyss

The walls - breathing with waves
seeming at first to insist

Temptation - lost in illusion
reality's soul thirsty gist

One True Way - Sunday Scribblings #199 (Yes)

Swallowing the energy that surrounds you
your senses fall away

Replaced by peaceful resignation
that Yes is the one true way

Trained on direction not destination
our sight's on the path today

Somewhere out on that horizon
the hours - they drift away

Strengthened by the power of acceptance
only the truth of the journey can say

Yes

Whisper Beneath the Willow - Carry On Tuesday #36 (Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be)

Grow old along with me
and I'll meet you in the garden
sharing the secrets of our lives
we'll whisper beneath the willow

Search the world with me
for mysteries of the ages
flowing and ebbing with tides
like ribbons across the meadow

Carry the love with me
its far too much for one
indulge our palettes with wine
for the best is yet to come

Crash Horizon - 3WW CLXXII (Jolt, Ribbon, Zeal)

With a jolt
silence shattered
juxtaposed
torn and tattered

Lost in sight
plain and simple
ribbons bleached
and fabric wrinkled

Drink the sound
of misplaced zeal
stoke the fire
and senses reel

Crash horizon
in dixie cup
ride the rainbow
thought interrupt

Common Solitude - Carry on Tuesday #33 (We laugh, we weep, we hope, we fear)

The melancholy temptress
and sentimental fool
screaming downhill races
nevermind the rules

Solitude held in common
searching for a past
straight into the future
the jesters come in last

Alabaster intentions
along a compost path
leave a scent of misery
lingering like the past

Scented Island Mystery - Carry on Tuesday #31

My hands...
open the curtains of your being
My eyes...
drink in the softness of your seeing

Storm casts shadows on your wall
crescendo builds as tremors fall

My head...
spins in island scented mystery
My heart...
aches in solitude's aimless destiny

Darkness warms with coming light
washes shadows from hazed sight

My hands...
close the curtains of our being

Fresh Cut Broom - 3WW ClXVII (Grave, Lithe, Offend)

And the litheness of her body
helps lift her to the heavens
transcends her earthly binding
as the grave of life offends

The scent of earthly rigor
hangs deep within her mind
and stretches past the flicker
of bonfires left behind

Stranded on sullen highway
with sunburst fired chalice
there's no place left to stray
she scorched the propped-up palace

While tracing stardust questions
the sisters cross the room
and stare at frozen memories
in the straw of fresh cut broom

Reality's Grasp - 3WW CLXIV (Obscene, Accident, Loyal)

Lucy lost her diamonds
as death rained from the sky
Honolulu Harlots
just goose stepping in time

As obscene is the night
searching hard for the sun
an accidental flight
finds solace on the run

Loyalty trumps anguish
the curtains fall away
sunshine blinds the seeing
the darkness lights the way

Transparent the porters
of yesterday's high mass
It seems she's losing grip
on sweet reality's grasp

Beneath Time's Current - 3WW CLXIII (Errant, Hanker, Murky)

Errant rambling - stumbling through a stagnant land
Hanker - suppressed - stranded exactly where you stand
Lost in confusion like the murky lust of yesterday
Skating through the heavens with flask of old pulteney

Where are the children - torn from sullen mystery
Swept beneath time's current - in a flash of ill travesty

Sour are the memories of a menacing decree
Crouch beneath the stars - staring down on me
Someone rolled a thunder across a leaden sky
Stripped to molten core I hold my head and cry

When were we children - in a life rewound and played
Straddled by the living times - now wishing we had stayed

Living Ink Pt 3 - The Hunger - Sunday Scribblings #180, #181 (Tattoo, Hungry)

The Gathering finds itself held within the grasp of an emerging horror - one in which they are each intimately involved.

Their feelings of self doubt, realization and guilt builds into a violent frenzy that involves self mutilation, gnawing and slashing of the once cherished pieces of body art. The spilling of blood and ink onto the park grounds, walk and defunct storefront combines with cries and screams of self induced torment to blur the lines of reality.

The red and brown ink - clearly a distribution of the blood of the victims that are buried in the basement of the old building.

The frenzied violence and incessant buzz suddenly stops. A cool wipe across the finished work pans the view back out to me in an artists chair.

A beautifully rendered image from my dreams upon my arm - the red and brown so vivid and alive.

The insanity of my pain induced vision still lurking beneath the surface - I head out the door into the Miami sun to show off my self expression.

As the faithful turned in heavy silence
a hunger built within their darkened souls
stretched across expanse of time and space
the ink begins to burn and itch as if to throw

each into a panic to quench a troubled thirst
the red and brown ink deep within their skin
urges the breathing mass to feed - but first
sink their teeth into the burning sense of sin

ink and blood run from mouth and outstretched arms
blood and ink - the same - yet different sources
scent of rotting flesh - beneath the parlor charms
sounds of harvest pain flood like drowning horses

as the burning stops - thoughts racing back to me
intense - the red - the brown - a vision - or a dream

Bar Haiku - 3WW CLV (Hanky, Thick, Drift)

Wine - drunk - mind adrift
the air thick with sound and blur
slowly hanky falls

Living Ink Pt 2 - The Gathering - Sunday Scribblings #180 (Tattoo)

Like a pilgrimage to a sacred spot - the customers of the long closed Living Ink begin to flock to the urban block within the once vibrant Miami setting. The faithful aren't entirely sure why they have made the trek to the closed shop.

Just to stand outside the shop where each had endured pain, excitement and elation over their self expression come to life - so to speak.

Soon the crowd must spill into the park across the street in order to accommodate the numbers of inked up visitors.

The absence of the spotlight has abled the growth of the feelings of unease, doubt and fear. In a mass, sudden awareness the entire crowd falls silent and turns toward the darkened corner shop across the street.

An acknowledgment of the violence that is somehow related to the success and fame of the small shop.

Lurking still - just below the surface - a glow of the horror seems to emanate from the very foundation.

The lauded parlor - closed so long ago
crowds build outside - steaming dusty glasses
former patrons, artists - a legend grows
old musty charm - though expanding malaise

Each devotee shares growing disbelief
colors capture feelings approaching dread
dichromatic thoughts of awe, desperate need
a swirl of unease tormenting their heads

Living Ink - pilgrimage - The Gathering
the park - draws - professional and homeless
embracing, supporting - searching, scattering
pieces displayed, hidden - ashamed, senseless

All at once the crowd turns - sudden silence
realization - seems living ink is violence

Living Ink - Sunday Scribblings #180 (Tattoo)

This - the first in a series of three - introduces the Living Ink Tattoo Parlor. Known for its exquisite design and especially its vibrant red and brown colors - customers come from all over the country to have their visions rendered by the famous artists.

Something insidious dwells just below the surface - but the celebrity spotlight outshines the nagging feeling of unease - for now...

Exquisite the colors, dimension, feel
lost in a moment that stretches what's real
forms that dance upon the sleeve
stories lost like dissipating dreams

The red and brown - so real - alive
ink in jars - in bags - in time
swept beneath the shop of art and pain
artist's palette - life's ink from vein

Flesh discarded - ink drained and mixed
too much red - older vintage - fixed
upstairs in guns - the ink transforms
breathing canvas into dancing forms

Living ink on colored limbs, back and chest
stalking the night's pulse - color obsessed

Time Out of Mind - 3WW CLIV (Engage, Disarm Mayhem)

Eyes engage the thoughts within her mind
she stands - stares - mind out of time
struggles to breathe as the mayhem within
wreaks a havoc - yet revealed on her skin

Disarmed by the weight, energy - the feel
someone cried softly as the floor began to reel
struck down in fire with more life left to give
lingering gently as a rainstorm's scent - she lives

Twisted, battered - torn - finally left to die
stumbles to her feet attempting at last to fly
swallowing cool, thin air - falling - sailing - alive
her mind soaring - at last feeling - her life out of time.

PKI - Sunday Scribblings #179 (Key)

symmetric, shared and complex
crossed, twisted and indexed
strength, advanced and subtle
stored, protected and troubled

revealing, initimate and true
exchanging, public and shrewd
imported, aliased and trusted
revoked, verified and busted

compromised, exposed and stolen
authenticated, engineered and golden
cracked, violated and ruined
scored, rated and truant

pubic, private and essential
sniffed, spoofed and elemental

Space Enhanced Tone - 3WW CLIII (Glare, Luster, Threat)

like the calm before a gathering storm
the threat of space surrounds the tone
and the singing luster of a fingered form
brings forth emotion like waves gone rogue

stepping down to the glaring, whispered love
setup for slaughter on an ambush trail
the crescendo building from far above
the seas are boiling - tearing the sail

smell of surrender - surrounding the play
strangling vision in a passionate rift
set against portraits of sensible fray
the ship is off course - silent, adrift

now bring back the journey to a feeling of home
with elegant phrasing of space enhanced tone

One More Day Away - Sunday Scribblings #178 (Poetry)

With pixilated chunks of yesterday
The old world begins to fall away
Some hold on as if to stay
the new world from the come-what-may

Syncopated rhythms pound
against the once forgotten ground
Memories mix in a river's sound
as the faithful gather round

Once vivid recollections fade
into storied tales of gathered haze
and the dawn of yet another day
chases it but one more day away

Harmonic Resolve - 3WW CLII (Noise, Fracture, Vanish)

Philly's ride like fabric of summer night noise
Snare snap fractures the steady rhythmic lull
Trane's tone - acoustic curtain summons joy
Miles floats above rich tapestry below

Expand the voyage to the red hot sun
Stress the time passage with sounding tension
Resolving suspense - looping back on one
Smoke filled room in New York City session

Rain soaked streets outside - lazy summer gig
Homeless shadows seek the cover of rain
Vanishing thoughts - a mind about to break
Miles' tone against the backdrop of their pain

Crawl back in - to witness the story told
Feel the wash of their harmonic resolve

While Still Lying in Bed - Sunday Scribblings #177 (Adult)

Swept out by the undercurrent of time
Rocks beneath - not so gentle reminder
Stopping to feel for the moment - he dies
Swirling credits of memory surrender

Adulthood the dream - afforded the young
Whose play's grown tired and the wind has strewn
Subject the tragedy - story that's done
Years beyond time all too often run through

Quick to the heart the war stories run past
Summon the hunger - insatiable thirst
All of the angels in line for the cask
Watch over abyss - expecting the worst

Holds hands to his head while counting the dead
Gone is the dream while still lying in bed

The Fire Shadows - One Single Impression #77 (Copse)

Figures dancing in front of the fire
the shadows fall and collide on the trees

the copse itself - now seems breathing
white cloaked figure in the darkness sees

sadness grows deep within us
the ancient grove in a dire way

old trees dance in the fire shadows
close your eyes and feel them sway

the leaves whisper a tale of anguish
quiet your thoughts - discern the sound

senses reeling with new found knowledge
seek the wisdom on forgotten ground